Scarlett Edwards - Uncovering You: The Contract

Determination sets in. I refuse to starve in a hole in the middle of the woods. I refuse to let my fear control me. That bird doesn’t even know the meaning of the word, and I refuse to let it best me.

I go on hands and knees and start shoveling.

(Present day)

I come to with a searing headache. It feels like someone drove a spike through the back of my head.

I groan and sit up. The lights from the ceiling lamps are as bright as ever. Too bright, in fact. They make my headache worse. I can’t stand my new light sensitivity.

I look at the pillar, then suppress a shudder as my fingers brush the collar at my neck. It’s still there, of course. Did I expect anything else?

I wonder in a distracted sort of way what time it is. I wonder how long I’ve been in this room. Without a window to let sunlight in, it’s impossible to tell.

I don’t think it’s been more than a day, though. I don’t smell, for one. Two, I haven’t had the need to use the bathroom yet.

With that thought comes a sudden, unstoppable urge to urinate.

Shit! I look all around me. Does the man just expect me to piss on the floor?

While defiling the pristine tiles might seem like a small act of defiance, I’m not a pig. And I’m not that desperate. Yet.

I remember the two jars and run to the empty one. When I pick it up, I see it for what it really is.

Not a jar, you idiot. A chamber pot.

I use it and then carry it as close to the perimeter of my prison as I dare. I do not want another electrical shock.

I spot the letter I never finished reading on my way back. Just the memory of the flowing blue ink is enough to make a shiver crawl down my spine.

I make myself sit down and look at the rest anyway. There might be vital information in the words.

...Tomorrow, you will receive a contract outlining my expectations for your behavior. Compliance with my desires will grant you progressively greater freedoms. Child-like resistance will be met with apathy and a degradation of previously-earned freedoms.

Today, you entered my home as a guest. When you sign our contract, you become my property.

Always, I expect my property to perform to the highest standards.

You will remain undisturbed for the next eighteen hours as you ruminate on your available options.

Do not disappoint me.

- J.S.

“J.S.” Something about those initials tickles the back of my mind. The letters look like a signature, but what’s more, one that I’ve seen before.

But where? I try thinking back, racking my brain for it. The familiarity is vague, but undeniable. It’s a little like running into a former classmate whom you haven’t seen in five years and who’s lost a lot of weight. You feel like you should recognize her. Only after you start talking do you remember from where.

The rest of the letter flies over my head. It’s obviously from a lunatic. What kind of sick mind would call me a “guest”? That’s a generous euphemism. The collar might as well be leashed for all the freedom it provides. “No physical barriers” to my leaving? Hah!

I don’t want to think about the implications of the contract. I won’t sign it. I will never become someone else’s property.

I’d rather die first.

All at once, the lights go out.

The sudden darkness unnerves me. I stand up and wave my arms. “Hey! Hey, I’m still here!”

Nothing. Like a blind woman, I grope for the safety of my pillar. When my hands find it, I turn around and slide down its cold, smooth surface.

My butt hits the ground. After a moment of staring into darkness, I lower my head. My stomach growls, reminding me how long it’s been since my last meal. I was provided water. Does that mean I’ll get food, too?

With nothing but my thoughts for company, I draw myself back to my memories, trying to summon the strength I once had.

(Eleven years ago)

The noon sun is high above me, beating on the forest with its unforgiving rays. I’ve been shoveling for hours. My nails are black and my hands are covered with dirt. My fingers are numb, and my arms feel like lead weights. Both my shoulders burn.

I look at the pile I’ve built up. It’s right underneath the hole.

Still not high enough, I think.

I scoop up another handful of dirt and painfully labor it over.

My stomach rumbles. I’m so hungry.

But even hunger has taken its rightful place behind my desperate need for water.

“Have to keep going,” I mutter to myself. “Can’t stop now.”

My whole body is exhausted. My ankle seems even more swollen. I can’t put so much as an ounce of weight on my left leg without whimpering.

I’m scared that, even if I pile the mound high enough to pull myself out, I won’t have the strength left to get to the lake house.

But I have to try. I know that.

I want to sit and rest. It would be so nice, just for a few moments. But, I don’t. I’m afraid if I stop moving, I’ll never start again.

So, I dig, scooping the dirt with my bare hands, then carrying it back to the ever-growing pile.

Hours go by. The sky turns red. The sun starts to set. I can’t spend another night down here.

I look at my pile. It’s already up to my waist. But my feet sink when I step onto it. I still can’t reach the floorboard.

“Lilly! Lilly!”

The male voice is so faint that I think I imagine it at first. Then it comes again.

“Lilly? Lilly!”

My heart swells and relief splashes over me like ice water.

“Here!” I cry out. My throat is so parched and my voice so weak that I barely hear myself. “Here!” I try again.

“Lilly? Lilly!”

The voice is getting fainter. Alarm fills me as I realize he’s going the wrong way.

I clamber to the top of the mound and fill my lungs with air.

“HERE!”

