A Starr is Born

The beast released me from his grip to make him breakfast, so I quickly threw something on and skedaddled down to the kitchen to make something. Of course the memory of last night came flooding back to the forefront of my conscious. No one has ever slapped me before in my life. No one has ever restrained me before in my life. No one has ever kidnapped me before in my life. I’ve never been the victim of anything, and now my good fortune was out, and I was being punished for ever complaining about having to go to Joe Schmo’ in the morning instead of writing America’s next great novel.

I’m fixing him the simplest thing I can imagine and that’s scrambled eggs. I’m hoping to serve the monster and find an excuse to leave the room. He comes in while I’m over the stove and stands awkwardly behind me and reaches over me to a cabinet. He finds himself a glass and goes to do something with it. I don’t know, I’m trying not to pay attention to him because my instinct is to gouge his eyeballs out. I put the eggs on the plate, grab a fork, grab the salt, grab the pepper, grab every conceivable thing he could possibly need, and I bring it to him.

“Thank you!” he smiles broadly at me. Why the hell can’t he brush his teeth. Seriously?

I say, in my most deadpan voice, which does a very bad job at masking my fury, “Anything else?”

“Nope.”

And I take that as my cue to leave, but before I can, he grabs my hand. I cringe inside and turn back to him.

“What?” I shoot back.

“Well,” he says innocently, “aren’t you going to join me?”

I look at him, blank faced. “I’m not hungry,” I respond. I go to leave, but he still has hold of my hand.

“But you must be. You threw up everything you had eaten last night,” and he laughs. “You’re going to have to clean that, by the way.”

“Okay, can I go now?”

“But-“

“I’m not hungry,” I interrupt. His eyes grow dark.

“You interrupted me.” He stares back at me. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to anger him, but I’m not sure I’m willing to sacrifice all integrity and apologize, especially considering my urge to scratch his face off with my bare hands.

“I’m sorry, “ I control myself, “I just have a really big head ache.” He stares back at me, his eyes narrowing. He points to the chair directly across from him.

“Sit.” He says.

I go to the chair and sit. I don’t have much choice. He pushes his plate of eggs towards me.

“I want you to have it.” He says.

I wonder what kind of sick test this is because no matter what, I can’t will myself to eat.

“Well?”

I stare at the eggs, intensely. I can only imagine how comical this is to him, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He turns his head, looking at me through the corners of his eyes.

I try to explain myself, “I can’t eat when…when…”

“When…?”

“When I’m unhappy.” That obvious admittance sets me close to the edge. It’s going to be hard to hold it in now. I’m about to break down. He’s somehow taken my insurmountable fury and turned it into festering depression.

He leans in closer to me, “When I tell you to do something, you do it. You understand?”

I look down, defeated, and nod. I reach for the fork, and put some of the eggs into my mouth. I dry chew and swallow, my body not wanting to take part in the act of doing anything to keep myself alive.

He takes the plate and throws it across the room. I stare at him, in disbelief.

“I don’t have time for this bullshit. I’m out.” He goes to leave and turns back to me. “I expect you to clean that mess up. I’m not going to be back tonight, but my men are watching so don’t try to escape. They have full permission to rape you if you try to leave. And, I expect you to clean up the other mess you made last night.” With that, the door to the garage slams, and he was gone.
I still wasn’t hungry.

That day I committed myself to scrubbing the mess out of his costume. I had never been much for laundry, and I wished I could google “how to get vomit stains out of a psychopath’s pants,” but such forms of communications were strictly out of bounds. Through elbow grease, I had somehow succeeded, to my eye, and I went to search for an ironing board. I find one in the master bedroom and set to work. After some time, I’m admiring my handy work, finishing his last pant leg when I hear the door open behind me. It’s him, and I notice he’s bracing himself against the doorframe. He’s a real mess this time covered with drying blood. His own? Someone else’s? He limps into the room, and I take this as my cue to leave. I drop his things and bolt, but he slams the door in front of me before I can escape. I stare very intently at the closed door as he goes past me into the room and sits himself on the edge of the bed.

I turn back to busy myself in ironing his pants, pressing it extra nice, but I can’t help but feel his gaze. I look up to him. He’s giving me some kind of look. It’s impossible for me to decipher what those black eyes desire this time. He focuses his attention back on himself, and I exhale some of my tension.

I look up, only slightly, to see him remove his trench coat and drop it on the floor besides him. I watch his movements; they’re almost deliberate. He straightens his back and cracks his neck, and begins to unbutton his vest, dropping it to the floor. He clears his throat and my focus goes back to his face, but he hasn’t engaged me in eye contact. He loosens his tie and slides it off his shirt, throwing it to the pile. Next he goes for the suspenders, and this is when I really begin to wonder what the fuck is going on and why it’s so complicated for him to take off his clothing, but now I’m wondering why I’m so impatient. I realize my breathing has deepened, and I’m supporting myself with the ironing board.

And now the shirt. He begins with the top button and unbuttons each and every one with careful consideration. He makes his way all the way to the bottom, and I’m strangely entranced by the elaborations of his costume. He clears his throat again, and I realize this whole time I was shamelessly staring and giving him reason to think I was interested. My eyes shoot up quickly and are met by his, the sinister smile unmistakable now.

He drops his gaze once more, and I can see he’s going to remove the shirt completely. I go to leave the room bumping awkwardly into the door, searching for the handle-

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

I drop my arm and go to unplug the iron, realizing myself plus him plus a hot iron is not an equation I was looking forward to. I put the ironing board away and fold his clothing, really nicely. I decide to be brave and place the folded clothing to his side, and then go once more for the door.

“Pick those up.”

