Clanking and clinking, she paced back and forth across the cold cement floor, feet slapping, waiting for the cheap tin plate of stale bread crusts and rotten fruit breakfast to scrape under the door. The last time she tried to jump on his back when he entered the room meant now she was affixed to the far wall with a chain.

He did come into the room once a week, to empty one bucket and splash another of warm water on her. He wanted her halfway clean when he raped her. She tried to claw him each time but a crack across the face usually settled her down enough.

The room was stripped bare except for an iron cot with springs, a lumpy mattress, a lamp out of her reach, the bucket, and some old magazines that could be used for reading or wiping.

She’d been here a month or so. She wasn’t sure how she got here or where she was, but she knew she had to escape. At night, when the creaking floor sounds stopped and the drone of the television ended, she set to work. Detaching twisted and soldered metal from the springs of a bed took time.

A quality-fashioned shiv was ready. Then began the practice, of laying where she was usually thrown onto the cot for the rape, sopping wet, face burning, lip oozing, after the backhand. She found the perfect place to hide it and the flawless motion to execute the move. The biggest challenge facing her was staying calm but still going through the motions that had become ritualistic abuse.

Like clockwork on Thursday evening at 10p.m., he brought the two buckets, carrying the one out and replacing it. He always brought her a nice treat, this time a whole sandwich and a carton of milk, which she ate while he switched out the buckets. She chugged the milk and wolfed the sandwich down. This both strengthened and calmed her for what was coming. She welcomed the warm bucket of water. She was ready. As he approached she got to the farthest corner away from him. He chuckled and said, “Why fight it anymore, lover. Come to daddy.”

She hissed at him and curled up in a little ball in the corner. It took him some effort to unclench, drag, and throw her onto the cot. She clawed at him and he gave her the usual backhand. Her lip was still healing from last week and so bled even more than usual. This time the blow gave her the cold hatred needed to effect her freedom. As he was grunting and thrusting into her drenched, bleeding frame, she pulled the shiv in one smooth move and plunged it into the carotid artery at the side of his neck, again and again. He gurgled and clutched at his throat, but not for long. Soon he was a bleeding corpse.

She found the keys in his pocket and unlocked herself, then unlocked the door. Freedom was hers.
The End.

Sarah is the host of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s Saturday Mix.  Sarah says:

Welcome to the Saturday Mix – Sound Bite, 11 May 2019!  This week we are hearing things, as we explore the use of ONOMATOPOEIA. You will need to use the THREE onomatopoeic words in your response – which can be poetry or prose.  Our three words, using onomatopoeia are:  bam, crack, hiss. Good luck with your ‘Sound Bite’ task – I can’t wait to see what you come up with! Don’t forget to tag ‘Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’, ‘Saturday Mix’, and hashtag #SoundBite.