John Marrs

Without warning, Nina grabs my wrist and digs her fingernails into it. I let out a yelp and feel them pushing deeper into me, pressing my tendons until the pain becomes too much and my hand unclenches from the balled fist it was in. The corkscrew I had partially hidden under my sleeve falls to the table with a clunk. Nina’s hand remains where it is, her nails still drilling into my skin, and I bite hard on my tongue and try not to show her how much she’s hurting me. Eventually, she lets go.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘lift your leg up’, and she obliges, familiar with our well-practised routine. I remove a key from my pocket and undo the padlock attached to the clamp around her ankle. The chain falls to the floor with a heavy thump. I attach a second, much shorter clasp and chain to her ankle and lock it. This chain doesn’t extend far from the spike. Once again, I have her confined to her bedroom.

I pick up the remote control and switch on children’s TV. The programmes are a bit babyish but I like background noise as I do my homework. Dad says he doesn’t know how I can concentrate with all that noise; I remind him I’m a girl and it’s been scientifically proven that we can multitask better than boys. I read it in Just Seventeen magazine so it must be true. Besides, I’ve only got an English lit essay about the Brontë sisters to finish tonight and they’re my favourites.