About.
It’s a summer morning, more warm than hot. Outside, a couple is holding hands, and a group of acne-spotted youth ambles idly past. An arthritic old lady, shoulders obscured by a blue shawl, hobbles behind them. Natascha is not observing the sun’s rays, or eyeing the most comely of the boys – she’s given up. She is staring unblinkingly at the window, wondering if the grilles can slide apart soundlessly.
Her gaze shifts. He is washing last night’s dishes; droplets of water splash on his cotton shirt, land in tiny spheres. The citrus smell of detergent wafts past, and she wrinkles her nose. She hates him. “Give me a second,” he says, low voice barely audible above the running tap. “I’ll pour you cereal in an instant.” He scrubs another plate, this one cracked, with tiny floral patterns etched around it.
Wolfgang. It’d taken her ages to address him by his name. Earlier, he had been him. You. Bastard. She’d shouted obscenity after obscenity, abusing him the only way she could, calling him things she’d heard her sister yell at her good-for-nothing, money-laundering husband. She’d wanted to bruise and batter him without raising her fists.
To his credit, he’d never flinched or yelled back at her; only seemed mildly surprised at her vocabulary. Wolfgang doesn’t say much at all. He’s laconic in the worst sense, previously only responding by flinging her into the darkness – tears welling in her eyes as she hit the cellar floor – and turning the key with a click. To him, it was that simple. Oh, she hates Wolfgang, hates his dull clothes, his oddly awkward smile. Wolfgang. Gang of wolves, a poor excuse for a man. The only person she has spoken to for years.
Natascha hardly remembers the details of her capture, much less the faces of her family. After all, she has to remind herself over and over – a tuneless chant locked firmly in her head – that she has lived before him, and will continue to after. She must’ve kicked and screamed futilely, a sturdy ten-year-old imprisoned in his grasp, his normally hesitant gait far more strident than usual. Maybe he'd celebrated his success with a bottle of wine, his canine teeth clinking on the edge of the glass. The thought rocks her stomach like an unsteady boat, a queasy violence accumulating in her insides.
(It’s those moments when she temporarily ceases to view him as a criminal, her kidnapper, for God’s sake, that the anger rises in her like a child’s abandoned balloons. It’s when she sometimes forgets to, that she loathes him most.)
Still, he no longer confines her underground, but allows her to potter around the house, seeking out the limited entertainment it has to offer. They have regular meals together, and he assigns her simple household chores. She dares to sulk whilst sweeping the floor, running a threadbare cloth over the ancient mantelpiece. When he isn’t typing rhythmically at his computer or patiently tending the garden, he teaches her history and mathematics, coughing nervously like a new teacher.
Most of all, today is especially calm when compared against their recent argument in the car. “Someday I’m going to leave,” she’d said calmly. She’d acquired a new habit of biting her lip, gathering confidence from the tinge of pain; assurance that she was alive, younger and faster than he could hope to be. Worked her features into what she hoped was a threatening expression. Her face had grown thinner, skin stretching over cheekbones, and her frown felt different from usual. It felt lupine. “I’m going to leave, and tell the police what you’ve done to me. What you’re doing to me.”
“You couldn’t,” he’d retorted. But his fear had been unmistakable, sharp whiffs of it emerging beneath the cologne he’d painstakingly sprayed on earlier. “All it’ll take is a second before –“
Natascha had laughed cruelly, a harsh bark that cut him off mid-sentence. “You couldn’t rig up an explosive even if you read instructions off a manual. Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” She’d made as if to fling open the door, but he'd caught her by the sleeve.
“Please,” he’d said unexpectedly, and she froze. Their eyes met, his pleading, hers emotionless, and suddenly he was embracing her, sprawled awkwardly across his seat. He buried his face in her shirt, the flannel boy’s shirt she’d made him buy her for Christmas. And Natascha hadn’t laid her arms around him, nor had she recoiled.
“Don’t – don’t go. Don’t run away,” he’d whispered, clutching, clutching, almost clawing. As if in silent rebellion, her fingers tapped restlessly on the worn leather upholstery, but her spine stayed rigid as a ruler. Nobody saw the man desperately holding a teenage girl who constantly scoured her surroundings for even more escape routes, as if by instinct.
This fresh memory, so different from the vague impressions he’s thoughtlessly left her with, makes her laugh. Natascha will continue grinning from ear-to-ear as long as his back remains turned – slouching carelessly, Wolfgang has started on the cutlery, seeing only stainless steel and his own formless reflection. She knows she’s won another victory, and it’s certainly won’t be the last. Her time will come soon enough, and so will his, inexorably. Just not yet.
