He drops me to my feet but pinches my jaw with his hand and yanks me by my face until my eyes land on his. Eyes as furious as an archangel’s, he raises a finger sharply to his covered lips, hisdemand clear. My instincts seem to know that now is the time to obey, even if he’s the bad guy. He’s the bad guy I know, the bad guy who brought me medicine and cooks me delectable meals every day.
The guy who seems to want nothing more or less than me, and so desperately that he was willing to commit highly illegal acts to get what he wanted.
Flattering, honestly.
Once he’s sure I’m not going to mouth off, he releases me completely and points to the laundry room I’ve never been in. Torn between the unknown and the familiar, I hesitate, until he jams his finger toward the gaping, dark doorway again, eyes ablaze. My lip wobbles, and tears well in my eyes as I hug myself.
“It’s dark in there!” I mouth-slash-whisper. “And stop bossing me around!”
My tears spill over, and he spears his fingers into his hair, eyes wide in disbelief at my idiocy. But when you’ve been chained in one spot for three months, the unknown becomes absolutely daunting. I’m frozen in fear, because the safest thing for me to cling to is the very thing I should be running from.
Head cocked in fury, he marches toward me and snatches my bicep, yanking me naked and damp after him into the mysterious laundry room. It’s so dark in here I’m blind, but he spins me around and shoves my shoulders down until I fall onto my ass, the concrete frigid against my bare skin. A whimper leaves my lips in a pathetic puff.
“Don’t make me stay here alone!” I cry. Flinching as I feel his fingers along my jaw, my hands reach up, gripping his wrist. Leaning in, I allow him to cup my cheek tenderly, his other fingers rising to stroke my hairline. The small bit of comfort he offers me lasts no longer than three heartbeats, and then he’s extracting himself from my terrified claws and walking into the light.
He disappears around the corner for a moment, but when he slowly begins ascending the rickety, wooden stairs, he’s holding that massive plumbing wrench in his hand. My stomach drops as the thought hits me; if he’s this comfortable kidnapping and holding me hostage, then there’s a very real chance he’s killed before as well.
Hugging myself against the chill and fear, I rock back and forth, trying to count his steps on the stairs, but he’s eerily quiet, as though he’s spent every waking moment learning this house and exactly where it creaks.
Even the door that normally groans with rusted hinges doesn’t make a peep, and I have no clue where he is or what’s happening for an eternal amount of time. Just as I’ve chewed my thumbnail to a bloody stump, the tension in the atmosphere lightens, and I can hear him clomping around as he usually does. Unless he was very quietly murdered.
Then what?
Shrinking back into the darkness, I wait, stewing in my trepidation until he stomps casually down the stairs, flicking on the rest of the lights as he goes. When he rounds the corner, he reaches up and pulls on the string for the long lights above the washing machine, dousing me in bright, white light and momentarily blinding me. Shielding my eyes with my forearm, I glare at him.
“Well? Was it a ghost? Your houseiscreepy as fuck, so that tracks.”
He gives an annoyed shake of his head, and it’s then I notice he’s pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants. His huge dick is still somehow semi-hard, and I almost feel bad for the guy.Almost.
Fresh mask—the glow in the dark one—snugly in place, he clasps his hands together near his cheek and makes a sort ofdamsel in distresscharade. My eyes narrow.
“You know, it’s your fault I’m traumatized in the first place, right? The way you took me…” I trail off. I’d meant for my comment to be biting, but remembering the sheer terror I’d felt in that moment has ice congealing the blood in my veins and tears rising in my throat.
Slowly, he drops his hands, and his eyes darken. We sit in awkward silence, and eventually he backs away, motioning out to my humble abode. Feeling stung and bitter, I stand and march imperiously past him, uncaring of my nudity anymore. He wants me, but he can’t have me, and I’ll push him to the brink of destruction as my own form of revenge.
Snatching the clothes off the mattress, I dress hastily and then scour the messy floor for the pills. Finding them, I pop the lid off and set one on my tongue, traipsing to the sink to get a gulp of water from the tap. All the while, his hurt eyes follow me.
Whatever strange moments we shared were shattered by the reality that I am his prisoner, that he put me in this situation out of pure selfishness. No amount of kindness tossed like day-old scraps my way can make me forget that.
I need to find a way to escape, and soon.
Before I die at the hands of a monster.
A few days pass slowly.He’s avoiding me again, and I’ve fallen into a sort of melancholic depression. I barely eat the food he presents me with—even the greasy, cheesy pizza that I’d been craving. It settled into my stomach like a stone, and now my appetite is nonexistent. I ache to see the sky; the dirty window doesn’t allow in much light, overgrown trees and shrubs in theway. They rub against the aged panes in the middle of the night, eliciting screams of agony that have me bursting through the realm of sleep and back into my hellish reality.
I miss my mom. I just want to talk to her, hear her voice. I miss my dad’s goodnight texts. Hell, I even miss when my brother would be a jackass to me. I don’t know that I miss my friends much; most seemed to glom onto me in the hopes of growing their own social media empire, or used me to get free products and invites to collaboration trips. The life I chose was a pearly, shimmering façade, and behind the mask sat a girl who just wanted to exist in sweatpants and curl up with a good true crime book.
I never wanted toliveone of those scenarios, though.
Sighing, my eyes snag on the beat-to-shit lunchbox cooler at the end of the mattress. I didn’t hear Kage come down this morning, and I haven’t heard him since I awoke. Inside is an array of packaged snacks and a homemade sandwich with everything I like on it; three different kinds of meat, lettuce, onions, pickles, two kinds of cheese, and yellow mustard. I’d been hoping he’d somehow fucked it up by putting mayo on it, but it’s evident he was thorough in his stalking of me. Not a drop of the offensive white paste clings to the fresh, fragrant bread. He even put an icepack and a silvery can of Diet Coke inside next to a bag of potato chips.
It’s those I munch forlornly on as I stare off into space, disassociating to pass the time. I’d thought it was Saturday, which usually means he’d be pestering me as he works around his house, but today is calm and quiet.
I’m just watching the last rays of dusky sun disappear into shadows along the floor when I hear movement upstairs. My heart clenches and my head is woozy as I sit up and crawl into the corner, my chains slithering behind me like noisy metalsnakes. With a resigned sigh, I curl into a ball and wrap my arms around my legs, hiding my face in my knees.
He’s the last person I want to see, even if he’s my only lifeline.
A door slams, and then the thudding of his heavy boots draws near, the rattle of the key in the hole at the top of the stairs making my heart race. I’m not excited to see him—but my soul craves the touch of humanity nonetheless. I held out for three months. What’s a little Stockholm Syndrome at this point?
