Amber

Chapter 11

Hailey

November 6, 2015

So I found out what the smell is ...

God, I don't even want to think about it. But it's practically absorbed into my nostrils for basically forever now, so there's no chance of not thinking about it.

Lauren says he won't let us leave this ... room, or basement, or cellar, or hole in the hell of this house specifically designed for the storage of young girls.

Never.

He won't let us upstairs to use a toilet or sink or anything. Stating the obvious, this means we have to do everything down here. There's a bucket near where she took me over to wrap my wound in the sweatshirt. That's where all of her (or ... our, I guess) supplies are. A few tattered items of clothes and rags aside from the few we use to sleep on, a small utility sink with broken faucet, and two buckets. One bucked is propped up in the sink to collect the slow drip of water from the faucet that's turned all the way on, and the other is used for ... piss.

The sink is partially clogged and drains slowly so we will pee into the bucket and empty it into the sink, where it sits for hours until fully gone. We do our other business onto the floor in the farthest corner from where Lauren (we, now ... I guess) sleeps and avoid going over there for any other reason.

We're like two dogs left alone for too long who mess our cage and have to sleep in it as punishment. Except usually a dog cage is in open air, so the smell isn't this bad.

It's all so Goddamn disturbing, but Lauren speaks as if it's all normal routine now.

"Oh ya, here is the bucket you use for when you have to pee, and follow me. I'll show you where you can pop a squat!"

She didn't say it exactly like that, but she didn't exactly break down into tears either. That's what this all deserves. Constant sobbing because who could treat people this way? Are prisoners of war allowed bathroom visits?

The worst part is that he won't speak. Lauren says she has tried talking to him and reasoning with him. His reply is always the same.

Silence. Face-twitching silence.

He's not going to get anything from me. He's not going to get the satisfaction of watching my slow, gradual death. There's no chance that I'm going to stay here in a freezing room full of my own shit and let him torture me. He'll have to fucking kill me.

Lauren tells me that it's not that easy. That he doesn't want to kill me. That I'll have to do what he wants. That I'll understand before long.

Maybe she's right, or maybe she is just scared. I don't blame her for that. Not at all. She's so young. And she was dealing with all of this on her own. Alone. I can't even imagine. But I'm not her. I'm not going to let him get away with this. He'll have to kill me.

If he does, then Lauren's alone again. You can't let that happen. She needs you. You can keep her alive. Maybe they'll find us. Or you can find a way out. Be strong for her.

Why do I feel like I owe this girl everything? Like she's mine to protect? Why do I want to stand over her while the rain pummels me?

"You know why, Lee."

Shut up. Just fucking shut up, Hannah. You don't know what this is like. You can't make me stay alive down here if I don't want to. You fucking hypocrite. Why are you even here?

I haven't slept since coming here. I figure it's been maybe three or four days at this point. It could be three or four minutes for all I know.

It's a combination of the cold, the smell, the fear and the fact that when I try to sleep, I can't find Hannah anywhere. She keeps coming in and out. Stopping by when she feels like it. I don't understand. I don't understand any of this.

Maybe I see her clear-as-day now because my head is spinning from lack of sleep and the fragrance of shit that is starting to make me lose it.

I hear a sound. Lauren hears it too because she's stirring in the corner for the first time since lying down what feels like several hours ago.

Any sound is unexpected because there's literally nothing here aside from the slow drip of water into tin and the subtle noise frigid air makes when it's trying to strangle you as you breathe it in.

Nothing. Nothing but silence as thick as the darkness.

That's what makes this sound so disturbing—all disruptive and amplified against the walls and the miles of nothing beyond them.

A shuffling of feet. A repeated scraping of shoe or sandal against the floor. A rustling of metal and the snap of a lock at our door.

"He's coming, Lee."

Then the creak of heavy metal and flooding of the slightest amount of lighter shadow fills the doorway.

"He's here."