I use the washcloth to dab, brush, and wipe at the bloodstains on her face, using as much gentility as I possess. “There. Better.” I toss the washcloth onto the nightstand between the beds. “Can I check your nose?”
She swallows hard. Hesitates, and then nods.
I prod gently at her nose and find evidence of prior breaks—adding fuel to the inferno of my fury. “It’s not broken. You’re right.” I gesture at her midsection. “How are the ribs?”
“They hurt,” she whispers. “But I’ll be okay. I’m used to it.”
“Not any-fucking-more,” I snarl, lurching off the chair and snatching the washcloth.
The sudden violence of my tone and my movements sends Naomi scrambling away from me, curling up in a tiny ball against the pillows and headboard, tears of terror trickling down her cheeks, whimpers escaping her clenched teeth.
I halt, hissing out a breath through my teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I clench my fists and bury the fury, breathing slowly to find the calm I need to deal with this poor, battered, broken woman. “I’m not mad. Or, not at you, at least. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
Arms wrapped around her knees, she peers at me over her kneecaps. Slowly, she unfolds. I don’t move, barely dare to breathe. She lets her shoulders drop down from her ears, fists unclenching. Sniffling, she blinks. Then, moving gingerly, as if I’m going to snatch it away, she picks up the candy bar from where she’d dropped it on the bed. She watches me for a moment, as if waiting for me to scold her, and then resumes nibbling on the chocolate.
I toss the washcloth on the floor near the tub, take a long piss, wash my hands. When I emerge, Naomi has finished the candy bar; she’s folded the wrapper neatly and is holding it.
“You want something else?” I ask, throwing myself onto my bed and snagging the Doritos and a Gatorade.
“I…” she glances at the drink in my hand. “I’m a little thirsty.”
Cracking open the bottle and then twisting the cap back tight, I roll to my side and stretch across the gap to hand it to her. I toss a bag of kettle corn popcorn onto her lap. “Try that.”
She opens the bag with that same delicacy, plucks a single kernel in her slender fingers, and pops it into her mouth. A tiny smile lights up her face, not much more than a tilting of the corners of her mouth. “It’s very good. Thank you, Silas.”
“No problem, Naomi.”
She eats the bag pretty quickly, which tells me she’s probably hungrier than she’s letting on. Her eyes look heavy, though. Exhausted.
I pile the rest of the food on the table between the beds. “I’m gonna get some rest.” I lift the Glock in gesture and put it under my pillow. “I sleep light.” I gesture at the door. “Anyone comes through that door, they gotta deal with me, yeah?”
She nods, eyes wide. “I understand.”
I soften my voice, my face. “I’m saying you’re safe, Naomi. No one will ever hurt you again.”
“You don’t know my father.”
“And you don’t know me.” I grab the remote for the TV and toss it to her. “You can watch TV if you want. Won’t bother me.”
I lay down and toss an arm over my eyes. Exhaustion pulls at me, but the continued silence tells me something’s up. I glance at her—she’s holding the remote like she did the gun, earlier: in both hands, like a foreign, unfamiliar object.
“What’s the problem? Don’t like TV?”
She shrugs. “We don’t have one at home.”
“For real?”
“There are no TVs on the compound at all. The only computer is in Papa’s office at the barracks. There’s a big screen and projector in the common room at the barracks, but only the men are allowed to watch anything on it.”
“Women aren’t allowed to watch TV?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Whatareyou allowed to do?” I ask.
She only shrugs. “What we’re told to do.” A thick, hard swallow. “Clean. Cook. Laundry. Serve the men.”
She’s my daughter. My property. Her father’s words echo in my head. She was treated like chattel.
