Run, Darling

by Nicola Tee

  “I really hope I am not past the age of twenty-one now as I always wanted my twenty-first to be bigger and better than my sixteenth, which I know would be a difficult challenge, but I always loved a challenge. If I am younger than twenty-one then I would like more balloons, louder music and a lot more cake for my next milestone party.

  “You can come to my next party, Mr. Detective, as I don't have any friends now, and I have stared at empty seats for as long as I can remember, therefore I never want to look at an empty seat again. I will let you into a little secret: ever since I was taken I have dreamed about engaging in real conversations with people, I have longed to laugh at someone’s jokes and have them laugh at mine, and at times I have fantasised about singing and dancing care-free around my living room simply enjoying life.” I am that desperate for company that I will even invite a liar to my birthday party.”

  “Is there anything else you remember about yourself to help us find your family and reunite you all?”

  “Oh yes, I remember that my last height was five foot two inches, and I know that because my brother and I used to measure ourselves against the inside of our wardrobe. We shared a room when we were little, and that wardrobe took centre stage. Whenever I couldn't sleep I would whisper his name to see if he was also awake and I loved it when he replied as it meant I had some midnight company to pass the time. I adored our night-time chats. But when he turned nine, our parents did a loft conversion which my brother moved into, I kept the wardrobe with me. That was a sad day, losing him to his own room. Instead of talking to him at night-time I would measure myself against the inside of the wardrobe door. I would pray I had grown a few inches, but my prayers were never answered, I think five foot two is my peak. Five foot four was always my target, it was a little goal of mine. Only because I had this role model growing up, and I desperately wanted to be like her, and of course she was five foot four, so that’s where my obsession for that height stemmed from. It is funny how sometimes we want to morph ourselves into someone else, almost saying we aren't good enough the way we are.

  “Anyways, the day my brother moved out of our room was a hard day so to cheer me up, my mum said I could decorate the room exactly how I wanted it, and I always loved pink so everything in sight became every shade of pink that the local D.I.Y. store sold. The first thing my father said when he saw the finished product was, ‘It is very sickly.’ Thinking back, he was correct, it was extremely in-your-face. But what did he expect from a seven-year-old girl, cream walls and dark wooden oak furniture? I think not. My mum and I worked for hours on the redecorating and I thought he could have at least pretended that he liked it. The first night in my newly decorated room I picked off a bit of the pink wallpaper at the side of my bed so when I would get lonely I could shine my torch on it to remind myself of the old times. No one knows this about me, but I hate change, it gives me anxiety, so I needed that little reminder, when I couldn't sleep, that my old room; my comfort zone, was just underneath.”

  “All this is very useful in helping us find out who you are,” the detective clearly states, reassuring me that my information overload is relevant and not simply me just waffling on. I haven’t properly spoken to anyone in years, so am getting a little carried away with the details of my past life.

  “If I think hard enough, I do know who I am, but I also know what I had to become to survive. I did some bad things, sir. Killer instinct would come out in the nicest person on the planet if it was a matter of life or death. I do not think I will ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again as I will forever dread what is looking back at me. I was a nice girl; I cooked, cleaned, smiled, cared and tried hard at everything I did, but now I do not even know what food I would cook as I have no idea what I like. I have become a professional cleaner, and I mean professional, if one thing is out of place I am up frantically scrubbing it. I don’t smile, and I really don’t care anymore. But the worst part is, if I had a shotgun I would not even flinch from pulling the trigger and killing the man who has done this to me. How can I look in the mirror when what is staring back at me is someone capable of murder?”

  “Are you confessing to murder?” the detective quizzes while repositioning himself in his chair. The word ‘murder’ completely captures his attention and his body language represents his new-found interest in my story. He is probably thinking to himself, ‘This is way more interesting than her birthday cake waffle’.

  “No! I did not kill anyone; I sadly did not get the opportunity to, the man who held me captive made sure of that. He actually had a shotgun, but it was kept in a locked case and the key for it always hung around his neck. I once contemplated trying to get the key somehow but the risk of not succeeding and him turning the gun on me prevented me from giving it a go. The saddest thing was, some nights when I felt lower than low I would think to myself, ‘What if I made him see me trying to steal the key, he might then kill me and put me out of my misery’. It’s scary when you feel your only way out is to push someone to pull the trigger on you. However, the reality is he is the sort of man who would shoot to wound not kill, so I would have bled out slowly and had him have the last laugh, and something deep inside me said to never let him dictate how I die as he already dictated all of my living.”

  “What did you mean when you said, ‘he dictated all of my living’?”

  “I mean he dictated everything. The food I ate, when I ate, when I got given the bucket to go to the toilet, my teeth-brushing schedule, my clothes, my sleeping arrangements: absolutely everything about my day-to-day life he was in charge of. But one thing he couldn't control was my mind. This was because I had watched my dad control my mum’s state of mind for years and that made me adamant that no-one would ever do that to me, and I think I stuck to that. I think I am mentally free, well, I hope I am at least.”

  “Do you remember your mum?”

