Spiders

The spiders used to terrify me.
Now, I just watch them, numbly. I sit on the white wooden chair that stands on the floorboards which are scratched and dented.
Minutes pass slowly. The room is cold and bare, the ancient wallpaper faded and stained. The one window is small and the glass is dusty, so even the limited light that penetrates this dark space seems muted.
I sit on the chair and watch the spider nearest to me. It is watching me, I am sure of it, each of it's eight eyes resting slyly upon me. It stays quite still, and I shiver inside. The spiders are the least of my concerns. I look to the window. The sun is setting, evening draws nearer.
My heart beat increases, my hands become clammy.
He will come soon.

There is nothing for me to do but wait.
I wander over to the bed, the one piece of furniture in the room. It is a magnificent four poster bed, the dark mahogany wood a stark contrast to the blankness, the maddening blankness of the rest of this place. The fabrics adorning the bed are dark purple and made of silk, and seem to mock me with their splendour.
I run my hands over them, enjoying the cooling effect this has on my hands. I close my eyes and try to remember the feeling of the wind upon my face, wrapping itself around me like a hand, then slapping me, sharply, so my skin stings- and something within me stirs.
How long has it been?, I wonder. How long have I been trapped here?
He never lets me go outside, into fresh air, into life.
I lie awake after he has left me and fantasise about the rain and the wind beating down on me, so hard and fast I struggle to breathe.
My dreams are filled with the light of the sun but never the warmth. I have forgotten what warmth feels like. In here it is so still, a tomb I exist within, so silent it is deafening.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps. The tap tap tap of his boots upon the wooden stairs. The creak as he presses down on the last step, then the smooth sound of him turning clockwise to the direction of the door.
Tap tap tap as he approaches. A pause as he guides the key into the keyhole. The key is turned, the door is unlocked.
He comes into the room and I feel his eyes upon me. I look up.
His eyes are so cold. He hardly ever blinks. They are too blue, I find myself thinking. He is wearing a long black coat, which is spotless. His trousers are tucked neatly into his boots, which gleam. He looks like a military officer. Everything about him is precise.
He smiles at me, a lazy, self assured smile. I flinch.
"Come with me," he says quietly.
His words seem layered, ominous yet innocent. I feel like a mouse in the grasp of a cat.
I tremble as I walk to him, my eyes down, my expression as neutral as I can make it.

He takes my hand and leads me out of the room and down the stairs.
The house is huge; it is like a maze, a labyrinth of decrepit corridors and rooms. By now I have probably seen it all.
He takes me on 'adventures', showing me things around the house; the room where he killed the maid because she served him tea that was a little cold. He made me crawl on my hands and knees and examine the bloodstains that still lingered there.
It 'appealed' to him, he said, to see me pay such close attention to his 'work'. I was forbidden to look at him- bizarrely, so I wouldn't be 'offended'- yet he made little secret of his intentions, groaning and cursing as he took pleasure from the situation.
On another occassion he took me to the kitchen, a large stale room, with flies buzzing by the windows and the smell of cooked meat hovering in the air. He made me take off all my clothes and then proceeded to tell me about his mother, a cold woman, he had said, who delighted in entertaining everyone but him. His eyes had swept over my body as he spoke, and his hands had trembled terribly. He had murdered her, he told me, one October night, by smashing a rock into her head whilst she listened to Mozart and drank Sherry in the Reading Room. He had licked her eyes afterwards, and buried her in the garden along with a photo of himself. He was convinced she would see the error of her ways.
What a monster he is, yet so refined, so beguiling.
That first evening when I met him, I was bewitched, haunted even, by his manner, by his beautiful hands that looked to me like they could craft the most exquisite of creations.
The long slender fingers, the smooth oval nails.
I could not take my eyes off them.
Now I know what those hands are capable of.

The house is so dark.
We walk in silence through the long hall, lit only by the moon. The sound of his boots echo around the once glorious room.
I imagine the music, the laughter and gossip-the energy that once would have lived here. Now it is a shell; a ghost.
My bare feet are cold. I hang my head in wretched despair, terrified of where we are going, of what he has planned.
He stops by a small door and takes a key from his pocket. He looks at me strangely, like he is trying to read my mind.
"Are you excited?" he whispers.
I look up at him feeling nothing but dread.
"Excited?" I repeat and my voice is a stranger's, my voice is not my own.
He laughs his cruel laugh, and drags me inside.

The room is surprisingly warm. The wall are deep red and covered in paintings, lending the room a civilised feel. There is a solitary chair in the centre of the room, and he gestures to me to sit.
He seems suddenly friendly, almost affectionate and smiles broadly as I obey his command.
I sit and place my hands in my lap. He nods slowly to himself as though he is pleased with the way things are turning out.
"I know you despise me" he says, softly.
I say nothing.
"I know you obey me with every part of you but your heart" he continues.
I shift a little on the chair. I sense his mood is volatile and I feel vulnerable, uneasy.
He begins to pace the room.
Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Then his face is next to mine, so close I can see the tiny flecks of spittle that linger around the edges of his mouth. At this close proximity there is something feral about him, the order and composure is gone.
I see the darkness in his eyes, the hate and the love and the lust. I smell his wickedness.
We stare into each others eyes, hating what we see.
He steps back and begins to pace the room once more.
My skin is crawling, my desire to be free intolerable.
"I will force you to love me" he spits.
He pulls me up from the chair and holds my wrists tightly, his nails tearing my skin.
I do not make a sound, which only serves to make him angrier. He wants me to respond, to react to him. He pushes me to the ground and unzips his trousers. I try to stand up but he keeps me down with his boot, stamping hard on my chest.
I feel dizzy and mad. Everything slows, and when he speaks, I hear no words, only grunts.
His strength is overwhelming.
He crashes down on top of me and I feel certain bones have been crushed.
He rips my skirt and covers my mouth and nose with his hand. I stare at the blurred flesh and shut off what he is doing to me.
I stare at the hand I once found beautiful.
Every part of me is in pain. My head burns.
When he is finished he stands up and puts himself in order. I know he did not hold back as he has before. His seed is spilt within me. I lie on the floor like a crumpled, bloodied rag.
"I love you" he says, "Soon you will have reason to love me."

He takes me in his arms and carries me through the house, back up to my room where he lays me on the bed and kisses me goodnight. Through my despair, I find myself wondering why he didn't just do it to me here, on this bed. Absurdly, this makes me laugh and he nuzzles at my neck.
"Yes, you should be happy" he whispers, and strokes my stomach tenderly.
After he has left, I sit up, wincing with the agony of it all. The spider is still there and it watches me, knowingly, and I cry out in disgust and turn to watch the night merge into dawn through the little window.
A gentle Spring day unfolds, mild and unassuming.
How ironic, I think to myself. It should be a storm out there, heaving and wrenching at the world, comforting me with it's fury, letting me know I'm not alone.