by Costa, Bella
Chayton puts on his best-affronted look. "I ask you to marry me and all you can say is Shit?"
"No. I mean. Oh. I am sorry. Wow. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet. Literally." And we both laugh. I am still laughing nervously when Chayton stops and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ears.
"Well?" he asks sincerely.
I look down at the ring he is holding in the small space between us. It is beautiful but all I can think is four months. We have only known each other four months and I'm terrified.
I look back at his face. "Chayton, do we know each other well enough for this? I mean four months isn't very long."
"We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other, and you've shown me more in four months than people I've known my whole life. This isn't a decision I've made lightly, baby. But all my instincts are telling me it's the right one and my heart is in total agreement." He sits back on his heels and gazes at me intensely.
"I don't know. I love you with every thread of my being. But marriage? I've been there before.” I whisper. "Besides, you have me at a disadvantage." I point out.
"Oh?" He cocks his head questioningly.
"You've had the opportunity to think about this. I've had sixty seconds."
"Okay." He smirks. "Let's play fair. I spent a week contemplating and planning so I will give you a week. One week. That's all."
"That sounds fair." I laugh.
He leans forward and kisses me deeply as the last of the evenings Fourth of July fireworks explode around us. And I relax, knowing I don't have to make a decision right now.
"Eight O'clock, next Friday on the Observation deck at Sky City," he whispers against my lips.
"The Space Needle?" I gaze up at him.
"Yup." He is smiling broadly now.
"For the answer? You know that's an extra twenty two hours?” I question.
"I want you to be sure of your answer. You might need that extra twenty two hours."
"Okay. I'll meet you at eight."
"You want the ring to remind you?"
"Bring it with you on Friday," I whisper.
He pulls me close and kisses me deeply and the world disappears leaving just the two of us in our own private bubble, surrounded by a fresh display of brilliant colour.
Chapter 17
12th July
I finish my Virgin Bloody Mary just as our main course arrives. The fish looks a little anaemic and is tasteless, but the vegetables are edible. I listen carefully to Grant, as he highlights issues; he thinks I should be concerned about. We talk and pick at our food for about half an hour, before I need to excuse myself, and head to the bathroom.
Oops! I grab the back of a chair for support as the room sways a little.
"Are you alright?" Grant asks with concern.
"Whoa, I must have stood up too quickly." I mumble. The feeling soon passes and I make my way to the bathroom, which is thankfully empty.
I stare at the back of the toilet door puzzling over my lunch date with Grant. Is it me or has he been a little strange today? I finish up and straighten my clothes as another brief wave of dizziness washes over me. Whoa. What, the hell, is up with that? I splash water on my face and neck. I have eaten, I've had a good rest, I haven't taken any medication, and only had one glass of wine while waiting for Grant. I don't think I'm coming down with anything. With both hands firmly on the edge of the washbasin, I frown at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. I feel...drunk!
Another wave of dizziness hits me like a tidal wave, and I grip the basin like my life depends on it. Oh God, I'm going to throw up! I turn and try pinpoint the nearest cubical but the room is spinning too much and I find myself on my hands and knees feeling my way across the floor. The dizziness eases and the nausea passes before I reach the cubical door, but I stand warily, leaning against the doorframe for a few moments, just in case.
My head is fuzzy. I try really hard to concentrate. It takes me a few moments longer than it should to remember where I am and why. Grant. I will ask Grant to take me to the Medical Centre for a check up. I shouldn't drive feeling like this. Yes, that's what I'll do.
Gingerly, I release the doorframe and make my way unsteadily back into the restaurant, running my hands up and down my arms. They feel chilly. Odd because my face, neck and back feel like I'm in a sauna.
I plan a route to our table, using the backs of chairs for support, and concentrate on walking upright and straight. Shit if anyone pays any attention to me, they will think I'm skunk drunk. I'm not, am I? What did I drink today? Oh yes-one glass of wine. I can't get drunk on one glass can I? It's too hard to think!
"Are you sure you're okay?" Grant asks when I reach the table.
"Um, maybe not." Am I slurring? "Could you take me to the Med Centre?"
"Of course! Come, I've already settled the bill."
