Scarlett Edwards - Uncovering You: The Contract

Tough fucking luck. He’ll have to kill me first.

He can never take away my willpower, my defiance.

“I deny you, you fucking asshole!” I scream. I’m shaking with adrenaline. “Do you hear me? I DENY YOU!”

Thus marks day one of my protest.

(Present day)

They say solitary confinement is the worst kind of hell.

They’ve never been in my situation.

It had been seven days since I awoke in this room. Seven days since I was kidnapped and thrown in this God-forsaken dungeon.

I only know that by the amount of meals I’ve received. Seven. There have been seven meals brought to me. Each time, the lights go on for an hour. After that, I’m plunged back into darkness.

I refused to eat the first two. My weakening body could not resist the third. It came with a note from J.S. :

Your strength is failing. You will give in.

I found it only after devouring the meager plate of food.

Even calling it a “plate” is too generous. The meal was two eggs, a piece of burned toast, and one stalk of celery.

Succumbing to my desire to eat was a mistake. The tiny amount of food awoke a ravenous hunger in me that left me unable to sleep. Whereas before, my hunger had just been a dull ache, the moment my tongue tasted bread, it became a wild fire that could not be put out.

The next day, when my food came and the lights turned on, I found a new contract sitting beside the plate. There was another note:

You may sign when ready. Know that my patience is wearing thin. I am displeased with the state of your body. Your malnourishment is troubling. Until you sign and come under my care, I can do nothing to help.

- J.S.

PS: Please note the amended guideline at the end of Schedule A

The guideline read like this:

Schedule A: Duties and Responsibilities of a Personal Assistant

To be available at any time to satisfy any desire, sexual or otherwise, of J.S.

To maintain a constant body weight and shape, consistent to what it was on October 1st, 2013, allowing for a 2-3% deviation in such measurements to account for natural weight fluctuations, hormonal cycles, etc.

Ignoring the note, I nibbled on my pathetic provisions.

After that, it became a battle of pure willpower.

My captor knew I was starving. He knew the food he provided was barely enough to sustain essential body processes. He knew that one tiny bite would awake that insatiable hunger.

So, the next day, I discovered an entire tray of food. It was like the one that had arrived the first time, but even larger. There was a single spotlight shining on it.

I did not need the light to know it was there. My nose picked up the mouthwatering aroma the moment I woke up.

There were pastas and soups, cakes and tarts, glazed fruits and chopped vegetables. There was seafood—lobster, salmon, shrimp and clam—drenched in buttery sauce. There was scrumptious corn on the cob, glistening with cream, and steaming plates of veal, steak, and a half-dozen other meats. There were bowls of rice and rolls of sushi, teriyaki chicken, and pulled pork. There was even a whole bowl full of my absolute, biggest weakness: caramel-dipped chocolate truffles.

It was enough to feed a village. The smells were so rich that they would send the strictest dieter onto the biggest binge of her life.

When I stood up on trembling legs, my mouth salivating, the rest of the lights came on. I blinked through the pain that the sudden brightness always caused, and saw that my path to the food was blocked by a single sheet of paper.

The contract.

There was another message:

You are hungry. The food you see is two feet beyond the range of your collar. Sign, and you will earn your first freedom:

Twenty-four inches.

I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

It was the illusion of freedom that got to me most, not the promise of food. In that moment, I saw just how desperate my situation had become. Every aspect of my life was governed by a madman. He would continue feeding me, barely enough to live, while tempting me with the relief that would come when my signature scratched on the empty line of that filthy piece of paper.

I crawled back to the pillar and hugged the balled-up cloth to my chest. The lights went out.

That day, I did not even receive my allotted breakfast.

(Present day)

Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve spent like this.

I have not felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair for half a month. I have not seen another human being or heard any voice but my own for fourteen endlessly long days and nights.

Sometimes, I sing to myself, just to break the oppressing silence. It is quite likely I am going insane.

Every day since the promise of twenty-four inches I have woken to a freshly-stocked tray of food. I receive my daily allotment of eggs, toast, and celery, too. I eat that on the far side of the pillar to temper temptation.

My body is shriveling up. I am always cold. The smallest movement is a burden. I reek.

At this point, I am starting to doubt the wisdom of my resolve. The battle that goes on deep inside my mind is one of my own making. The clarity of purpose required to resist is becoming muddy.

If I sign the contract, I sign my life away. But, if I do nothing, am I not giving my life away, too?

I am so lonely. My only friend is the crater in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, at least, lets me know I’m still alive.

What a sad existence this is. Grime and sweat is caked upon me like a second skin. Sometimes, I crawl to the edge of the border and stare at the food. If I stretch out my hand, I can almost touch it.

The only thing standing between me and it is that one piece of paper.

One little piece of paper, requiring one little signature.

Is this what a prisoner of war feels like? Is this the same sense of hopelessness that rules the lives of those at Guantanamo Bay?

Or, is this something much worse?

My stubborn refusal to wield a pen is killing me. I must have fantasized about what I might do a thousand times:

I scratch my signature on the paper. The lights come on. My captor reveals himself, and congratulates me for accepting fate. In my mind, he has no face. The range of the collar is extended. I get my food, and then—

No.

The idea of being someone else’s property, someone else’s pet, and continuing to wear this horrible collar is nauseating. It is the sticking point that my conscience cannot overcome. I will not serve as the passive vessel to the perverted fantasies of some sick freak.

It is quite ironic. The collar is the object that keeps me bound. But, were it not for the collar, I am certain that I would have signed the contract days ago.

A sharp stab of hunger pulses through my body, triggered by one unintentional breath drawn through my nose. I shiver and hold myself tight.

How much longer can I resist? My blood sugar is dangerously low. The slightest movement leaves me desperately dizzy.

I close my eyes and think back to the circumstances that brought me to California in the first place….

(Seven months ago)

It is March. The death-grip that winter has held over New Haven for the last three months is finally showing signs of relenting.

I’m sitting with my legs tucked under me on the red, circular rug in the common room of the dorm I share with two other girls: Fey and Sonja. We met during orientation week of our freshman year, when all three of us got stranded in the middle of a rainstorm and took shelter under the same willow tree. While our heavy workload and extracurricular commitments keep us from being inseparable, we are as close to it as anyone is going to get at Yale.

I have half a dozen textbooks spread out in front of me. Every page is marked up by my personal blend of pink, yellow, orange, red, and blue highlighter. Sonja calls my studying style OCD. I call it, “having a system”… although the specifics of that system seem to change every day.

I smile at the thought and get back to my books. Unlike Sonja or Fey, I’m on the hook for full college tuition. Sonja got a full ride; Fey has rich parents. I am in possession of neither, so every semester I spend here costs me dearly.

That’s why every term so far, I’ve taken the maximum four courses, then petitioned the administrative board to add a fifth. I was denied first term freshman year, but granted every term after. Since I managed to keep my GPA respectable, I finagled the administration into letting me add a sixth course this year.

While course number six has not exactly been the straw that breaks the camel’s back, it’s come damn close. I’ve been surviving on less than five hours of sleep for most of my junior year. Fey and Sonja have expressed their concern, even going so far as to stage an intervention—by smuggling me onto a bus and taking me with them to the largest party of the year for the annual Harvard-Yale football game. But, I think I’ve managed pretty well.

Sure, I might not have any semblance of a social life. The last time I had sex was with my ex more than eighteen months ago. (What they say about athletes, by the way, is patently false. He may have excelled on the court, but in bed he had the stamina of an octogenarian.) However, if it means getting my diploma faster, and for less money, I’m all for it.