Her Life Is in My Hands

It's late when we return. I carry her out of the backseat, a night's ice coating the doors, the bonnet and windscreen drenched in slush and sleet. The shed accepts us eagerly, and we're soon in the living room. I untie her hands just to bind them again in front of her with two fur-lined cuffs, chain her feet to a sturdy steel ring in the floor, then gently push her onto the couch. She doesn't fight me. After an escape attempt, she could be imagining anything. Threats and punishments dance across her features, exacerbated by a vacancy that glazes over her eyes like frosted glass.

What does she fear I'll do? Thinking up a punishment has always been part of the fun. It stiffens her, make her brittle, like the smallest pressure is enough to smatter her to pieces. I will savour that when it happens. But in the moment, I prefer to wait. Let her stew. She'll probably berate herself more than I ever could.

'Does chicken and leek suit you?' I ask from the kitchen. No answer. When I peer in, she isn't even looking at me. She's clutching her arms around my zebra-print blanket and holding it tight to her shoulders, looking sullen and soaked to the bone. Even with two logs kindling the fireplace opposite, there seemed little that would thaw her.

'Sweetheart,' I stress, without an ounce of love, 'I expect an answer when I'm addressing you.'

Her blank floor-stare carries a moment, then breaks. 'Yes. Please. That sounds fine.'

It's dangerously close to breaking a rule, but I ignore it. I stalk back to the kitchen and finish the pies. There're not brown yet, but I'm not going to walk out without the peace offering of presentable food, so I wait in uncomfortable silence while the oven burns the pastry golden brown, then prepare my best smile as I whisk a tray into the living room and place it on her lap.

'There you are. Now, dig in. You need it after all that time in the cold.'

She nods, restrains herself from articulating why that might be, and barely scrapes a mouthful onto her plastic fork. I've always feared that when we entered this next phase, she might turn rebellious and violent. In hindsight, a silent, critical sulk spouting endless derision seemed far more her style.

If she's not going to eat, we may as well watch TV. I turn on to a crime investigation show. She appears intrigued for a few minutes, then says: 'You can't expect I'll never try to escape again.'

I shrug, cracking open a cola can and offering it to her. She wordlessly takes it. 'And you know I'm obviously only going to take you where no one else is.'

It's subtle, but the tone of her voice and her expression takes on a different hue. She lights up when I talk strategy. When I put everything out in the open to wither under her concern. I can see the cylinders of her mind fire and spin as she tries to find a flaw in my plan. 'Unless you managed to trick me with your car windows, I know we're overlooking a town. There can't be that many places left. Or did you expect you could take me interstate?'

'I expect I can take you wherever I want. Or where you want, if you're reasonable.'

She scoffs. I'm getting too used to the sound she makes when she does, and the cynical pleasure she takes afterwards in my grief. participating in my disdain. I've seriously considered "No scoffing" as a new rule. 'Stop pretending I have options where I don't. I don't know what it's going to take for you to drop this Prince Charming act, but I'd rather see you how you really are.'

I let that barb go, if only because I know how particular bitter she must feel after attempting a doomed-from-inception escape. There's no easy answer, and the walls of quiet climb so quickly until I can't rouse the will to raze them. Of course, she's pleased to no end, finishing her pie with half the bitterness of before.

I ignore her and switch the channel of the TV, letting the sporadic soundbites of news fill the silence of the room.

'Have I not made myself real enough? I've never lied to you.'

She glares. Again. 'No. Only by omission.'

I let what feels like a rapidly growing list of grievances and insults pass. 'It's better this way,' I say after a while. I've long finished my pie and gently squeeze her shoulder. 'Distractions are out of the way. We can be realistic.'

'Realistic,' she repeats, tastes the word on her mouth. Surprisingly, she doesn't try budging my grip. 'What are you suggesting I don't know?'

'How utterly perfect you are.' Now she finally squirms, but I've got too tight a hold on her for it to be anything more than a meek struggle, easily and lovingly crushed. 'How sweet you smell.'

She keeps her tone measured, the anguish curled back. 'And on the part about me remaining here, forever?'

I frown. 'You really like to ruin a good thing.'

She looks away, almost hurt. 'The fact you think this is a good thing shows how messed up you are.'

I shrug and loosen my grip. A semblance of calm enters her face. 'If you want to swat away compliments, be my guest. We don't have to be pleasant.'

'Can we just watch TV?' she says. Desperate, trying not to look at me. 'Please.'

We pass an hour or so that way. My slave manages to finish her pie, and I collect our plates and clean up, then offer ice cream and cola. She doesn't take the ice cream, but another cola can is soon in her hands, both of us opening them with that iconic aluminium crack and hiss of carbonated air. At least we can drink together. Something about the simplicity of that warms me greater than the woodfire.

'Are you going to punish me for today?'

I grin, smug, and she gives me one of her silent gazes. 'Oh? I thought you wouldn't want to think about that.'

'I just want it out of the way,' she said. 'What should I expect? Solitary in that basement and no food?'

I shake my head, and she breaths easier until I say: 'Something worse.'

She tenses up, and I can see the possibilities waltz across her face: torture, amputation, months of solitary. I bask in it, indulge in her wallowing and fear, then say: 'You have to kiss me.'

She makes a confused shake of her head, then looks at me weird. 'Just one, and only one,' I clarify, 'but if you think I'm just going to accept a casual peck --'

At last she musters the gall to interrupt me. 'I thought you were going to torture me for weeks!'

I shrug. It's a nice feeling, seeing the edgy, initial relief. 'There's no point. You've already beat yourself up. Any punishment wouldn't serve a purpose past making you suffer.' I stroke her cheek gently, twining a finger through her hair. 'And I would never want to do that to you. Ever.'

She watches me warily. After everything that's happened today, she manages not to mention the obvious. 'That's the minimum. The bare minimum. Stop applauding yourself for it.'

'Fine, I'll stop running victory laps around my property.'

The scowl deepens. She hates it when I even try to be funny. 'And... and just the idea of punishing me for the

completely

logical decision to...'

I wag a finger. 'You're dangerously close to breaking three rules.'

She turns away. 'You shouldn't "punish" me to begin with.' She looked ashamed a moment, and resettled herself on the couch. 'The fact you almost made me believe I deserve it...'

'I must be a rather good teacher.'

She looks at me, a shadow of her auburn hair obscuring her so I only see one, glaring eye. 'I will never love you. I know that's what you want. You might think you have time on your side -- that you just have to wait for me to fall into your arms, but I'll never let you break me.'

I knew this was coming. The rebellious phase. But I've prepared for it well enough, and I think things will settle after the initial buck and strain. Like a horse, I have to ride out the worst of these tantrums and sulks, accept them, and things will fall into place.

I stand up. 'Want another can?'

She nods. I grin inwardly as I leave for the kitchen. She will be mine soon. Perhaps three months, a year from now. But I will have her, begging and helpless, warm in my embrace.

After all, I was serious about that kiss.