Scarlett Edwards - Uncovering You - The Contract

This is someone I know.

Or, someone who knows me.

(Present day)

I never talk about my student loans. Hell, I knew they were enormous. But, they were essential for me to attend school. They were the reason I accepted the offer to extend my summer internship into a full-time job and took a year’s sabbatical to make it work. Unfortunately, when the client pulled out and left me jobless…

Shit .

An uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the vile collar around my neck. This person—J.S.—has been watching me. Following me. Waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

For how long?

“Show yourself!” I scream, bolting up. “Goddammit, show me who you are!” I wave the contract angrily through the air. “You want me to sign this? I’d rather die first! Here’s what I think of your goddamn conditions!”

In one move I rip the paper in two, then ball the pieces up, stalk to the edge of my prison, and hurl them as far as I can. I spin around—furious, angry, confused, defiant—and stomp back to the pillar.

Halfway there, the lights go out.

“Mother fucking goddammit!” I curse when I collide with the serving tray in the dark. Pain shoots through my knee. In one violent bust, I sweep all the plates of food onto the floor. I earn some measure of satisfaction when I hear the porcelain shatter.

I find the marble beam and sit against it. I feel around until my hands come across the cloth, and I tug it over my shoulders.

So, J.S. thinks he’s stripped me of all my power, does he? He’s taken away my sight, my freedom, and thinks that will be enough for me to give up my body?

Tough fucking luck. He’ll have to kill me first.

He can never take away my willpower, my defiance.

“I deny you, you fucking asshole!” I scream. I’m shaking with adrenaline. “Do you hear me? I DENY YOU!”

Thus marks day one of my protest.

(Present day)

They say solitary confinement is the worst kind of hell.

They’ve never been in my situation.

It had been seven days since I awoke in this room. Seven days since I was kidnapped and thrown in this God-forsaken dungeon.

I only know that by the amount of meals I’ve received. Seven. There have been seven meals brought to me. Each time, the lights go on for an hour. After that, I’m plunged back into darkness.

I refused to eat the first two. My weakening body could not resist the third. It came with a note from J.S. :

Your strength is failing. You will give in.

I found it only after devouring the meager plate of food.

Even calling it a “plate” is too generous. The meal was two eggs, a piece of burned toast, and one stalk of celery.

Succumbing to my desire to eat was a mistake. The tiny amount of food awoke a ravenous hunger in me that left me unable to sleep. Whereas before, my hunger had just been a dull ache, the moment my tongue tasted bread, it became a wild fire that could not be put out.

The next day, when my food came and the lights turned on, I found a new contract sitting beside the plate. There was another note:

You may sign when ready. Know that my patience is wearing thin. I am displeased with the state of your body. Your malnourishment is troubling. Until you sign and come under my care, I can do nothing to help.

- J.S.

PS: Please note the amended guideline at the end of Schedule A

The guideline read like this:

Schedule A: Duties and Responsibilities of a Personal Assistant

To be available at any time to satisfy any desire, sexual or otherwise, of J.S.

To maintain a constant body weight and shape, consistent to what it was on October 1st, 2013, allowing for a 2-3% deviation in such measurements to account for natural weight fluctuations, hormonal cycles, etc.

Ignoring the note, I nibbled on my pathetic provisions.

After that, it became a battle of pure willpower.

My captor knew I was starving. He knew the food he provided was barely enough to sustain essential body processes. He knew that one tiny bite would awake that insatiable hunger.

So, the next day, I discovered an entire tray of food. It was like the one that had arrived the first time, but even larger. There was a single spotlight shining on it.

I did not need the light to know it was there. My nose picked up the mouthwatering aroma the moment I woke up.

There were pastas and soups, cakes and tarts, glazed fruits and chopped vegetables. There was seafood—lobster, salmon, shrimp and clam—drenched in buttery sauce. There was scrumptious corn on the cob, glistening with cream, and steaming plates of veal, steak, and a half-dozen other meats. There were bowls of rice and rolls of sushi, teriyaki chicken, and pulled pork. There was even a whole bowl full of my absolute, biggest weakness: caramel-dipped chocolate truffles.

It was enough to feed a village. The smells were so rich that they would send the strictest dieter onto the biggest binge of her life.

When I stood up on trembling legs, my mouth salivating, the rest of the lights came on. I blinked through the pain that the sudden brightness always caused, and saw that my path to the food was blocked by a single sheet of paper.

The contract.

There was another message:

You are hungry. The food you see is two feet beyond the range of your collar. Sign, and you will earn your first freedom:

Twenty-four inches.

I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

It was the illusion of freedom that got to me most, not the promise of food. In that moment, I saw just how desperate my situation had become. Every aspect of my life was governed by a madman. He would continue feeding me, barely enough to live, while tempting me with the relief that would come when my signature scratched on the empty line of that filthy piece of paper.

I crawled back to the pillar and hugged the balled-up cloth to my chest. The lights went out.

That day, I did not even receive my allotted breakfast.

(Present day)

Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve spent like this.

I have not felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair for half a month. I have not seen another human being or heard any voice but my own for fourteen endlessly long days and nights.

Sometimes, I sing to myself, just to break the oppressing silence. It is quite likely I am going insane.

Every day since the promise of twenty-four inches I have woken to a freshly-stocked tray of food. I receive my daily allotment of eggs, toast, and celery, too. I eat that on the far side of the pillar to temper temptation.

My body is shriveling up. I am always cold. The smallest movement is a burden. I reek.

At this point, I am starting to doubt the wisdom of my resolve. The battle that goes on deep inside my mind is one of my own making. The clarity of purpose required to resist is becoming muddy.

If I sign the contract, I sign my life away. But, if I do nothing, am I not giving my life away, too?

I am so lonely. My only friend is the crater in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, at least, lets me know I’m still alive.

What a sad existence this is. Grime and sweat is caked upon me like a second skin. Sometimes, I crawl to the edge of the border and stare at the food. If I stretch out my hand, I can almost touch it.

The only thing standing between me and it is that one piece of paper.

One little piece of paper, requiring one little signature.