The Only Choice (The Choices Trilogy #3) (34 page)

The first week was a nightmare almost on par with the ones that break my sleep each night leaving me exhausted, drenched in sweat and hoarse from screaming but the end of the second week the music started and I truly believed I had died in my sleep and was in Hell. My routine is just that, routine; dull, frustrating and surreal. I mean who does this to someone and just how sick do you have to be to actually go through with it? I am served three of the blandest meals from the school dinners book of cooking. Each day they are the same but at least I am fed and enough that I am not hungry. After four days of being half dressed as I was unable to thread any clothes over my secured arm, Kit releases the chain from the wall once she leaves the room on the condition I secure it again when they bang on the door. On my third day Angel wasted no time in making me change into a variety of outfits from my apartment because with no Marco and my front door key to hand she pretty much has the free run of the place. I would mind if it wasn’t for the hope that she might get caught by Marco’s family popping round to water the plants and pick up the post.

I spent an uncomfortable hour playing dress up in a depressing montage of my travel wardrobe. I had to pose in front of the green screen with arms placed over imaginary friends, laughing and pulling faces because I am just having the fucking time of my life. I know if either Sofia or Marco saw whatever she does with these images they would know. My face may look carefree and full of joy but the sheer horror I feel must show in my eyes. If I was a normal twenty year old with a normal social media presence I would be optimistic that this ordeal would soon be over because my friends would know. But I have no social media presence so my friends wouldn’t even think to look there for up-dates, they would call or text. Something they are not likely to do when they are themselves on holiday. She is perched on my bed, chatting like we are the best of friends, what she’s done today, what she’s going to do tomorrow, lunch with Daniel and his mother and it’s so nice to be welcomed into the family once again. I think she is going to have to put photo-shop through its paces to get rid of the green colour she induces, not jealous, just nauseous. She throws in the odd remark about my hideous chunky curves and how vile to have such large breast and it takes everything I have not to shout that they’re big because I’m fucking pregnant.

I don’t because it may have only been nearly two full weeks in this prison but it really only took a second or two with Angel to understand she is crazy. She is not a little bit crazy, she is clinically insane, unpredictable, a little slap happy with my face, and yes, this one is new . . . she has a gun. She has a fucking gun, in England! She always has it with her and she waves it like it’s an extension of her bony fingers using it to emphasise an elaborate a tale, never treating it like the dangerous firearm it is, often pointing directly at me. So I do as I am told. I eat my three meals, I wash in the bucket of lukewarm water that is brought with my porridge each morning and I do my exercises. I do a lot more exercise than she knows about because I want to make sure if that door ever opens long enough that I am fit and able to make the most of it and at the moment I could run a fucking marathon. Unfortunately, even with the press-ups, sit-ups, yoga and the treadmill I am feeling more like a hamster on a wheel than a captive ready to break free and I am behaving like a well-trained house cat only my litter tray is a portable camping toilet.

Angel came in the next day and sat excitedly beside me, she still had the gun pointing at my side as her hand was across her own tummy and she balanced her laptop on her knees. She motions for me to sit beside her, patting the bed impatiently but it is difficult to get that close because I am attached to the wall. The stretch is uncomfortable but with a tight, fake smile I shuffle next to her, closer than I’d like but exactly where I’m told. She opens up ‘my’ Facebook page and I can see she has been busy. She has a selection of pictures that I have to lean in closer to double check what I am seeing. Crowded party scenes, dimly lit, colourful lights, smiling people, drinks and cigarettes in hand. There I am, right in the middle with my arm draped over the shoulder of a half-naked Abercrombie model look alike; like I would be that lucky. I can’t help the snort that escapes my mouth and immediately regret it when she lashes out her backhand, the one with the gun, across my cheek. The extra weight and surprise of the strike catches me of guard and I fall forward and hit my other cheek on the corner of the bedside table. I quickly steady myself and press the sting on one side and then the other; I can feel the heat and swell instantly. My fingers are tipped with blood, it’s not much and on instinct I just suck them clean. Angel throws the laptop to the floor and hurls herself headfirst into the stubby portable toilet in the corner and proceeds to heave and curse. I want to remind her about her ‘not in front of the baby rule’ but given the throbbing of my cheek I choose to keep that smart remark to myself.

She sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth before she turns her demonic gaze toward me. God! She looks deranged, and I don’t know if it was my snort or the blood or well, she’s insane it could be anything. I hold myself still, having tucked my legs up to my chest so I am now a sturdy impenetrable ball. Her face changes expression and she laughs lightly, the speed and transition from fury to placid is unnerving. She slowly picks up the lap top and snaps it shut. She snarls at me through a tightly lipped grin.

“You know I thought we could have a little fun here. I was going to show you all the places you are going to visit. I have done a journey plan and everything but you have to go and spoil it.” She haughtily admonishes my appalling behaviour.

If I wasn’t speechless before I am now because she actually stamps her foot like a petulant child. “And I can’t have you bleeding. I hate the sight of blood. That is utterly unacceptable and as a punishment you will . . .” She pauses because I am pretty sure there is not much she can threaten me with because everything I do is for the good of the baby and it’s not like I bled on purpose. “Mmm, it’s tricky maybe I should let Clive come in and decide what is the best way to punish you?” I can feel my hands start to tremble and a gut wrenching roll in my stomach at the idea of being trapped in this small room with that man.

