Hipster Holocaust

 Hipster Holocaust Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lydia lay back on the stained mattress trying to remain hopeful. It was a very hard task as nothing had changed. No one had come to save her. No one had come into the cellar other than the strange man who must be her captor. He would bring her some food and water. Replace the spackle bucket where she went to the bathroom with a clean one. He never spoke to her.

But he did start touching her. 

It was very strange. At first, he seemed afraid. Tentative. He would touch her leg. Or maybe her hair. Then he started rubbing his palm up and down her body. First it had been her legs. Then her arms. Her stomach. Gradually he had progressed to touching her breasts. Each day he went a little further. Each day he got a little stranger. Lately he had begun rubbing her sex. It was beyond strange.

She wanted to resist the touching. But she immediately realized that would not be the best strategy. If he got upset, he might turn against her. He could beat her. Abuse her. Or worst of all just go away and leave her here to starve. So, she tried to be receptive without over doing it. She sensed that if she tried to be seductive, he would balk. She couldn't come on strong and initiate anything. His whole demeanor was inscrutable. In the beginning, she thought he was just shy. But more and more she thought that wasn't it. It seemed like he was savoring something. Her weakness. Her helplessness. Her nakedness. Her fear.

It was like he had an itch and the only thing that scratched it was the fear in her eyes as she trembled under his touch.

Her fear had become a palpable thing. She had always been an optimist and had thought there was some way she could get out of her predicament. Now she was afraid that she would be stuck down here for a long time. She was afraid that this would be like those stories you read about where a girl was kidnapped and held for years on end. She remembered that case with the young girl on Long Island who was held captive by a family friend for seventeen days. She hoped that was what would happen to her. She couldn't be here for months or years. Someone would find her soon. It all depended on who this guy was, and could he be traced back to her?  Was it someone she knew? Someone she had a relationship with or worse had rejected in some way? Could that be how the people who must be searching for her would find her in this cellar? The police must look at all of those possibilities if they were looking for her.  This guy just seemed too weird for it to be that simple.

Lydia heard the toggle of the lock to the cellar door. He was back. The door opened and he walked in carrying a sandwich and the empty bucket. He took a bottle of orange juice out of the bucket and put it next to her with the sandwich that he also placed on the floor. He took the dirty bucket and put it on the other side of the door. Then he came over and knelt on the floor next to her.

She smiled at him. Maybe she could still charm him. "Hey why don't you want to talk to me? I bet you do, Let's talk. I know you are not a bad person. You don't want to get in trouble. Please if you let me go, I will not tell anyone about what happened. It would be our secret. Just please I feel so dirty. I haven't showered and I smell. Can you at least take me to somewhere I can shower? I swear I will be good. I won't try to get away or anything. I just want to clean myself up. Please. I know you are kind. Please."

He sat up and stared at her though the mask that he always wore. He never took it off. She had no idea what he looked like. She knew he was definitely a white boy because he had taken off his gloves to feel her up. His hands were a working man's hands. Or at least not a guy who sat behind a desk all day. She didn't remember anyone that looked like him. Or at least she couldn't focus enough to remember. The constant fear and dread she felt just kept her discombobulated. He stood up and left the room making sure to lock the door behind him. 

That went well. 

At least he hadn't touched her again. She reached for the sandwich and saw that it was a potato and egg special from Joe's luncheonette. He must be a local. She was definitely still in Red Hook. The knowledge strangely comforted her even though it didn't mean anything unless she could break free. She started to eat the sandwich and drink the juice. Fear didn't cancel out hunger. Not when you are afraid all the time.

She heard the door again. He was coming back. She folded the paper back on the sandwich and put it aside. He walked in carrying another spackle bucket. Filled with what looked like soapy water. This was new. He put the bucket down on the floor. He motioned for her to stand. She just looked at him. What was he going to do? Pour the water over her? She just sat there and looked at him. He stood there for what seemed like forever. And then he acted.

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. She struggled and complained. "Hey, stop you're hurting me! Ow! Stop!" She struggled in his grasp. Once he got her standing up, he switched his grip to his right hand. He let go of her hair and grabbed her around the throat. He squeezed and shook her like a cat shaking a mouse he had just caught. She tried to catch her breath and tried to flail away at him with her arms, but he held her away from his body and tightened his grip. He reached down and took a soapy sponge out of the bucket. He wiped it up and down her body. Just the way he used to do with his hands. Only he was much rougher. He washed her back and legs. Then her stomach. He gave particular attention to her breasts and sex. Not is a sexual or sensual way. In a violent angry way. Like it was something dirty. Which it was. She was dirty and he was cleaning her. Finally, he stopped and threw the sponge on the floor.  He reached down and picked up the bucket and held it over her head while choking her all the while. He poured the now dirty luke-warm water all over her in an impromptu shower as she shivered and moaned and tried to catch her breath as soapy water ran into her nose and mouth. Water went everywhere as it ran down her naked shivering body. Luckily, she was not standing on her mattress so while it got a little wet it was not soaked. 

When he poured all of the water out, he pushed her hard, and she fell down on to the mattress. He threw a roughly textured towel at her and picked up the sponge and bucket and left without a word or a glance back. She sat there and wept. At the ordeal. At the violence. At her fears.

She eventually stopped weeping and grabbed the towel. She tried to dry herself as best she could. Her mattress had been spared the worst of it, but it was still soaked where she sat. Still there must have been a puddle of water on the floor that she would have to deal with. The water would get stagnant and pool there on the floor. She might get mosquitos if there were any still around. But when she looked it seemed that there was no puddle. She couldn't understand. Then she saw it. There was a large drain in the middle of the floor which must have been sloped so the water would run in. 

That can't be good.

The only other place she had seen that was when she worked in the Western Beef franchise a few years ago. They had a drain just like that. Where they cut the meat. To drain the blood off.

My God is that what this is?