Chapter 7

It was an unfamiliar footfall that arrived in the morning. It was someone carrying his breakfast bowl, but it wasn't the usual woman. It was Rachel! The second-grade teacher.

"You slimy bucket of shit!" she said. "You raped a dozen women, multiple times. I will teach you a lesson you will never forget."

"But, ma'am..."

"Silence! When I want your opinion I will ask for it."

"Here is your breakfast," she said, placing the bowl six feet outside the bars.

When she walked up the stairs, Bill fought hard his urge to speak, to point out that he couldn't possibly reach it. But he soon realized it was intentional, and if he complained it would make things worse.

She returned a half hour later, picked up the bowl and took it away. He heard what sounded like her dumping it in the upstairs trash.

Mid-morning a woman appeared with a giant padlock for his door, and under Rachel's watchful eye she installed it silently as an extra level of security.

He faintly heard a snippet of conversation from outside. " ... not sure why. But no one's allowed in without official permission."

Lunch was similarly placed out of reach. But Rachel looked at him and came back down right after she'd taken the food bowl upstairs.

"Clothes. Male animals don't deserve clothes. Hand them over."

Bill dutifully stripped and slid the sweatsuit under the bars.

"Books and magazines too."

Bill complied.

"And that screwball Amy must have turned the heat up. Let me fix that. No point in wasting energy on the likes of you."

Bill shivered miserably under his blanket all afternoon, his stomach growling. He was also getting thirsty.

When Rachel came down with his dinner, he sat up, hoping his punishment was at an end. At least the part about getting no food. Or at least water. When the bowl was set down out of reach and Rachel looked at him, he allowed his hand to go to his throat and his mouth to fall open in an attempt to signal thirst.

"Oh, for God's sake. I guess you're not even as smart as a dog, huh?"

As soon as Rachel was out of sight, he realized what she was getting at. He didn't have much, but he did have a flushing toilet. It didn't have a tank, but it did have a bowl. It was only cleaned when he cleaned it, and he had nothing to use but his hands. This he now did, working feverishly, trying to get all the crud off, flushing it multiple times. And then he was gratefully cupping the water from the bowl with his hands and drinking it greedily.

His hunger made it hard to sleep, but he did finally doze uneasily.

In the morning Rachel appeared with his breakfast bowl. "Oh, look at that! A hunk of cheese. That's much too nice to waste on the likes of you." She picked it out with her fingers and ate it with relish, smacking her lips. "And these raisins? I think I'd better eat those too."

She put the bowl down well out of reach and then produced a semen sample cup. "Sample. Now." She kicked it under the bars to him.

Bill was faint with hunger and feeling humiliated, but he managed it. He turned away from the witch Rachel and began stroking, thinking of the nights when Alison shared the cot with him, of her lovely face, her soft breasts, her smile, her hands on his shoulders, and that hot, smooth pussy ... He spurted into the cup, and after fitting the lid, approached the bars obsequiously and placed it underneath.

Rachel took it. "So you want food, huh? Well, get down and kiss the floor."

Anger surged in Bill, but he did as asked. She then emptied the bowl onto the concrete floor eight inches beyond the bars and stood a foot away, arms folded across her chest. He reached under tentatively, looking to see if she objected, but she just looked. He tried to maintain some dignity as he fingered the oatmeal off the floor and into his mouth, but he was so hungry it was difficult.

"An animal," muttered Rachel. As he reached out for his next mouthful, she suddenly stomped on his hand with her boot.

Bill winced but didn't cry out. She marched up the stairs and he eagerly finished his oatmeal mixed with floor grit.

He got no lunch and half his supper with the best bits removed. Rachel once again dumped the mush on the floor outside his cell, barely in reach.

Every morning he was called on to give a semen sample. This he managed for three days, and then the next day no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get an erection.

"You're not earning your keep," said Rachel. "And let me make the consequences especially clear. Lean your back against the bars."

He didn't know what to expect, but figured he must do as told. When he saw a scalpel in her hand he jumped away.

She gave a sick laugh. "Aha! He recognizes danger. Doesn't look so good, does it? Maybe I'll make you submit to this knife to get anything at all to eat." But she didn't press the issue.

The next morning, after considerable work he managed to fix a fantasy of Alison in his mind long enough to spurt out some semen, but it was a close call. Half the plain oatmeal was dumped on the floor within reach.

The next morning he couldn't manage an erection, and the food stopped. "No semen, no food," explained Rachel simply. "If it was up to me, I would have had you publicly executed. Oh, well."

It then occurred to Bill that Rachel might simply starve him to death. From events of the past week and what he had overheard that guard say, it seemed likely that no one except Rachel would come see him, to prevent any more women having any sympathy for him. And if none could see him, none could notice his health deteriorating.

Bill considered his options. Rachel slept elsewhere. During the day she sat upstairs, and he would hear her moving from time to time. He had no idea how she was passing the time. But he noticed that she went out from time to time during the day. Her most reliable absence was late afternoon.

He waited until she left, and waited some more until he heard voices not too terribly far away -- the old police station wasn't a place many people had occasion to pass in their daily travels. And then he bellowed, "Help me! I'm starving! Help me! I'm starving!" Over and over again. He thought he heard some interruption in the pattern of voices, and he thought perhaps he heard some footsteps coming closer. So he bellowed again. If the word spread to the right people, maybe he'd have a chance. He knew men were not cheap, and however much the authorities hated him, he performed a vital service.

Fifteen minutes later the door opened upstairs and then slammed. Heavy footsteps on the stairs foretold the appearance of a livid Rachel. This was the moment he'd been fearing. If she produced a gun...

"Damned if you'll eat again!" she spat. "Come here!" She wielded the scalpel.

But Bill hung back and dared to shake his head. He was gambling that she wouldn't dare to enter his cell and didn't have any deadly weapons with range. He was prepared to try lifting his cot to the vertical to use as a shield. He was also gambling that no authority figures she called on for backup would support her in killing him by scalpel, gun or starvation. After several seconds, Rachel tromped up the stairs.

Afraid Rachel might have turned off the water, he didn't dare to flush the toilet. He let loose his urine in the far corner of the room. That night he huddled in hunger and fear, dozing from time to time. A few times he bellowed out his call for help.

There was no interruption until the next morning, when Rachel reappeared with what looked like his breakfast bowl. His hopes were soon dashed as she hurled it into his cell, covering everything. He couldn't tell exactly what it was, but it had a strong fecal odor to it. And to his great dismay, some of it got into his drinking supply. Later, when he was feeling really thirsty, he flushed the toilet and found nothing happened; Rachel had indeed turned the water off.

He got through that day somehow, bellowing for help when he heard evidence of anyone in earshot, and finding it drained his strength alarmingly just to shout.

At one point he faintly heard a voice outside say, "Sorry, no one is allowed in. Strict orders."

In the dead of the night, around the time Alison used to visit, he heard the distinctive sound of glass breaking upstairs, and his hopes surged. After banging around and some muttered curses, someone came down the stairs and it was indeed Alison. "Oh, Christ!" she said, her nose wrinkling at the smell of urine and whatever vile mixture Rachel had heaved into his cell. She turned on a dim flashlight.

"Your hand!" he said. Her right hand was bleeding freely.

"Never mind that." He saw that it was not life-threatening. "It's good to see you," she said quickly, and their faces met at the bars for a quick kiss.