The Great Below

The Burns: Part 1

Octavia always got the best treatment before a match.

She sprinkled a final layer of Parmesan onto the lasagna, confident that for this night at least, she could do no wrong. She'd spent the day telling Victor only what he wanted to hear and then prepared his favorite dinner. If she couldn't hop the local Metra, she could at least play housewife in peace a little longer.

Octavia slid the casserole dish into the oven and turned the timer knob on the display – an analog feature that appeared on old ovens or cheap ovens or, in this case, both. Victor passed through the kitchen with his phone pressed to one ear. When he paused to stroke her hair, his conversation switched from English to Spanish – his form of privacy. She grinned admirably despite the pull on her orbital bone. Then he continued out to the balcony, clacking the screen door shut.

Octavia reached for the spice rack, grabbing the cinnamon bottle. She spun the cap and took a gulp of stolen vodka. Victor wasn't so meticulous as to watch the level on his liquor bottles, but she wouldn't get caught drinking out of one while he was home. Her pilfered stash reeked of spicy cinnamon, but it did the job. She coughed and swallowed, bringing a rush of warmth and then calm. She closed her eyes and imagined the vodka soaking into her bloodstream and pushing out the poison of that silver ring she'd been forced to hold.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had been sitting on a train and fantasizing about her new life.

She retired to the bathroom to try and apply makeup. What she'd brought with her when she'd willingly moved in was nearly dried up and gone, and Victor didn't allow her out to shop. He also refused to buy any on her behalf. As a result, her drawer in the bathroom contained a nearly empty bottle of foundation, face powder, a Chap-stick tube and three eye shadows that had been rubbed to the pan.

It was hard to muster enthusiasm for prettying herself. She'd considered the possibility that it gave her strength despite her captivity, but also that it normalized Victor's crime. It suggested that she played along with him. Most days she compromised by doing the bare minimum, or telling herself that she did her makeup for the cops who would find her, the EMT who'd be called in when he did the one thing too many. She'd been doing that same tired makeup for months, for no one. But that woman at the train station – her hair had been braided and her eyes dark with eyeliner, and her boyfriend had thought she was so lovely that he'd kissed her fingers while they waited.

Also, Victor had declared tonight his last fight because they were moving. That meant they would go outside at some point, which gave her one more opportunity to slip free of him.

Octavia rubbed her remaining foundation over the dark parts of her face until a single skin tone emerged, pale but healthy. She brushed smoky black eye shadow around her eyes, pleased at the way it hid her fading bruise, and then finished by dabbing the colorless balm on her lips. She sprayed a little perfume on her neck. Rolled her long hair into a messy braid with her fingers and ran it over one shoulder. In the mirror, her reflection tried on a meek smile. She tried to flirt but it all came out wrong, a curving eyebrow exposing concern, a puckered lip revealing the hollows under her cheeks. Could she have ever impressed the man at the train station? Could any man – not Victor – see her as she was now and kiss her hand with the same reverence?

"I'm going out," Victor called. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Okay," she replied. He stood at the far end of the living room. There was something familiar dangling from his hand. A thin strip of the stainless steel caught the light and flashed. "But," she said, curling her hand against the door frame, "I've been good."

"I know. Let's keep it that way."

Octavia ducked back into the bathroom. How she wanted to slam the makeup drawer shut, to hear the bottles and tubes rattle and to feel the crack of the wood vibrate under her palm and to experience some form of anger that didn't need the word impotent in front of it. She looked down into the drawer at her wooden hairbrush, and even that would have been an outlet. Not all bruises came from Victor – when her frustration peaked, she would hit the tops of her forearms with the wooden handle for release. It sounded so crazy; it wasn't the kind of helpful tip she might have shared with a girlfriend, were she permitted to have one. Desperation forced some insightful re-purposing: cinnamon bottles as flasks, hairbrushes as emotional escape valves.

Instead, she scratched her nails over the denim at the tops of her thighs, relishing in the quiet scraping noise, and then slid the makeup drawer gently closed. In the living room, she took her seat on the carpet next to the sofa. Victor took a knee beside her.

"You look pretty tonight," he said, as the cool metal of the handcuff closed over her left wrist. Even if she had closed her eyes, Octavia couldn't convince herself that he was the nice man at the train station, or anyone other than Victor. There was something in him that pulled at her like magnets and for better or worse, she felt his presence at all times. There might never be another man like the one she'd seen at the station, or the one in the sunglasses ad. Victor might be the last man who ever touched her. Her eyes clouded up at the thought and spilled over on one side, escaping down her freshly-powdered cheek.

"Don't ruin it," Victor said, wiping it away with the rough pad of his thumb.