Free Stained by Cheryl Rainfield Page B

tears. And it hurts. God, it hurts. “Get off me!”
    His hands squeeze my throat, gripping tightly.
    I can’t breathe.
    This is it. This is how I’m going to die.
I love you, Daddy.
My chest burns.
    Brian shudders on top of me, then lies there, gasping, his hands leaving my throat.
    I suck in air, his weight flattening my chest, making it hard to breathe. I am crying, choking and shaking and crying.
    He heaves himself off me and strokes my cheek with his hand, his fingers catching on the blindfold. “You’ll come to like it, Sarah; you’ll see.”
    Go to hell.
But I don’t say that. I know he’d only enjoy it.
    I lie there, rigid, tears leaking from my blindfolded eyes, until his hand leaves my face and he pulls away.
    I hear him stand, brush off his suit, zip up his pants, his breath heavy.
    I try to make my body part of the floor, stiff and unfeeling, as he crouches over me and kisses my forehead.
    â€œI’ll see you soon,” he whispers.
    No!
    He walks away, footsteps creaking. The door squeaks open, then thuds closed. There’s a grating sound, then silence.
    I pull my knees up to my chest, tuck my face against them, and try to rock the pain away.

SARAH
    I ROCK MYSELF BACK and forth, back and forth. I can almost feel the way my dad used to rock me when I was little. I wish he were here now, holding me. I want to press my head against his shoulder and make this all go away.
    Pain drones between my legs. I touch my fingers to my sore skin and feel hot, sticky wetness. Blood.
    I shudder, my stomach heaving.
    I feel so dirty, like his smell is clinging to me still, sweat and cologne and sex. Like he’s stained me deeper than my birthmark ever could. Stained my soul, stained everything that makes me who I am.
    I scrub at my skin, trying to get rid of the feeling of his body against mine, but it stays like an imprint in my flesh. I hate my body, hate what it remembers, what it let him do.
    No. It’s him I should hate.
    I reach for my clothes, patting the floor until I find them. Undies first. I ease them up over me, breathing out at the pain. Then my damp jeans, one leg at a time, biting down on my lip. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. I won’t let him find me without my jeans on.
    I pull them all the way on, do up the zipper, fumble with the button. I feel safer already, as if wearing my jeans will somehow keep him from raping me again. As if they did anything to stop him just minutes ago.
    I retch and try to slam the memory out of my mind.
    I get unsteadily to my feet. Why has he left me here again? If he’s going to kill me, why doesn’t he just get it over with? Or does he want to keep me here forever? But that can’t be right, not if he’s had other girls. My stomach heaves again, hot acid rushing up my throat. I bend over, gagging and spitting.
    I’ve got to escape.
    I yank at the blindfold, but it’s buckled so tightly, it’s like it’s become part of my skin. “Why’d you leave this stupid blindfold on if you were going to untie everything else?” But I know why. It keeps me helpless.
    I go over what I know: the door is locked from the outside, the windows are boarded up, and I don’t have any tools. And Brian might kill me when he comes back.
    No. I’m missing something. I press my hands to my head. That thud I heard earlier, the dragging sound.
    I force myself across the uneven floor, sweeping each foot in front of me until it hits something. I bend down and touch stiff, hard fabric, a long zipper, short handles. A sports bag, the kind jocks carry to football and hockey practice. Inside is roughened, itchy fabric. I explore it with my fingers. A wool hat. What an odd thing to give me. I reach in again, my fingers touching a small folded rectangle. I open it up, the plastic crinkling loudly. It’s a strong, thin plastic blanket, bigger than me. I sit there, feeling it between my fingers. It reminds