It’s a summer morning, more warm than hot. Outside, a couple is holding hands, and a group of acne-spotted youth ambles idly past. An arthritic old lady, shoulders obscured by a blue shawl, hobbles behind them. Natascha is not observing the sun’s rays, or eyeing the most comely of the boys – she’s given up. She is staring unblinkingly at the window, wondering if the grilles can slide apart soundlessly.
Her gaze shifts. He is washing last night’s dishes; droplets of water splash on his cotton shirt, land in tiny spheres. The citrus smell of detergent wafts past, and she wrinkles her nose. She hates him. “Give me a second,” he says, low voice barely audible above the running tap. “I’ll pour you cereal in an instant.” He scrubs another plate, this one cracked, with tiny floral patterns etched around it.
Wolfgang. It’d taken her ages to address him by his name. Earlier, he had been him. You. Bastard. She’d shouted obscenity after obscenity, abusing him the only way she could, calling him things she’d heard her sister yell at her good-for-nothing, money-laundering husband. She’d wanted to bruise and batter him without raising her fists.
To his credit, he’d never flinched or yelled back at her; only seemed mildly surprised at her vocabulary. Wolfgang doesn’t say much at all. He’s laconic in the worst sense, previously only responding by flinging her into the darkness – tears welling in her eyes as she hit the cellar floor – and turning the key with a click. To him, it was that simple. Oh, she hates Wolfgang, hates his dull clothes, his oddly awkward smile. Wolfgang. Gang of wolves, a poor excuse for a man. The only person she has spoken to for years.
Natascha hardly remembers the details of her capture, much less the faces of her family. After all, she has to remind herself over and over – a tuneless chant locked firmly in her head – that she has lived before him, and will continue to after. She must’ve kicked and screamed futilely, a sturdy ten-year-old imprisoned in his grasp, his normally hesitant gait far more strident than usual. Maybe he'd celebrated his success with a bottle of wine, his canine teeth clinking on the edge of the glass. The thought rocks her stomach like an unsteady boat, a queasy violence accumulating in her insides.
(It’s those moments when she temporarily ceases to view him as a criminal, her kidnapper, for God’s sake, that the anger rises in her like a child’s abandoned balloons. It’s when she sometimes forgets to, that she loathes him most.)
Still, he no longer confines her underground, but allows her to potter around the house, seeking out the limited entertainment it has to offer. They have regular meals together, and he assigns her simple household chores. She dares to sulk whilst sweeping the floor, running a threadbare cloth over the ancient mantelpiece. When he isn’t typing rhythmically at his computer or patiently tending the garden, he teaches her history and mathematics, coughing nervously like a new teacher.
Most of all, today is especially calm when compared against their recent argument in the car. “Someday I’m going to leave,” she’d said calmly. She’d acquired a new habit of biting her lip, gathering confidence from the tinge of pain; assurance that she was alive, younger and faster than he could hope to be. Worked her features into what she hoped was a threatening expression. Her face had grown thinner, skin stretching over cheekbones, and her frown felt different from usual. It felt lupine. “I’m going to leave, and tell the police what you’ve done to me. What you’re doing to me.”
“You couldn’t,” he’d retorted. But his fear had been unmistakable, sharp whiffs of it emerging beneath the cologne he’d painstakingly sprayed on earlier. “All it’ll take is a second before –“
Natascha had laughed cruelly, a harsh bark that cut him off mid-sentence. “You couldn’t rig up an explosive even if you read instructions off a manual. Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” She’d made as if to fling open the door, but he'd caught her by the sleeve.
“Please,” he’d said unexpectedly, and she froze. Their eyes met, his pleading, hers emotionless, and suddenly he was embracing her, sprawled awkwardly across his seat. He buried his face in her shirt, the flannel boy’s shirt she’d made him buy her for Christmas. And Natascha hadn’t laid her arms around him, nor had she recoiled.
“Don’t – don’t go. Don’t run away,” he’d whispered, clutching, clutching, almost clawing. As if in silent rebellion, her fingers tapped restlessly on the worn leather upholstery, but her spine stayed rigid as a ruler. Nobody saw the man desperately holding a teenage girl who constantly scoured her surroundings for even more escape routes, as if by instinct.
This fresh memory, so different from the vague impressions he’s thoughtlessly left her with, makes her laugh. Natascha will continue grinning from ear-to-ear as long as his back remains turned – slouching carelessly, Wolfgang has started on the cutlery, seeing only stainless steel and his own formless reflection. She knows she’s won another victory, and it’s certainly won’t be the last. Her time will come soon enough, and so will his, inexorably. Just not yet.
