Caged

The strong smell of his aftershave flooded my nose. It was almost painful. He was lying in bed with a book in his hands.

I immediately turned to see the time. It was 8:25 a.m.

He shouldn’t be here. Why is he here? Will he leave? Or is he planning to spend the whole day with me? I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave around him the whole day.

I tried not to get his attention and the way he was immersed in the book helped.

It was a French book, L’étranger—~The Stranger~. That was his favorite book. He had once told me on a date I guess.

I could almost see it. We were walking in a park. He was wearing a sky-blue shirt and had a book in his hand. The English version of this book. He had gotten it for me as a gift.

“Do you like reading?” he had asked.

“I do,” I said but I never read the book. Not even for his sake. If it were a love story, I would have finished it in a night but The Stranger? I’m sorry.

Now that I think of it, I wish I had read better books than those cheesy romances like Twilight. They were somewhat responsible for brainwashing me into this marriage.

“So what do you like, then? I mean, what are your hobbies?” He changed the subject.

“Traveling, watching movies, reading, hanging out with friends. And you? What are your hobbies? Besides reading?” It was as if I was rambling about my hobbies in an interview.

“Honestly, it’s just reading. I rarely watch movies, was never good at sports, and as you may have guessed by now I’m a bit of an introvert. Unlike you.” He eyed me with a tiny smile.

He was very simple and didn’t joke or laugh at all, but when he smiled, his half-smile, his blushing smile, or my favorite “looking somewhere else smile,” it was the most magnificent thing in the world.

“Hmmm…interesting. Tell me about your family,” I asked, fighting the intoxication I had just felt.

“My mom’s French. She lives in Nice. I have a friend, Roger, here in New York. I’m staying with him.”

I could’ve never guessed that he was French. His accent didn’t give that away. In fact, he sounded British. The way the British say “tof” for “tough” and “auurright” for “all right.”

“French, huh? So how long have you been here?”

“A couple of months. You?”

“A couple of weeks, I’m afraid.”

“What about your family?”

“Mom, Dad, and a little sister. They live in India.”

“Where in India?”

“Like you’ll know,” I chortled.

“My father was an Indian. He was from Aurangabad,” he stated very formally.

“Oh wow, that’s great. You’re half Indian. So where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I never met him.” He turned away from me.

Something immediately pushed me back to the present. It was his voice.

“Why don’t you go freshen up, Norah? We’ll have breakfast together.”

Norah.

That wasn’t my name. If he was planning to lie to me about my name, he should at least have chosen an Indian name.

I got up, irate, and went to the bathroom without even looking at him. I had to prepare myself for spending the whole day with him. I ran the water, undressed, stepped into the bathtub, and didn’t plan to get out anytime soon.

He knocked after around half an hour. I said, “In a minute” automatically. Whatever happened to the attitude?

Now that he was being so nice to me these days, I thought I could ask him a favor. I wanted to watch the second season of Lost. To find out what was in the hatch.

I got out of the bathtub and stood in front of the mirror. I wanted to laugh out loud at myself.

You want him to get you a DVD today. Tomorrow you’ll probably ask for chocolates, a teddy bear, then for a new sweater. How weak and low are you?

I put on my bathrobe and went out, trying to keep my face calm and expressionless.

He was at the dining table, still reading the book. When he saw me, he smiled a fake smile.

“Come on, let’s eat,” he murmured.

“I’m not hungry,” I replied and jumped into bed. He said nothing and started eating.

I was looking at him from the corner of my eye. He was wearing a loose white T-shirt and his hair was wet. He had just shaved that morning.

He looked very different today—more like his old self. The guy I met in New York. The guy I fell in love with.

My mind was a jumble of memories and emotions. I couldn’t be sure about what I felt for him. He was my dream once, but he had become a nightmare.

I had almost forgotten my plan about dying when my eyes fell on the library door.

Library

Door

Window

Jump

Die

Free

The thought of dying had seemed beautiful yesterday. Today it only made me nervous. I looked out of the window. It was a beautiful morning that wasn’t pushing me to commit suicide like that rain had done.

And I realized there was still hope for me.

I can still live. I can still be free for real.

His face seemed angry now. Maybe because all those nice words and soft caresses couldn’t even earn him a smile from me. How childish.

He shot up from his chair, changed his T-shirt for a sweater, and went away, locking the door.

Now I could eat my breakfast. That book was still on the dining table, and I picked it up and then immediately put it down again. No touching his things. But I couldn’t resist stealing a glance.

L’étranger by Albert Camus.

The Stranger.

Oh my God. The Stranger. The Stranger downstairs. I met a man. In the basement. I even talked to him.

I replayed that night and my conversation with him. I had gone down four sets of stairs based on a groan. How on earth was that possible? I had never heard a voice or sound from the house before; why and how did I hear him?

Was it all in my mind?

If my memory could be so distorted and warped, why not my brain? I could be going crazy.

And then I heard him again. No words. Only screams and sometimes mocking laughter. But I couldn’t hear Daniel, though I was sure he was down there. It felt so real. How could it be a hallucination?

Now that I had dropped the suicide plan, I had to think about escape. I needed a proper escape plan. And for that, I needed to be in my right mind. I needed to know what was wrong with me.

First, my memories were distorted. I didn’t remember some of the most important things in my life—like my name, for example. I didn’t know where I was, which was crucial too.

I had already wasted a lot of time thinking and trying to retrieve that information and failed. So, I wasn’t going on that road again. I had to somehow manage with whatever information I had.

The second problem was this new situation with the stranger, the voices I heard, and the encounter with that man.

If I went by logic, it was undoubtedly a hallucination. But if I went by instinct, it was more than real. Hallucinations should be like dreams, hazy. This wasn’t.

I could easily recall his voice, his words, the darkness, and the fear I felt when I went downstairs. Plus, it had happened more than one time. So, fat chance that it wasn’t real.

The third problem was the change in Daniel’s behavior. He had been very kind to me in the last couple of days.

Maybe he was planning something. If I was guessing right, I didn’t have a lot of time before he dropped a bomb.

I had no new plan. I had already tried to escape many times.

Once before, I pushed Alba to the side and tried to run off when she had brought breakfast. A guard grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me back in the room. That had happened twice.

I had spent days trying to break the glass windows in the room and also the one in the bathroom. The chairs had broken but none of the glass.

He had had both of the broken chairs removed from the room. Now there were only two chairs. I had no new idea or plan.

And my eyes fell on the book again. L’étranger. The Stranger could be the key to my escape.

Daniel didn’t come back till eight at night. And when he did, he freshened up, changed, and came to bed with his usual routine.

He switched off the lights and was clearly ignoring me. And then I felt him move after a few hours or so.

He went to the bathroom, and when he was back, he lazily ambled toward the dining table, poured himself a glass of water, and picked up the book again.

He opened the library door and went inside. My insides started churning.

Why did he have to go there?

In only a couple minutes he was back. He closed the door and locked it.

That door was locked. Again. And so were all my hopes of freedom. Locked away in “Oblivion.”