She hears the storm brewing from inside the windowless room. Her skin clammy and slack. She has not seen the light of day for weeks. Desperate for a glimpse, a taste, salt of the Salish sea, lick of raindrop, she stays tuned to the slightest of indicators. It comes quickly. Her eyelids flicker as the lightning cracks, and she counts, ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi... waiting for the thunder to boom. It is close. Curling into a fetal position, she is comforted by its predictability. Its imposing presence signals she is not alone. It is the silence she dreads; deafening and cruel. Intrusive thoughts return to haunt, as a little girl, her parents too, would leave her locked in her room while they went down on the Strip. She was their burden, and they would let her know in no uncertain terms. It is not them that she conjures now in her hour of desperation, it is Ruby, tiny and bubble-eyed, who kept her trust during those punishing, lonely times. Two eyes bobbling, upward-pointing, the goldfish bowl her communion. She is shaken from her stupour when lightening thwacks again. No Mississippis this time. It is followed instead by the hollow thud of the basement door. He is back. There is shuffling, and muffled human sounds; whimpering and intermittent pleading. She cranes her neck as far as the chains will permit. Chaffing has left her skin raw. Her lips purse tight as she winces and pulls against the steel prong collar. She has hoped there wouldn’t be someone else. She knows the routine, the forced strip, pinned to the rack, the retching, and passing out. It begins again. The lightning strikes, and she counts, one Mississippi, two Mississippi… 287 words Published (as a Reprint) in Siren's Call EZine p.42 - March 26 2020 Presented Live at "SFU - The Writers Studio", Reading Series - Dec 6, 2018 Published in Danse Macabre, November 24, 2018
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