“Angel I’m sorry.” I blurt out but I’m deadly serious if it will stop that horrendous scenario unfolding. “I’m sorry for laughing, it wasn’t because of the page, really, the page is great. I mean, it looks great you’ve done a really good job. I look like I’m having the best time, honestly. It’s just you have obviously gone to a lot of trouble and that picture with me and the hot guy, but . . .” I am rushing to speak and pray I am making sense not sealing my fate with cruel and vicious Clive. “Well, you want it to be believable and I just wouldn’t be lucky enough to get a guy like that.” I let out a deep breath and try to gauge her reaction as she seems to take in what I have just said. She walks back over to me and sits, her eyes narrowed on me like she is trying to see if I’m lying. I’m not.

“True.” She elongates her words with a pensive drawl. “I mean you are nothing to look at so I guess it would be pretty ridiculous for someone that attractive to want you.” I can’t believe I’m nodding to encourage her line of thinking. “And this does have to at least
try
to be believable.” She smiles but then scowls and my heart jumps. “But what about Daniel?” I swallow the sudden dryness because she is right. There was Daniel and he is smoking hot and the fact that I wondered why he chose me doesn’t negate the fact he did choose me, at first.

“Yes there was Daniel, but he chose you Angel.” I struggle to say this aloud and am proud that I don’t break as the truth of this rips me from the inside out but it seems to work. Her smile is pure poison but she at least looks satisfied.

“Like that was ever a real choice.” She laughs and standing she walks toward the door. “But I think you are right so no Clive today, and not because I don’t want to risk the baby. I think there are plenty of ways he could punish you without hurting the baby. You might want to bare that in mind.” She closes the door behind her and the light goes out. I am glad I am not afraid of the dark because it is pitch black, I can’t even see my fingers when they are pressed against my nose. I wait for the chain to lengthen but shake my head at her petty cruelty, because she isn’t going to release the chain, not tonight.

I have read the only fiction book that has been brought to me and I’m sure the irony was intentional; The Handmaid’s Tale. I comfort myself because even with everything Offred endures, in the end she did get away, with her baby. Not that I would know this from this copy but I have read this tale before so the missing pages are just evidence of Angel’s disturbing mind games. I can’t bring myself to read the pregnancy books because I don’t want to make this nightmare any more heart-breaking by reading that my baby has fingernails, toes and a fully formed heart. When I lie very flat and hold still I can feel a small bump, no bigger than an orange. Well, more like a Satsuma but it’s there and
that
is definitely too real. I lay my hand on the tiny mound and make promises I‘m not sure I can keep and sing songs that make me cry and not just because all I can remember are the saddest songs but because I really miss music. I never knew how much I would miss it until it just wasn’t there. Something so normal, background noise to everyday . . . gone like a chunk bitten clean off my body, gaping and sore. I never realised how much I listen to and for how long until I am deafened and driven mad myself by the never ending silence.

The end of the second week and I have changed my mind . . . completely. I don’t miss music now and I definitely prefer the silence. I wake with a jolt to the blaring voice of Whitney Huston being pumped into the small room from God knows where. The noise so sudden I jump and look to see if someone had come in with a kick arse sound system without me noticing. At first I lie back with a smile; my face feels strange like the muscles had forgotten they could move like this. I can’t say I’m a huge fan but music is music and she does have a killer voice. That was the first day and apart from a small respite while Kit sat with me during my meal times it has been constant throughout the day. The next day it was the same but with Mariah Carey and the third back to Whitney and these alternate throughout the next week. I am loosing track of the actual days and I actually love the time when Kit stays, we don’t talk and the silence is blissful. When Angel stays she talks and talks and unlike the music which is now like white noise I can’t block her out in the same way because she throws random questions at me and if I don’t respond quickly she bitch slaps me.

One lunch time Kit is just as surprised as I am to see Angel storm through the door. I glance at Kit and it is odd because there is a little panic in her eyes but also something else, something fleeting, something that looked a lot like hatred. It’s me, however, that physically retracts. Tied to the wall I have no option than to take what she’s dishing but what I wouldn’t give to have five minutes alone, untethered.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Her voice is screeching at me, eyes furious and she is suddenly right in my face.

“Him?” I question but try and say it in a soothing way which isn’t easy when my whole body is shaking.

Slap! “Like you don’t know who I’m talking about” Slap! She snarls, spittle spraying from her distorted lips. “You little whore. I want to know what you did to him because now he wants to come to the scan with me.” She grabs a fistful of my hair from the side and jerks it pulling my face into hers.

“Angel,” I whisper. “I’m right here, what could I do? He’s probably just excited. You said you two were getting close” The tears trickle out of the corner of my eye, but the pain from my tortured scalp and stinging cheek, I would endure a thousand fold compared to the pain of hearing about Daniels treasured gift to her. Just one week from the wedding and Daniel has given her a necklace. But when she showed me, it wasn’t any necklace, it was my necklace, it was my collar. My heart did race, at first, when I dared to think that he was suspicious after all and this was his way of tracking her and finding me. That was over a week ago and if he was using the necklace to find me he would’ve found me by now because she never takes the damn thing off.

“We’re having a baby of course we’re close but why does he want to see the scan? Why doesn’t he trust me now?” She sounds incredulous that anyone could think such a thing but lucky for me she pinches tighter and a cry escapes instead of my own incredulous laugh. “What on earth am I supposed to do?” She is calming down, her grip loosens as her control over her burst of colourful language tightens and her voice is heavy with uncertainty and concern. I have my own concerns, part of me is pleased that he isn’t just taking her word for it this time but part of me is terrified. If she is pushed into a corner will she pull the same trick as last time and hope guilt is enough to keep them together without a child. The outcome is bleak for Daniel but where would that leave me, pregnant and surplus to requirements. My precarious future affords me suitable motivation to offer some help.