Captive: Fall | Rachel Matheson, Bass Monroe | Silence | T | Captivity
I wake in the morning and brush my hair, though there’s no one to see it. I make the bed (cot) and scratch another line on the wall, another day begun. It’s Wednesday, for the record.
I’m a 21st century Robinson Crusoe, keeping track of the days and weeks and months with hash marks in stone (cement), except Crusoe had sunlight and ocean breezes. I have only a candle and five books I’ve read a hundred times each. I’m not stranded either, but captive. It’s a poor analogy; I’ll have to come up with a better one. The Count of Monte Cristo, perhaps, or Alice in Wonderland, down a dank, twisted rabbit hole.
There are no sharp objects in my little basement room (cell.) Bass is probably afraid I’ll hurt myself, now that Miles has abandoned me. I think he’s confused me with himself: Miles abandoned me a long time ago, and I didn’t slash my wrists then. But Bass, he’s hurting everything in his path, including himself. It’s a lousy strategy for revenge.
Though we all know Miles does still care. He’s sentimental that way.
Twice a day, there’s a sharp knock on my door. It’s the guard, with a tray of food, always a glass of wine and a tender cut of venison, beef or chicken, whatever the President himself is eating. Bass insists this confinement isn’t meant to be punishment, only security.
He should try living with himself sometime, see if he considers it punishment.
It’s been two months, one week and four days since Miles failed to shoot Bass when he finally comes to retrieve me from my hovel. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, and breaks the silence I’ve learned to live with:
I wake in the morning and brush my hair, though there’s no one to see it. I make the bed (cot) and scratch another line on the wall, another day begun. It’s Wednesday, for the record.
I’m a 21st century Robinson Crusoe, keeping track of the days and weeks and months with hash marks in stone (cement), except Crusoe had sunlight and ocean breezes. I have only a candle and five books I’ve read a hundred times each. I’m not stranded either, but captive. It’s a poor analogy; I’ll have to come up with a better one. The Count of Monte Cristo, perhaps, or Alice in Wonderland, down a dank, twisted rabbit hole.
There are no sharp objects in my little basement room (cell.) Bass is probably afraid I’ll hurt myself, now that Miles has abandoned me. I think he’s confused me with himself: Miles abandoned me a long time ago, and I didn’t slash my wrists then. But Bass, he’s hurting everything in his path, including himself. It’s a lousy strategy for revenge.
Though we all know Miles does still care. He’s sentimental that way.
Twice a day, there’s a sharp knock on my door. It’s the guard, with a tray of food, always a glass of wine and a tender cut of venison, beef or chicken, whatever the President himself is eating. Bass insists this confinement isn’t meant to be punishment, only security.
He should try living with himself sometime, see if he considers it punishment.
It’s been two months, one week and four days since Miles failed to shoot Bass when he finally comes to retrieve me from my hovel. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, and breaks the silence I’ve learned to live with:
“Let me show you to your new room, Rachel.”
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