Pretty When She Cries by Sarah Kate Page B

her to resist him until she became accustomed to the pressure. Her vision blurred with tears and she shut her eyes, trying to last in silence until he was done.

Chapter 6
    Later that night, he sat in front of the television. She couldn’t tell what he was watching, but he was engrossed. Occasionally he glanced over at her. She was safe under her blanket, watching him from under half-closed eyelids. Every time he looked, she felt herself tremble. He probably thought she was asleep. She stayed very quiet, she was still hurting from earlier, but she was busting to pee and was forced to get out from under the protection of the blanket. She was very self-conscious in her nakedness and held herself bunched tightly. “I have to use the bathroom,” she said in a small voice.
    He completely ignored her, as if she hadn’t spoken at all or if she wasn’t even there. “Use the bowl,” he said in a moment.
    He looked at her once while she used it, but was otherwise uninterested. She closed her eyes, and kept them shut. It was as though if she couldn’t see him then he couldn’t see her. She quickly finished and slipped under the blanket again. The chain she was perpetually fastened to hurt and aggravated her wrist. She desperately wanted to free herself.
    She had just started to settle into some feeling of security when he stirred and switched off the television. He walked over and got on the mattress tearing the blanket aside, exposing her body. He unzipped his jeans without a word. Then he mounted between her quivering naked legs, kneeling and lowering himself towards her, guiding his cock with his hand. He pushed inside her. He raped her with long steady strokes, then with more rapid and uneven shoves and thrusts. She didn’t struggle, but lay passive in his arms.
    He came in her again. She was becoming terrified that he would get her pregnant.
    The next few days were hell. He’d just come straight in and mount her, then he would leave her alone for hours. This was her life. His voice was the only sound she knew. He had sex with her two or three times a day, sometimes four. Often he came to her in the middle of the night and made her suck him off. Sometimes it took up to half an hour, but she preferred that to when he was inside her.
    She didn’t try and fight him anymore. She just listened to everything he told her to do, hoping someone would find her. She constantly hoped she would be rescued, and tried at all times not to anger him. She was a dead thing which he used and abused, forcing himself into her lifeless body. When it was too painful, she pressed her hands weakly against his shoulders. Sometimes he noticed and would ease off, just a little.
     
    * * *
     
     
    “Can I have a shower?” she asked after he had given her milk and cereal for breakfast. She hadn’t washed since being hosed down outside those few days ago.
    “Later,” he said. She put her empty breakfast bowl on the floor, disappointed. He must have noticed her looking at the dirty dishes piling up, because he gathered half of them off the floor, looking pissed, and took them out into the kitchen. She heard him tossed them into the sink.
    She didn’t have to wait as long as she thought she would for her shower. He took her upstairs. For some reason she felt a new surge of anxiety going to a new part of the house. He let her brush her teeth, while he threw back the clear plastic curtain, and adjusted the shower. The water ran hard and steaming. The steam billowed up and made the bathroom warm. He took her by the arm and got her to step in. He was naked too. He often like to go around the house like that.
    As soon as the hot water hit her, she had a moment of queer gratitude toward him. He could have been worse. He could have cut her, mutilated her, broken bones. But this moment of gratitude was quickly disrupted by the introduction of his naked body against her back. He slipped his left arm around her waist, drew her tightly against him, then while