True to his word, Norman is either out of information or refuses to give it to me. Guy obviously pays him well, and I have nothing to tempt his loyalty. The thought always makes my shoulders slump, and my posture grows poorer by the day.

Norman brings me the things I ask for and checks on me from time to time. For good behavior, he has Carter free my ankle after a couple days. But he won’t engage me in conversation. Before I was confined to my room, Chef Michael was easier to get talking, but only to a point. It’s as if there’s a barrier in our conversations that nobody will leap—and it’s not very far from the starting line.

Tonight, I’m in bed, staring up at the mesh canopy. The more I want sleep, the more I need escape, the harder it is to catch. Every night I try to understand my new reality. If I’m to be sold or prostituted, why am I here? Shouldn’t I be locked up in a room with other girls, stripped of even my most basic rights? Is there some other use for someone like me I haven’t thought of?

My mind plays a constant loop of scenarios, mostly what I could’ve done differently. I imagine not holding Guy’s eye contact in the restaurant and not inviting him to sit with us. Not inviting danger into the booth next to me. I dissect my current situation, examining it for loopholes in much the same way I run my fingertips along all the mansion’s walls.

Before my outburst, I spent hours in the library finding escape in the pages of books. I also discovered a darkroom and asked Norman for a camera, which he promised to try and get from “the Master of the House.”

Since my punishment does not allow me even books, boredom infiltrates the days in my room—but anticipation rules them. I’m growing desperate to know what Guy’s planning, so much so that I’m tempted to investigate the fourth floor once I’m released back into the mansion. Sinister thoughts feed off my ennui, breeding fear and paranoia. I wonder if the cameras broadcast to the entire world. Maybe I’m an experiment, and people are watching me right now from their living rooms.

I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up to screams. Realizing they’re my own brings me no comfort. In my nightmare, the cameras transmitted footage right into people’s living rooms. They shoveled TV dinners into their mouths, watching as I stacked furniture to reach the camera in the corner. “Pretty girl like you ought to be more careful,” they said, ignoring my screamed begs for help.

I’m panting as the dream fades into the night and reality comes into focus. The bedroom window is open, and a breeze fondles the bed’s white drapes. My tight chest staggers with short breaths as sweat trickles down my temples. I pull off the comforter and take the few steps to the window, my only tenuous connection to the real world.

With my knees on the cushioned seat beneath the window, I hang the upper half of my body outside. It’s dark tonight, the mean moon a curved slash in obscurity, beginning and ending with two sharp points. I close my eyes to the night air’s caress. If I jumped, could I latch onto that crescent in the sky? Hang there until the sun rose? I wonder if it would matter, if daylight would frighten the monsters away or merely expose them.

I look down and down and down because darkness swallows everything beneath me. Still, I know the rosebushes are there. How fitting it would be to have my fall broken by a thousand thorns, painting crimson roses black with my blood.

I descend from the windowsill and go to the wall where I’ve defiantly marked the days I’ve been in this room. The slashes blur together, and I scream. My fingernails scrape away the wallpaper, peeling a path of coiled ringlets.

I’m at the bed, pulling at fistfuls of gossamer until my palms burn. Its heavenly appearance is unaffected by my earsplitting screams; it continues to invite, deceiving me to sleep under its feathery veil and awaken in velvet red and sunlight gold.

I release the stubborn fabric and sprint to the door where I alternate between beating on it with my fists and pulling the handle with my entire body. And it continues without breaking, this horrible screeching that starts in my stomach and destroys my throat. I want out. I want my freedom.

Relief hits with metal on metal, a key in the door. The old man has come to calm me. My throat is raw and dry, but I choke, “Please, Norman. Let me out.”

The answer I get is gritty, rolling with incredulity. “Norman? No such luck.”

I’m stunned into silence, barely leaping out of the way when the door opens. A flash of low light illuminates a silhouette, the same one who stalked my bed the first night. When the door slams, we’re plummeted once again into darkness. Thinking only of escape, I lunge forward and dodge to what I hope is his side. Despite the blackness of the room, he catches my waist with surprising accuracy.

 “Run, and I’ll chase you,” he says calmly. “Believe me, you don’t want that.”

I squirm in his tightening hold, my elbow stabbing into his side repeatedly. My screamed protests are incoherent with panic; my body’s never felt more alive and more foreign, every frantic thump of my heart diffusing fear and adrenaline through me. My fist thumps against his chest, pain shooting from my wrist, but he just grunts.

“Let go of me!” He does, and I launch myself to the ground from the force of my struggling. I retreat, crawling backward to the bed, seeking refuge in what I just sought to destroy.

 “Do I not provide everything you need?” he asks. My eyes search the nothingness desperately as menacing footsteps close in on me. “Why do you insist on throwing a tantrum like a child?”

His voice is made of pure threat, so low I feel it underneath me in the floor. “Are you the M-Master of the House?”

“Get back in your bed and keep quiet,” he says. “Don’t make me come back to this room.”

My arms are trembling so hard they’re on the verge of giving out. I don’t know when I began crying, but it’s turning hysterical.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “I said get back on the goddamn bed.”

When I don’t move, his presence abruptly surrounds me, his fingers wrapping around my bicep. I thrash more, kicking his shin, slapping his firm grip with my free hand. My teeth and nails hunt wildly for exposed skin.

He pulls me to my knees, yanking so hard my face collides with his leg, and my hands grasp his pants. For a weighty moment, there’s only his heavy breathing and my whimper. His hand leaves my arm to seize my hair, and he shifts my cheek to the side fractionally. He curses under his breath. My skin scrapes against coarse denim as he gyrates once. His fingers curl into my roots, urging me closer.

My scream is silenced with a harsh tug of my hair. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I warned you,” he says with another sinuous motion.

My mind can’t compute how we went from fighting to him humping my face. I attempt to back away, but the result is only futile struggling. The teeth of his zipper hiss, and I have to clench to keep from urinating all over myself. My hands rip at fabric as I wrestle with his legs. From this angle, Guy is no longer the golden boy I saw on my last day of freedom. He is a black shadow, towering from where I sit underneath him. I’ve never been in the presence of someone so commanding, so fear inspiring.

His hand still clutches my hair while he hastily shoves down his pants. He rubs himself against my cheek; the disparity of soft and hard makes my body shake and pulse like my heart.

His loud groan spirals through my body as he presses the tip against the corner of my mouth. “Open.”

“No,” I plead through gritted teeth.

He yanks my head back and bends at the hip. All I can see are the shadowed ends of his hair curling away from me. “Do as I say. You’ve earned this lesson in obedience.”