Creep - Jennifer Hillier [77]
While he stood there contemplating her request, her bowels spasmed painfully, and she had no choice but to let it out. The room filled with the stench of fresh shit.
“Jesus Christ!” Ethan jumped back so quickly he almost fell over. “You fucking disgusting cunt!” Holding one hand over his nose, he reached into the bathroom to turn on the overhead fan.
Sheila stared up at him from the toilet seat, her hair hanging over her face. Rivulets of sweat ran down her temples. Her bowels continued to cramp and she knew it was far from over. He was looking at her with such shock and disgust that, despite her abdominal pain, she couldn’t resist a chuckle.
“Well, what did you expect? I’ve been here for days, you cocksucker.” Sheila grunted again. “I’m not done. I suggest you get the fuck out.”
The door slammed shut. Sheila was finally alone in the bathroom.
It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. How strange, she thought, that someone who was perfectly capable of killing people and hacking their corpses into little pieces could be disgusted by something like pooping. After all, everybody had an asshole. It made no sense.
“Flush the fucking toilet!” Ethan yelled from behind the door.
“I’m not fucking done!” she yelled back, even though she was.
“Courtesy flush! And hurry the fuck up!”
Quite possibly the world’s stupidest conversation. What did he think she was going to do? There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. She wiped herself and flushed, then flushed again for good measure. Feeling almost 100 percent better, she put her diaper back on.
Turning on the faucets, Sheila let the water run into the small sink. She quickly opened the cabinet doors of the vanity, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was a roll of toilet paper and a hotel-size bar of soap. Nothing that could kill Ethan.
She ran her hands and wrists under the warm water, sucking in a breath as her welts began to sting. She lathered them with the soap, gritting her teeth as they burned, then rinsed and washed her face. Grabbing a paper towel, she patted her face dry and caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror.
And almost fell over. The face staring back at her was barely recognizable.
Her hair was stringy with oil and dried sweat. The strands hung limply in uneven waves. Her complexion, normally flawless thanks to a militant skin-care regimen, was ashy, a shade she couldn’t totally attribute to the harsh bathroom lighting. Dark hollows under her eyes looked an inch deep, and her forehead had grooves she’d never seen before. Her full lips were dry and cracked and covered in small brown scabs. Dried white spittle had congregated at the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows were unplucked and messy.
She’d aged twenty years since she’d last seen herself.
The door swung open.
“Are you finished?” Ethan stood in the doorway, his face turned to the side. He didn’t seem to want to look at her. He was rubbing his hands with the liquid sanitizer he always kept in his pocket, and she rolled her eyes. He hadn’t even touched her and already he felt dirty. “Get the fuck out already.”
“Can I take a shower?” She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at her reflection. “Please?”
Judging by the look on his face, he clearly thought her question was insane.
“Ethan, come on. I haven’t bathed in a week. There’s soap here. Please.”
“I’ll think about it. But right now, come the fuck out.”
She wiped her hands once more with the paper towel and tossed it into the trash, then stepped out of the bathroom. He took her by the elbow, gun in hand, and yanked her back toward the bed.
She cringed at the sight of the chains and handcuffs.
“Don’t strap me in.” She twisted around to try to get away from him. “Please, Ethan. Look at my wrists. I’m not going anywhere. Don’t strap me in.”
He pushed her onto the bed. “No. I don’t need the headache.”
“Where am I going to go?” She held out her wounded wrists. “This place is a jail