  “Of course, I do. God, I missed her. In fact, to say I missed her would be an extreme understatement. She was such a great mum, a role model for me and her students. She was an English teacher, which was perfect growing up as she would proofread the essays that I had from school, which meant I got better grades. I never ever thought I would say this, but I miss school, I miss getting homework, and I even miss the early mornings getting there on the sardine-squashed bus. Have you found my mother yet? Actually, I do not really want to know the answer to that question as it will only break my heart. I have spent so long wondering if she was okay because I was always the yin to her yang.

  “I would say I have worried the most about my mum over the years because she suffered from depression when I was growing up. At times I would have to hold my eyelids open at night with my fingers, so I could keep getting up to check on her as I feared she would take her own life. No child should have to do that. I think my abduction might have sent her over the edge, but I prayed it didn’t. I have always had this ounce of hope that she wouldn’t do anything to herself until she got answers in regard to my disappearance. I hoped she would keep fighting her own demons so if I returned home she would be there to greet me, otherwise what would be the point of any of this?”

  “Do you remember any other members of your family?”

  “Yes. My father. He was a harsh man; he raised me to show no emotions as in his eyes emotions equalled weakness. He would say the most despicable things to us all that would leave me speechless. I still don’t know how someone’s tongue could be so evil. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t always horrible, sometimes a glimpse of the dad I always wanted shone through, like when he helped me overcome a few bullying issues I had at school. Maybe I owe surviving to the way he raised my brother and me. He would love that, as one thing that man loved second to money was being right, and the thing he loved third was a lads’ weekend with my brother Matt. He was the apple of my dad’s eye.”

  “Do you remember your parents’ full names?”

  “Christine Mary Wright and Jonathan Peter Wright.”

  “Thank you and please tel
l me about Matt?”

  “Matt was always taller than me, faster than me and funnier than me; he was also the apple of my eye. In fact, he was the apple of everyone’s eye. I used to look out for him when we were younger as he had this mentality to act now and think later, so as you can imagine he was forever getting himself into trouble. I would love to see him and see how tall he is now, no doubt still a giant next to me. I really hope my going missing hasn’t dampened his humour as he could always light up a room with his jokes. Over the years I have spent numerous hours hoping that he has found his way in life. I always saw him becoming a successful businessman, running everything and making millions.

  “I don’t think I could live with myself if they have all put their lives on hold waiting for me to walk through the front door.”

  My Prison

  The detective continues, “You briefly mentioned a room that you were held in. Can you add anything to this, please?”

  “Yes. I was kept in this one room most of the time, I always ate, slept and washed in it. Therefore ‘captive’ is probably the most appropriate word to use to describe what I have been subjected to. One time I measured the room using my feet; heel to toe, it was twenty-five by sixteen so that should give you an idea as to how small it was: I am roughly a size five. I do not want to know how much of my life I have spent in that tiny room as it will only break my heart. The most annoying thing is all of the other rooms in his house were triple the size of mine, why couldn’t I have had one of them? I know he got off on the fact that he kept me like a caged animal, and I know that because he had great pleasure in telling me so on more than one occasion.

  “He would say to me, ‘Right, tell me why you are in this room?’ and I would have to reply, ‘Because I have been a naughty tiger and need to be tamed’. And he would giggle. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.”

  “Okay. I can see this is upsetting you and for that I am sorry, but the sooner we complete these questions the sooner we can get you home. Do you remember anything else about the room?”

  “Yes, it had varnish wooden floor which squeaked every time I moved, which drove me insane! And the shiny finish on it irritated the life out of me, I used to scrub at it with my jumper sleeve, in an attempt to take some of the shine away. I tried on several occasions to pop the floor boards up to see if I could dig my way out, but they wouldn’t budge. It was almost like they were superglued and bolted down, all the clawing achieved was my fingernails snapping off, which was as painful as it sounds. I would then have to wrap my socks around my fingers to soak up the blood.

  “The four walls were pure white, not a yellow patch in sight. The ceiling was pink and somehow, he knew that was my favourite colour. But if he knew me as well as he thought he did he would have painted it cerise, not pale pink, and I had great pleasure in telling him that one evening, after he had the audacity to sit there and list what he thought he knew about me.

  “All I had in my room was a mattress and a pillow and they took up most of the space, which was frustrating. I really looked after them as they were mine: obviously not actually mine but after a while, I sort of inherited them, as I thought I needed them till death do us part. I would stand the mattress up every morning to air it as I was never given covers and needed to keep it as fresh as possible. My grandmother always told me it was bed bugs’ heaven if someone slept on their mattress with no sheets on, and that thought disgusted me. My pillow was called Frank: My Frankie doodle, to be precise.

  “He was my companion. I did cry over him most nights which made him become a smelly and stained piece of mess, but he was my smelly and stained bit of mess that I loved. Do you remember the film Castaway? It was my favourite film when I was a kid. I must have watched it a thousand times. It was about a man who was shipwrecked on an island and he found this ball and named it Wilson. Well, the bond between me and my pillow is a complete reflection of the bond between that man and his ball. It may sound strange to you, but you will be surprised what you find companionship in when you are so alone.