Grant sweeps an arm around my waist and guides me outside. "Maybe you've eaten something funny?" he offers.
"Maybe. Oops. Sorry!" I slur again as my legs are twisted underneath me, nearly bringing us both down in a heap. Grant leads me to the edge of the pavement and opens the rear passenger door of a silver station wagon, helping me in.
"This isn't your car!" I sniff, feeling confused and overwhelmed. "And who is that?" I eye out the skinny man in the driver's seat. He is creepy. I shudder as he glances over his shoulder and leers at me. I am vaguely aware that Grant is fumbling with my seatbelt, but the edges of my vision are darkening.
Crap! What, the fuck, is going on? I try to lift my hands to rub my eyes but they weigh too much, and I don't have the strength.
"It's okay Acacia, just relax, it will wear off soon enough," I hear Grant murmur into my ear, as the darkness closes in completely, and the world goes quiet.
~.~
I'm cold. I sniff and the sound echoes through my head painfully. I want to open my eyes but the effort is too great. I am aware of discomfort under my ass. I've been lying in this position for too long. I muster up every shred of energy and concentration I can, rolling onto my side, then sink back into the nothing.
~.~
Cold. Very cold. Far away, I hear Nickelback screaming angrily about someone's hand on his girlfriend. Cool. I like this song. It's funny. A little giggle escapes my throat. Ugh. My throat. It's dry. There's a voice. It's in the room with me. A woman discussing the weather. Why do we do that? No-really? We always resort to discussing the weather when there’s nothing else to say. What’s wrong with saying nothing? The most discussed topic of conversation in the world - the weather! Right next to 'I'm fine'. Another social mystery. It doesn't matter how miserable we feel, we always include 'I'm fine', somewhere in the beginning of a conversation. 'I'm fine, but my dog has Parvo, my baby has Croup, my husband is having an affair and I broke three fingers unblocking the garbage dispenser - but I'm fine. I promise myself to be honest about that from now on - and never discuss the weather - and a dark, numbing, warmth envelopes my cold and fuzzy senses.
~.~
My head throbs and the pressure behind my eyes is consuming. I hear the annoying jingle of a TV commercial. It's one of those tunes that get stuck on a loop in your head. Over and over and over...
~.~
Ow! It hurts! My head throbs, my left arm and shoulder ache. I need to move. It is such hard work. I roll onto my back, and my right arm hits a smooth cold surface. I try to stretch out my cramped legs, but don't have the room. I try to open my eyes but they are so heavy. I struggle to remember where I am. Nothing. Maybe later. So tired.
~.~
“...and the police investigation continues into cause of the sixteen car pileup in Tacoma last week." SHUT UP! Can't a girl get a decent sleep? And why, the hell, is the TV on? Ow. The light is bright. All white. I squint painfully, to see better through the glare. What the hell? My body is cramped and achy, and my head hurts, like the worst hangover in history. I try to get my bearings, but my vision is hazy, and stubbornly refuses to clear. I struggle up. The newsreaders
voice echo's off gleaming, too-white tiles. I must be losing it. I am sleeping in a bath with a newsreader. I am finally upright and regretting it. The room is swaying uncontrollably, and I can't focus on anything. Whoa! Nausea. Lie down! Or maybe I shouldn't. Too late, I flop back down banging my head on the side of the bath as I do. It doesn't hurt as much as the ache that was already there. Ah, better. I'll just lie here and sleep some more....
~.~
“...should have worn off long ago. It's been eleven hours!" Grant?
"It was a strong dose and she's obviously a light weight. Don't worry." Who is that?
"And you're positive there won't be permanent damage?"
"Nah, these college kids live on this stuff. She will feel like hell when she wakes up though. Perhaps we should have halved the dose."
I want to call out but can't move and my mouth is too dry to do much more than croak. Why can't I move?
"A five year old has been found wandering 21st Street South East in Auburn in the early hours of this morning, with a loaded handgun. Police say the child has not yet been identified and although uninjured, is in protective custody at Harbourview Medical...” Darkness.
