Jack Ketcham - Right to Life

He stood up and didn't recognize her at all. Who the fuck was this woman? Who did she think she was? The woman was smirking at him, a superior look on her face and that angered him further and he went to the worktable for a pair of pliers. He was going to work on the nipples, open them up with pliers so that when the time came the baby could feed not just on mother's milk but blood too which was richer and more nourishing and suddenly he was stepping into a huge wide open field in the middle of the night and there were stars all around above and he felt very small and very much younger and very afraid of being alone at night under such a crowded sky.

And then the pliers were gone from his hand he was lying in his bed asleep next to Kath, something tormenting his sleep, something forgotten or left undone that was making him sweat and toss in a halfsleep, on the cusp of wakefulness, trying to remember what it was he'd omitted to do when suddenly he felt sething hit the window-screen behind him and push it out from the inside, something escaping and he thought, the cat, goddammit and he bolted upright in his bed expecting to see exactly that, the cat escaping through the window but all he saw was the fluttering curtain, pale white lace drifting slowly, hanging in the summer air.

On the sixth day of her captivity she recognized him. It was a gesture he made, holding his arm out, his hand palm-up toward the X-frame. Directing her there. In the gesture and in the smug self-satisfied smile she saw the man on the street in front of the clinic the day of her examination, the pink plastic foetus in his upturned hand.

She knew Kath to be the woman who'd followed them inside.

She said nothing nor did she allow her eyes to register what she saw. She was not yet a week in his basement but already she'd learned how to mask her feelings unless those feelings involved pain and terror. Those she couldn't master.

Daily over the next two weeks she was beaten on the X-frame. Sometimes blindfolded, sometimes inside the headbox. Kath had contrived a double-thick bib of old dishcloths for her to wear against the chafe of the box at her shoulderblades. The bottom layer was faded blue. The top was faded green.

Sometimes the beatings were short, lasting only a matter of minutes, pro forma. Seemingly almost passionless. An exercise in power and no more. He would use a belt or a light crop.

Other times they were endless. He would spend the night with her devising new ways to torment her as other men might sit in front of the television set nursing a beer. On these nights she could feel his excitement spreading like ozone through the basement air. There were occasions when she wore only the blindfold and could hear that he was masturbating. Light liquid slapping sounds followed by a groan.

Her contempt for him was matched only by her need to conceal it.

On the ninth day he seemed to realize that she could probably hear what he was doing and put rubber earplugs in her ears from then on.

There were times when every orifice in her body was plugged except her nostrils. Ears, ass, mouth, vagina.

He grew more inventive. Bound her in exotic ways. He hung her on the frame upside down and beat her until she nearly passed out from the blood rushing to her head. He held a heat-lamp inches from her skin and watched her skin redden and burn and watched her twist in pain. He poked her with knives, pins, meat-forks. He strangled her with his hands and when she passed out he waited and when she woke he strangled her again.

Worst by far were his rages. She'd been told to control her bodily functions but one night it simply wasn't possible, she'd been on the rack too long and there was no bedpan in front of her so she held it as long as she could and then she just let go. Her relief at so doing ended when he came at her with the studded whip. He was very good with the whip and this time he targeted one place only, the delicate flesh of her armpits and whipped them until she could feel the blood ran down her sides all the way to the hip.

He called her a whore and a cunt and a bitch and a pig and a useless cow and whatever else he could think of. Not just when he was hurting her. He used the words constantly. Conversationally. Reminding her that he could say and do anything he pleased.

There were days she went twenty-four hours between meals. Her only drink was water. Her food consisted of greasy cheap tuna salad or American cheese sandwiches on white bread and canned vegetable soup. It never varied. She was not allowed to brush her teeth or brash her hair. She was not allowed to wash except those parts of her he had blistered or bloodied.

She began to stink.

Inside the long dark box where she stayed through most of the day she began to mark the time by marking temperatures. Mornings it was always cool. During the course of the afternoon the box would warm both from the basement temperature outside and her body inside and by mid-afternoon while they were still both at work she would be slick with sweat and reeking with her own thick musky smell and would stay that way until they got around to opening it. When they let her out they would leave the box open to air out. When she got in again the temperature would drop till morning and then begin to warm again.

Her daily cycle.

On the tenth day Stephen noticed the cat moving into the box while it lay open and she was on the X-frame. The cat had come to her some nights and some nights it had not. She heard him shouting at it despite the earplugs which were never very efficient anyway and then heard Kath say something to him in a loud voice and then she heard them talking. When they put her back in the box that night the cat was there. They'd allowed it to stay. She didn't know why. But she was grateful for the cat and she thought that perhaps that was the point. To make her grateful. Grateful to them.

But she was grateful only to the cat. To her soothing presence. To have somebody to talk to even if that somebody couldn't talk back. Grateful that the cat didn't mind sharing with her the thick sweltering air.

The cat seemed glad of her presence too. Brushing up against her ankles as she stood tied to the X-frame or walked either to there or to the chair so that a couple of times the cat almost tripped her. She didn't mind.

When he wasn't hurting her he was telling her stories or occasionally reading scripture. The readings were usually about children or husbands and wives, slaves and masters. He liked Corinthians, Ephesians, Colossians, Genesis.

"Now Sairai, Abram's wife, had borne him no children. And she had an Egyptian maidservant whose name was Hagar.

"So Sarai said to Abram, 'See now, the Lord has restrained me from bearing children. Please, go in to my maid; perhaps I shall obtain children by her.' And Abram heeded the voice of Sarai.

"Then Sarai, Abram's wife, took Hagar her maid, the Egyptian, and gave her to her husband to be his wife…"

The stories were always about the Organization.

The house, he told her, was bugged. They monitored the phone. They had known she was here from the very beginning and got daily reports on her progress.

Organization members were everywhere. The local police precinct. The legislature. The White House.

He gave her a Daily News article to read about the slave trade which said that in the Mideast, Europe and even in the U.S. the growing interest in S &M had lately given rise to a brisk profitable business in female flesh, women kidnapped for sale or barter to the rich and powerful with no rights or recourse to law. To be dealt with as each owner saw fit. To be tracked down and punished should they dare and then actually manage to run away. He told her that it was his father who had introduced him to the Organization and that as a young man he'd earned enough money to put himself through college by tracking down runaways.