My Girl by Jack Jordan Page A

known the day of the week, the time of day. I had simply guessed. He came to me at odd intervals, so I had never been able to work out a time schedule. He must have done it on purpose, to throw me off, to keep me from knowing. I had been inside the basement at least two years before the sex started, and at least four months before he began to suspect I was pregnant, and now he knew that I had been pregnant for seven months. That meant I had been inside the basement for almost three years.
    ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Is it the baby? Is it kicking?’
    ‘I…’ I lowered myself down onto the sofa, light-headed and weak. ‘I’ve been down here for three years?’
    Three birthdays had been and gone: I was seventeen years old now. Mum would be thirty-three years old, Dad would be thirty-five. Everyone in my year at school would be at college or work. The year was 2006.
    ‘You look tired,’ he said, putting the apple core on the step before standing up. ‘You should go back to bed.’
He helped me up and ushered me back to bed, frowning at me when he realised that I was smiling. He cuffed my wrist to the bed and stood in the doorway, looking at me.
    ‘I love you so much, Paige. You know that, don’t you?’
    ‘I’m not Paige,’ I said through a smile. ‘I’m Chloe. I’m seventeen, and I’ve been down here for three years.’
    Maxim grabbed my ankle so fast that it made my heart jolt. His grip was tight and his eyes filled with rage.
    ‘Say that name again and I’ll break both of your ankles so that you never walk again. Is that what you want?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Paige.’
    ‘Who do you belong to?’
    ‘You. I’m yours.’
    He let go of my ankle, walked up the stairs and turned off the light. As I listened to him lock the door to my prison, I lay on the bed and smiled in the dark.
    I am Chloe. I have been inside this basement for three years. I am seven months pregnant. He has taken my arm, my freedom, and my innocence, but he can never know my thoughts, and he will never take my baby.
    ***
    I woke up from the sharp pain inside my belly. It was swollen and taut, and the shooting sensation burned inside me for over a minute. I sat up and went to touch my stomach, but couldn’t: my right hand was cuffed, and my left hand had been taken from me a long time ago. Liquid gushed out of me and soaked the bed, as though my stomach had burst.
    My waters have broken. But I thought he said I was only seven months pregnant? Why is this happening now?
    Part of me was longing for the baby to arrive so I was no longer alone, hour after hour, day after day. The other part of me wished that it didn’t exist – not because I didn’t love the baby, but because I was too young to be a mother. What sort of life could I give the baby, living down there in the dark?
    The water felt slimy and was already turning cold on my skin, but being free of it felt so good: the pressure I had been carrying all these months had finally been released. But then a new pressure began to build, as though my ribs were being pushed out of their cage and my organs were being crushed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I whimpered in the dark, breathing short, fast breaths. The sharp pain shot through my stomach again, as though the baby was ripping me apart from the inside; I could feel it moving, I could feel my whole body changing, morphing for what was to come. I clenched my teeth through the pain, groaning like an injured animal, and dug the heels of my feet into the bed until the pain lessened again.
    Where is he? Can’t he hear me? I can’t give birth on my own, with my only hand cuffed to the bed. He has to come down. He has to hear me.
    I screamed out his name just before the next contraction came.
    I’m going to die. The baby is going to die. Is that what is happening? Is that why it hurts so much?
    Blood appeared on my bottom lip where I had sunk my teeth into it during the contraction. I screamed for