~.~
Ugh! My mouth tastes horrible. My head hurts and I really need to stretch. I need to pee. I open my eyes. White. Everywhere is white. I sit slowly. My body is heavy. I'm sitting on a small cot mattress inside a bathtub. The bathroom is small and tiled, floor to ceiling in clean, plain white. I rub my aching temples and wipe my eyes. My heart is pounding and the pain in my head throbs to the same rhythm. Part of my brain is trying to warn me that I'm in danger, but I can only just barely register the warning through the fog in my head.
I hear my father's voice echo in a distant memory. 'Don't panic. Breathe. De-clutter the problem. Deal with the small simple issues. When those are out of the way you can calmly study the problem, looking for a solution.' Yes Dad, and when that doesn't work, stick your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye. I miss him, so much.
I'm wearing my jeans, my emerald green blouse and my strappy sandals. I clearly remember getting dressed like this. That's right! I was meeting Grant for lunch. That's about as far as I get as the fog grows thicker, and I try to relive the day, searching through the jumble of unclear memories and images. I frown as I try to concentrate, and grimace as the pain in my head steps up a level.
I need some water and I need to pee. Then maybe I'll be able to concentrate. Yes, Dad. See? I'm de-cluttering. I know as long as the door stays closed, and I am alone, I am safe. This helps calm me. I rise to me feet, feeling a little unsteady, as I lift a leg over the side of the bath. Okay, other leg. Good. I stand upright but pain and resistance in my left wrist pull me short.
Shit! My left hand is handcuffed in hard steel to the hand support on the bath. I shake my wrist, testing the constraint. I hurts and holds fast. I notice the raised red welts under the steel. It looks like I've been struggling against the cuff, violently. I don't remember. I lean, as far as I can, to the sink. I can't quite reach the tap. I have to drink something - now!
I spy the bath tap, and turn the cold on slowly, until a thin trickle escapes. Quickly, so I don't get too much on the mattress, I cup my hand under the cold water and drink greedily. Oh, it's good. I switch the tap off and study the toilet. It's close enough and I should be able to reach. I check around the room and make sure there are no cameras. The lights are recessed into the ceiling, and there is a small flat screen TV, mounted out of reach on the wall. I think I'm clear to pee in private. Just me and the News Reader. I snort. How funny! I think I'm still tipsy. Must have been one hell of a party.
What, no! No party. This is not funny. My instincts are fighting through the fog. This is wrong. The need to pee distracts me, and I fumble awkwardly, hovering over the bath, so I can use both hands to loosen my jeans. I shimmy them down and sit sideways on the toilet, so my left arm isn't wrenched out its socket. I find I have to really concentrate. As full as my bladder is, it requires effort, serious effort, to relax and let go, but finally I’m rewarded with a slow trickle, that gradually gets stronger, until the pressure is relieved. Oh, that feels good. I dress, struggling with uncooperative fingers and thumbs. I manage to pull the bottom half of the mattress back and wash my free hand before having another long drink of cold water. I wish there was soap and a towel to dry my hand on.
It's time to figure out what, the hell, is going on. I perch on the edge of the bath and take stock of my surroundings. The only loose objects in the room are my mattress, a small rubber plug and a roll of toilet paper. Even I have become a fixture and fitting thanks to the handcuffs. The TV is on a twenty-four hour news channel that I am not familiar with, but is local to the Seattle Metropolis area, and the time is apparently a quarter after eight in the morning. I haven't seen any indication of what day it is, but I'm sure the weather will answer that question when it comes around again. Right now, the sports news is on and I've mentally tuned the sound out. I have heard no other sounds besides the TV, and the low hum of a small extractor fan in the ceiling. The room has no windows.
I check myself over. Other than what feels like a hangover from hell, and some mental fogginess, I have bad welts around my wrist from the handcuff, my knees feel a little bruised, I have a small bruised lump on the back of my head and the knuckles of my free hand are grazed and red. I wonder briefly if I've been raped, but I don't think I have. I mean, even if I were unconscious at the time, I would know – wouldn't I?
My last memory is going to the bathroom at the restaurant. The last person I remember seeing is Grant. After that, there is just a big black hole.