  “Frank and I would get so cold some nights with no covers that we would wrap ourselves up in all the jumpers we had. Sometimes the jumpers weren’t enough, and I could still feel my rib cage shaking. At times, I didn’t know what was worse, the fear I had of freezing to death or the disgustingly dirty jumpers wrapped around my neck making me gag every time I breathed in. Actually, I know what the worse thing was. The damp! It used to get into my lungs, which would make me cough, and cough all night long to the point where I was sick. Sometimes, and I mean sometimes, I was given a bottle of water at night, but that water was few and far between. If I did get a bottle I used it so sparingly and second-guessed whether I needed a sip or not each time I reached for it, and that sent me stir crazy. So weirdly, I preferred to not get any water to save me from having a breakdown over whether I could afford a sip every time my throat tickled.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about the place you were held, the house itself, the surrounding area, anything?”

  “Erm— once in a blue moon I was allowed out of my twenty-five by sixteen-foot prison, and into the kitchen, which was basically a bigger hell hole. It had forty-five tiny brown square tiles spanning the whole length of the floor, and they were hideous. I would sit at the kitchen table and count the tiles over and over to occupy myself, the only thing that would interrupt my counting was if the dangling cord to turn the light on was swaying. The cord hung from the ceiling and when there was a draft coming through from under the garage door it would send the cord flying back and forth, whacking the ceiling and wall continuously till it naturally slowed and stopped. Every time it happened it captivated me, my head swung with it, everything around me would disappear while I watched it slow and return to its stationary position. There was something about the movement of it that engrossed me.”

  “Anything else?” he continues completely brushing over my dangling cord story.

  “Yes. The kitchen windows were blacked out with cardboard, so it was dark but not pitch black whenever I was in there, therefore the only way I knew what sort of time of day it was, was based upon what he gave me to eat. For my first meal of every single day, he gave me two crustless slices of toast that were drenched in butter. The crust was always my favourite part growing up, and I think he knew that and God forbid he ever gave me anything I might like. Now, I officially hate toast and do not even get me started on butter, if I look at another lump of butter I think I will puke. Come to think of it, I do not know what I will eat for breakfast when my next breakfast break is as I can’t even remember the taste of cereal, so I guess it will have to be toast, but please, no butter.”

  “Are you hungry? Shall we get you something to eat or shall we continue?”

  “Let’s continue. Where was I? Oh yes, the kitchen. At first, I enjoyed leaving my tiny room, but I soon realised it was out of the frying pan and into the fire when I was marched into the kitchen, as it meant I had done something wrong and needed to be punished for my sin. A spoon, he always used a spoon. He said, and I quote, ‘It is an old-school torturing technique where you sit the spoon in boiling hot water and then press it onto the back of someone’s hand’. My hand! The first time he did it, I screamed the place down because my skin was literally being eaten alive by the boiling hot metal. But, all my screaming did was make him push the spoon down harder and repeatedly yell in my face, ‘SHUT UP!’ His veins were popping out the side of his head and within seconds his cheeks had a pink blush to them, he was that worked up. After a while my skin on my left hand got used to it, so I sat quietly while I let him do it, I let him scar me for life. I became a silent, de-tacked, unemotional girl who simply existed because her heart kept beating blood around her body.”

  “Why did he punish you?” The detective gently asks me with a clear lump in his throat. He has pity written all over his face, and I hate pity.

  “Sometimes, he would punish me just for the sake of it. I remember one time he dragged me off my mattress a
nd pressed the spoon onto the back of my hand till morning, all because he couldn’t sleep and wanted some night-time entertainment, at my expense. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I responded by calling him a ‘monster' and that word turned him into this bull of rage. He became like a man possessed, I never used that word around him again as the bull of rage he turned into scared me, it really scared me. The repercussion of calling him that was no food. He starved me.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me, he starved me. I would say I was days from dying of hunger when he finally fed me some tomato soup. He had clearly starved people before me, as he knew what my stomach could take after it had shrunk from being empty. I don’t know how long I went without food for but it sure felt like centuries. It got so bad towards the end that I couldn’t even keep my eyes open due to having no energy, and my nails would randomly break. I would wake up in the morning and find them scattered around my mattress, I then collected them and piled them in the corner of my room. My nails weren’t the only thing that broke during my time without food. I broke. Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute, I felt myself breaking. First, the physical side of me broke and then the mental side of me— sorry can we move on.”

  “It’s okay you’re safe now. Did he always treat you like that?”

  “No. If he was in a good mood, which wasn’t often, I was allowed in the television room after my last meal of the day, which was always a piece of extremely dry chicken and plain white rice. Let me just state for the record that I used to be a vegetarian. At the start of our time together he would watch me bite into the chicken with this smug look on his face; he was evil like that you see, because he knew I didn’t eat meat. Anyway, the T.V. room was as bland as my room and the kitchen, there was a small portable television, a lamp and two brown sofas all huddled together, making the room feel empty to the left and overcrowded to the right. The lack of symmetry always irritated me.