Guppies
an excerpt

September 1926
She didn’t know what day it was nor how many days had passed since she had been imprisoned, she just knew it was time to go home. She wanted her mother, her own bed, a bath. Her poor mother must be worried sick by now.

She looked across the room at the only door, the only way out. He had moved one of the hotel room’s twin beds in front of the door, using the bed as well as his sleeping form and the gun under his pillow to keep her locked in his hell.

She was tired, she was hungry, she was scared, she was ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated. And she wanted to go home, that’s all, just go home. Now, not one more day. Now.

Every day she had put on her dress and stockings and shoes, though there was no hope that she would be going anywhere. Every day she paced the room while he was gone, waiting for the door to open and praying that this time it would be different.

But everyday it had been the same. No one came to clean the room, no guests came down the corridor, no bellhops or room service waiters. No one. Just silence, until he returned for the evening.

And it all began again.