Did Grant have anything to do with this? Oh no, what if they got him too? Maybe he's locked up in a room next door. Grant. Come on. Try to remember. Blah...this is too difficult. My brain fog is growing thicker again and I want to sleep. I tip the mattress back down and tumble on top of it, wincing as the cold steel of the handcuff, digs into my raw flesh. The fog closes in, it is warm, dark and welcoming and I surrender to it.
~.~
13th July
It is after ten pm, according to the news, and I've just discovered that it's Saturday night. My lunch with Grant was yesterday! I have lost more than a day. It's unsettling. I'm sitting on the mattress in the bath, with my knees pulled up so I can rest my arm, and take the strain off the cuffs. I'm still no closer to knowing where I am or why I'm here, and more importantly who's behind it all, but sooner or later someone will have to check up on me, and when they do, I plan on finding out.
I have a few things working in my favour at the moment. First, I'm angry. Silently seething. As long as I can control this and keep it on a leash, I can use it to keep the fear at bay. It's easier to think rationally through controlled anger, than it is through fear. Second, the mental fog has lifted completely, leaving just a bad hangover. Clearly, I was drugged and it's possible my captors will drug me again. I need to avoid that at all costs.
I'm still trawling through the various aspects of my predicament, when I hear the first sign of life beyond the TV on the wall. Footsteps. Time to increase my advantage, and go on a fact-finding mission, before the battle of the bathroom commences.
Quickly lie back down on the mattress, keeping my breathing slow and measured. I want my captor to think I'm still unconscious. I leave my eyes open just a sliver. I have heard it is normal for some people who are unconscious, or sleeping, to have their eyes open just a little. I have no idea if I do.
The door opens without the sound of a locking mechanism clicking over, and straight away, I know that it hasn't been locked. Well I am handcuffed to the bath, so I suppose there is no need to lock the door. My eyelashes are in my way, obscuring my vision, but I can't risk opening my eyelids any further.
Cold fingers brush against my cheek, and I resist the urge to shudder in disgust. I hear a chuckle and a form moves into my narrow line of vision. Male, I think. Skinny. I can only see his back. I risk a proper peek. A skinny looking man - y
es definitely a man, with thinning sandy brown hair- is fiddling with something over the sink. I can just see his belt and above from over the top of the bath. I can't see any keys or phone pouches. He turns towards me and I narrow the slits in my eyelids again. I can just make out a sadistic, creepy grin, stretching his face, and small bloodshot eyes. He turns and leaves, and I wait at least two minutes, counting off the seconds after hearing the door close, before opening my eyes and sitting up.
A tray is balanced on the top of the sink and I kneel up to get a better look. Food.
I need to eat, I'm starving but I don't want to risk being drugged again. I study the food suspiciously. Bangers and mash with gravy, and a side plate with two large cookies. Well the bangers and mash would be too easy to slip something in. I study the cookies. Dry. No powdery residue. I have a small bite of cookie deciding to wait half an hour to see what happens. If I'm fine then I guess the cookies are good. I eye the glass of orange juice longingly. I will stick to water from the tap to drink. I watch the news for half an hour and decide the cookies are safe, so devour them.
In my windowless world, the only reference I have to night and day, is the television. I need to set, and keep, some kind of routine. It's close to midnight, and although I've been out of it most of the day, I need to get a proper drugless sleep, to keep my mental faculties working in top form. I roll a bandage of sorts around my tender wrist with toilet paper, to create a cushioning barrier between the handcuff and my raw skin, and try to find the most comfortable position to sleep. I tune out the TV and bright lights, and slip off to sleep. Surprisingly quickly.
~.~
14th July
I wake feeling rested. The pain in my head is a dull, but manageable ache. I sit up and inspect my wrist, removing the toilet paper bandage. It is raw and one small blister has broken and bled a little during the night. I climb out of the bath, use the toilet, and move the mattress so I can wash my hands and the skin on my wrist, scooping water over with my free hand. I take a long drink, and then settle myself back into the bath, to re-wrap my wrist. The newsreader is different from last night, a woman in her forties, with a sharp platinum bob and too much make up. She is discussing the breakdown in talks between the Palestinians and the Israeli's, with a political analyst. I finish up and get comfortable. Today I plan to be introduced to my captor. I don't have to wait long, before my sleazy looking jailer opens the bathroom door.