I stop in my tracks and turn slowly to face him, noticing the pile of clothing to his side and registering the compromising position he’s trying to put me in. My eyes dart quickly to his chest, which is now completely bare. I see all different types of scars, bruises and wounds old and new.

“Well?” There’s a new challenge in his eyes.

“You’re not going to do anything to me, are you?” I ask, sheepishly.

He looks forward, “Not unless you want me to . . . “ and he turns his head back to me, looking up at me through hooded eyes.

“Well, I don’t,” I say, backing once more into the door. I realize I’m trembling, and I’m not sure what I’m afraid of this time. I don’t like seeing him half undressed with that look in his eyes. My subtlest attempt to search for the doorknob isn’t subtle enough, and he gets up from the bed, charging at me. I go for the knob, but he’s slammed the door, and forces me to face him, his bare chest pressing against my unexposed one, pinning me against the door. He grabs my chin, forcing my lips to pucker out.

My eyes plead with him, and he snarls, releasing his grip. “What’s it going to take, you little bitch,“ he says while slapping me casually across the face.

“Don’t call me that!” I exclaim.

He goes for my throat, “making demands, again, I see.”

His grip is enough to restrain me, but not enough to suffocate me, “You’re being prissy now, but trust me. You’re like any good animal. You’ll become so lonely and desperate that you’ll look forward to your master coming home, and you’ll do anything to please him.”

“I’d rather die first.”

His eyes get dark. I shouldn’t have said that because I wasn’t sure if I meant it.

He tightens his grip, “Maybe you’ll get your wish.”

My eyes moisten. I blink and the tears begin to trail down my face.

He rolls his eyes at me, and takes one hand behind my neck and pushes me to the ground behind him.

“I don’t have time for this. I want that clean by tomorrow.” I collapse onto the pile of clothing. He leaves the room, and I bury my face into it, weeping.

“And don’t forget these,” I turn around, and his pants hit me in the face.


I work into the night to wash his clothing and get all the stains out. I’m already exhausted, but terrified of the consequences. I’ve never felt truly powerless before in my life, and I’ve never felt so weak, as if I’ve handed it off so easily. I wish I had more integrity. I wish.

I scrub my frustration into the clothing, and I put it in the dryer, hoping the sounds of the clothing tumbling will drown out the sound of my own weeping. I can’t decide what’s more important; my life or my virtue?


It’s early in the AM and I’ve just finished pressing his clothing, when he walks in, dressed only in his boxer. He grabs the clothing from me and looks me in the eyes. I cower, lacking the stamina to be emotionally strong.

“I want meat tonight,” and he goes to leave, slamming the door behind him.


It’s the evening, and I’m frantically trying to pull this meal together. I’ve roasted a whole god damn chicken, stuffed it with herbs and garlic, and rubbed the skin with butter. I’ve pulled out all possible stops, none that I’ve ever done for myself, hoping to please the bastard, hoping he’ll let me go to bed in peace. Maybe he’ll even let me have a room with a door still on its hinges. I’m running on nothing. No food, no sleep, no motivation.

I’m carving the chicken, trying to be careful to make it presentable, which is hard because my body has been deprived of all things that give it life. The front door opens, and I jump, but I try to maintain focus on the task. He enters into the room, sniffing the air loudly.

“Well, it seems my little red-head was hard at work all day,” he says, almost brightly, almost, but he’s just playing tricks with me, trying to get my guard down, so he can strike.

I turn to face him, only briefly, “it’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Oh,” I can hear him walking up to me. He’s right behind me, his body barely gracing mine. I’m frantically carving now, hoping it will hide the fact that my hand is shaking.

“Auburn?” he asks.

“Yes?” I reply, shortly.

“Look at this.” I stop what I’m doing to look. He’s lifting some of his vest and pointing to his shirt.

I look at it, “Yeah?”

“It’s still stained,” he says, mockingly.

“I’m sorry,” I turn back towards the meat.

“Oh, Auburn,” he begins running his hands up and down my arms. He whispers in my ear, “I’m not sure how I feel about you using such sharp knives.” My body tenses, and I freeze. He snakes his slimy arms around my neck and my torso., while whispering in my ear, “No, I’m not sure I like it one bit-“ Then one of his dirty hands makes its way to my breast.

Too far. I turn to face him, knife in hand, but when I face him, a gun is pointed directly in my face.

He laughs, “Did you really think you’d be faster than me?”

I’m deflated by his inarguable point. My knife lowers slightly,

His gun is still pointed at my face, an arm’s distance away. “Auburn, put the knife down.”

I let it lower, there’s some type of crazy brewing inside of me, my heart beating frantically. I don’t know what it is, but I feel some type of motivation, some type of call to action. My breathing is quicker, my eyes are wide. I think I’ve truly lost it now. I feel invincible…

“That’s a good girl,” he puts his gun away, and as he looks away, I realize in that instant I’m ready to die, and I bring the knife to my own throat, “though you did have a point, that was very ungentlemanly of me-“

The last thing I see is him registering my suicide, and the next thing I feel are my arms getting slammed against the cabinets on either side of my head.

I keep my eyes closed, laughing quietly to myself, my lips contorting into some wicked smile. I open my eyes, and I smile back at him, laughing sardonically. I catch a brief look of concern that turns into a dark glare. I simply smile back and laugh back, impressed with my newfound realization.

He doesn’t want me to die, and he knows I realize that.

I let the knife drop to the floor, and he lets go of me, turning away.

“Go to bed,” he says.

“But the chicken-“ I respond, sarcastically.

“Go to bed!” he demands.

I nod, and make my way upstairs, and collapse onto the first bed I find.