“It’s gonna be a long, long time,” Earl says, jerking at my wrists, “’for you leave here. You gots to earn the right to leave, ya hear me, girl?”
I say nothing, just drag in a stifled breath. The toe of my shoe hits the first wooden step of the porch and, suddenly, my legs feel like lead weights. I think I’ve been in shock for the past several hours. Something about being walked up these stairs like a death row inmate has made this situation all too real. I am hours away from my home—my father, my mother, my dead date. I wasn’t supposed to be home until an hour ago. That means for two hours no one has had any idea that something has happened. Unless, of course, someone stumbled across Bronson’s truck, but very few people go up to that park at night, and the ones that do aren’t paying attention to a parked car. These men must have planned this out. Earl said he had plans for me—this isn’t some spur of the moment decision based on panic. This was premeditated, which means they’ve thought this through.
Bubba slings the screen door back and we walk into the old house. Inside reeks of cigarettes and mold. Water stains cover the yellowed walls; cobwebs are in every corner. As soon as we set foot into the kitchen, two mangy looking dogs scamper up. Both sniff the leg of my jeans. One wags its tail, the other growls, baring its teeth.
Earl kicks at the growling one. “Aw, shut yer trap, Bear.” The dog scampers away, disappearing into a dark doorway.
I’m led to a stairwell that most likely descends into a cellar or basement. Bubba pulls a frayed cord and a yellow haze lights the stairwell. I want to scream. I want to cry. My heart bangs unevenly against my ribs, my chest constricting. The farther down the stairs we go, the stronger the smell of wet mildew grows. Once at the bottom, I look up. I can see the floorboards and pipes. I’m shoved through the cramped room and toward a wooden door. Earl opens it and pushes me inside. My foot hits a brick threshold which trips me. I fall to the floor, my knees banging against concrete.
“Now, this’ll be where you stay. Fixed it up for you.” A light bulb buzzes on, illuminating the cinder block room. Against one wall is a mattress with a dirty looking blanket thrown over it. There’s a toilet and sink in the corner. “You stay here. Don’t try to get out. This door’s thick. I’mma lock it, then padlock it. Besides, you come up those stairs, that door leads right into the kitchen. You come through that doorway, someone’ll put a bullet in that pretty little head of yers.”
Earl turns his back to me and goes through the door. Grinning, Bubba follows him out. The hinges to the old door groan as it’s slammed shut. I hear a lock slide into place followed by another latch click. There is no handle on the door, nothing but smooth wood. I collapse onto the mattress with my hands still bound, and now that I’m alone, I cry harder than I ever thought possible.
* * *
Isquirm. I cry. He shoves my face in my pillow and the smell of the fabric softener nearly drowns me. I used to love the way it smelled because it reminded me of mother, but I hate it now because it reminds me of him.
“You’re a bad girl, Ava. This is all your fault and if anyone finds out they’ll think you’re bad, too. A liar. A dirty little whore, and no one loves a dirty little slut.”
His hands are so rough and large. And I pretend I can’t feel them. I pray that my daddy will come back early and kill him.
I nearly jump out of the bed. My pulse is racing, I’m covered in a cold sweat and I’m actually sobbing. Dreams like that are why I hate to sleep. During wakefulness I can deny it all I want, but in the covert of sleep those demons wait for me. And for the unknown number of days since I’ve been here, in this prison, those are the only dreams I have, so I try not to sleep. Taking several deep breaths, I pace the length of this small room.
I’ve been in denial that this has actually happened. I’ve bargained with God. I’ve cried. I’ve screamed. The unknown—that truly is the worst form of torture. What are these men going to do to me? Rape me then murder me? Keep me? I have no idea, but out of all the scenarios I’ve vividly played out in my head, I’ve decided I’d rather them kill me. Being held captive, having those filthy men on top of me doing whatever they want—I can’t handle that, but above anything else I can’t handle having hope that I’ll actually get out of here. My hands are still bound, the skin on my wrists raw and my fingers numb, and with each passing second, the reality that I am never leaving this place becomes far too real.
5
Max
Ican seeit in Lucy’s eyes.
Interesting.
This one broke much more quickly than the others. A week of solitary confinement and only eight days of this: time with me. Her green eyes stray to my lips. Her chest rises in anticipatory breaths. She swallows as I gently sweep my fingers over her cheek, smiling when she leans into my touch.
“What are you thinking, Lucy?” I ask.
“How wrong this is.”
And there it is…a slight confession. And thisiswrong. She shouldn’t love me. I am, in a sense, her captor. But the thing is, I havemadeher love me.
Emotions. Youcancontrol emotions. Fear. Sadness. Happiness.Love.Love is an emotion, and guess what? You can control that more easily than you think. I’ve spent the last four months studying the psychology of the human mind. Behavior. Motivation. And love is one hell of a motivator. I managed to find these people, thanks to the cell phone of that fucking john, Travis, and somehow, because I am resourceful as fuck, plus the son of the late Jacob Carter, which gives me clout, I managed to get hired in his position. Ever since then, I’ve dissected what makes people fall in love. It’s simple actually. And not only is it simple, but due to the particular situation these girls such as Lucy find themselves in, well, it is much different than running into a random girl at a park. I’m nothopingto find love. No, I’m wanting to manufacture it, bottle it, and sell it to the highest bidder.
And it is sick.
There is a psychology behind making a captive fall in love with their captor—evolution, if you will. Survival of the fittest. Because at one point in history, and as barbaric as it may sound, men took women by force. Most women were captives to the man they lived with. You fought, you died. You stayed, you survived. According to biology, it is almost natural to be captive to love. Love is, in a sense, a prison.
And on the same accord, controlling someone is easier than it should be. Mixing abuse with kindness actually forges a stronger bond than always being nice. It’s manipulation at its finest—having normalcy appear as an act of giving. Stripping someone of all power fucks with their mind. Pretending you love them in a world where love should not exist, well that just makes you a knight in fucking gleaming armor. What you must do is distort reality. Take away time and sense of self. Take away everything until all that is left is you. And here I stand with Lucy.
All that is left is me…
I smile. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”
“How I feel about you.” Her eyes fill with tears.
Leaning in closer to her, I cup her soft cheek in my palm. I allow my lips to barely brush hers, but I won’t dare kiss her. “Tell me how you feel,” I breathe the words over her lips.
“I…” Her warm breath washes over my mouth. I hear her swallow. “I think I love you.”