I wait. And wait some more. My chest heaves with anxiety. Did he hear me? Why doesn’t he answer?

“HERE!” I scream. “I’m down here! Help me! I’m here!”

I can’t hear my name being called anymore. Nothing breaks the silence except the rustle of wind through the trees.

A crushing pain explodes in my chest. The man did not hear me. He will not come.

I fall to my knees. I try to blink away the tears, but I can’t. My despair is too great.

My entire body shakes as I start to sob. He did not find me. He did not hear me.

“Lilly!”

The voice comes from right above me. I look up, and see Paul’s face. For a half-second, I think it’s a mirage. But when he reaches down, and the shadow of his arm is cast along the floor, I know he’s my savoir.

“Give me your hand, child!” he urges.

I lift one trembling arm up as high as I can, fighting through the tearing pain it causes my shoulder.

His hand grasps my forearm with a grip as strong as iron.

“I’m going to get you out,” he promises. “Can you stand?”

I nod, dumb with amazement.

“Give me both your arms. I’m going to lift you up. Ready? Three, two…”

(Present day)

My eyes shoot open in the dark.

Paul rescued me? No. No, that can’t be right.

Falling into that cellar was a defining moment of my young life, because I saved myself. I remember building the dirt pile. It’s been a long time since I thought about it, but I was always certain that I was the one who got myself out.

Paul never gave two shits about me. That’s what my mother hammered into my head when we moved away a few weeks after that summer. He didn’t give two shits about me, or her.

But… could I have repressed the true memory of my rescue? Could I have made myself believe that my escape plan worked after what my mother told me about him?

Why? Why would she lie?

Childhood memories are always tricky. But, I remember that my mom started drinking later that year. Right when I turned thirteen. And when she drank, she always talked about Paul.

Alcohol was the catalyst that deteriorated my relationship with my mother. Could her regret over leaving him, coupled with the booze, have driven her to deceive me?

Not that any of it matters now. There is no Paul to pull me out of this hole. I have only myself.

If the most comforting memory I have is false, what hope do I cling to now?

I fold my hands under my head and lie on the floor. The cold tiles leech away my body heat. The only thing to do now is wait.

(Present day)

In the dark, the hours all mesh together. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about the vile collar around my neck.

I need to find some way to get it off. My fingers have explored every millimeter of it. There is no weakness to be found.

Every minute that goes by brings me closer to tomorrow’s confrontation. What will the contract say? What demands will my captor have of me?

It does not matter. I will never sign that filthy sheet of paper. I will never willingly surrender my freedom.

My mind keeps turning back to those initials: J.S. I’m sure I’ve seen them before. I—

In a brilliant flash, all the lights in the room go on.

I curse and squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead to the cool floor against the pain. When it subsides, I look around me through slitted eyes.

There is something new in the room. A tray cart on wheels, covered by a black cloth. It’s well within the space where I’m allowed to move.

Still, I walk toward it very slowly, waiting for the telltale warning jolt that tells me I’ve gone too far. Caution is my sole mantra at this point.

As I get closer, delicious, mouthwatering smells waft from beneath the cloth. How long has it been since my last meal?

I get to the tray and lift one corner of the cloth. There’s a platter of hot breakfast foods covered by a clear glass dome. Two small holes by the handle let out the delectable scents and prevent condensation.

I put one hand on the lid. It’s still warm. This was brought here recently. Why didn’t I notice?

I find a little note by the platter. It reads, “As a gesture of goodwill.” There’s an arrow pointing to the other side. I flip the note over.

The contract is in the compartment below. You may sign when ready.

– J.S.

Suddenly my appetite is gone. I throw the cloth back on and storm to my pillar.

I go to the other side so I won’t be tempted by food. I’ve never been a big eater. Some days I don’t even have time for more than a bagel.

But my body knows it needs nourishment. Hunger lies heavy on my brain. I shove a fist into my stomach to stop it from making noises and try not to think about eating.

That works for about a minute. Then I catch another faint whiff of the breakfast waiting for me.

Just one bite, I tell myself as I get up. I justify it by admitting that food will boost my strength.

I walk around to the tray and wheel it to the center of the room. I take the cloth off, intending to keep it as a blanket. I throw it over my shoulders. It’s sad, but I feel like the barrier offers some protection.

I eye the plate of eggs, stacks of waffles, and bowls of fruit before deciding on an apple. It’s still whole, so nothing sinister could have been done to it.

I grasp the handle and lift… then frown. The lid doesn’t move. At first, I think it might be the pressure difference, even with the holes for air escape—like when you cook a sealed pot of rice. But then I notice the baby blue Post-it note on the drawer underneath.

Open me first.

Clever, I admit. He won’t give me food until I see the contract. I pause in thought. Pretending it doesn’t exist won’t make anything easier. And if I read the contract, at least I’ll know what I’m up against.

Information is vital.

I open the drawer and hear a click. The lid over the food springs free. I see the thin metal hinges that held it in place. But, my eye is drawn to the single sheet of paper inside instead of the food.