The Halo Effect

28

She was scared by the darkness. By the idea that she might not be alive this time tomorrow. She was frightened because she had no idea what was expected of her or when she would escape from the nightmare she was shackled to.

But nothing terrorized her more than the silence. For hours at a time there was simply no noise, no sound. Nothing but her own heartbeat.

She had never been anywhere in her life that was this silent. Had never known how important noise was until she had been deprived of it for days.

How many?

How many days had she been here? Again she tried to figure it out. But when she thought back, she couldn’t count. There were not enough markers to tell her what time it was. She could not even tell sometimes if it was night or morning.

It was always dark in the cell. Even when he came to see her, he often kept it dark. But when she was alone, as she was now, the blackness was dense and thick. As if it had dimension. As if it had weight. The weight of time passing without her knowing it.

In the darkness, Cleo could never see more than the ghostly glow of her bound hands and feet. They were so pale and thin she didn’t recognize them. She had always been thin, but now she was thinner. He did not give her much food. Sustenance. But that was all.

Other than craving sound, Cleo wanted to be able to use her hands. She wanted this desperately. She couldn’t touch her face or her hair. These are things you take for granted, she thought. Brushing a lock of hair off your cheek, rubbing your eye, resting your chin on your hand. Scratching an itch. And her arms and legs and her torso and breasts and back and neck itched. Everywhere the robe touched, her skin prickled. Her robe was abrasive against her skin. Where had it come from? This was not her clothing. She never would have bought anything so coarse. Or so heavy. Or so somber.

No client had ever asked her to wear a uniform like this.

Until now.

And until now, she had never minded doing what the men she’d been with asked of her.

But this had not been asked of her. This had been forced on her. He had stripped off her own clothes-the gray skirt and white silk blouse, the pale pink silk-and-lace bra and thong-and he had bathed her and then dressed her in this outfit.

When the blackness had first enveloped her head, when she felt the heaviness of the robe, in that one claustrophobic moment she had acknowledged what she had been afraid to accept until then. This was not a game. There was not going to be an easy end to this endless night.

She was not with a man who craved a simple sexual release or comfort or kindness.

If only she could hear a car horn. A bird chirping. A child calling out. If only there was some music playing nearby, wafting in through an open window. If only there was a dog barking. Or a leaf falling. Or the sound of a kettle boiling.

If only she could whisper her own name out loud and hear her own voice. If only she could touch her own face with her fingertips. If only she could lick her own lips.

Instead she felt the pull of the tape across her mouth and the taste of it-a fresh strip put on her twice a day-chemical and metallic.

She waited.

She waited longer.

She heard nothing.

She wanted to hear anything.

Anything except the one thing that was inevitable: the tapping of his shoes on the floor, coming toward her. The tread of the madman who wanted something from her that was not hers to give. That one sound was the only thing worse than this silence because it meant that she would have to endure his bizarre requests and pleas for an hour. Or sometimes two or three hours. But he had just left. She had time before he returned. But how much time?

If only she could hear a radio. Or the chiming of a clock. Or the ticking of a wristwatch. Any sound. To distract her from the confines of her dark prison where she sat and waited for the man who prayed at her feet for a deliverance she didn’t think would ever be hers to give.