Strung

by Costa, Bella

  ~.~

  "Well, well. Good morning buttercup!" Skinny man leers at me.

  I glare quietly at him. If I read him right last night - and I think I did - then I need to show him that I'm not afraid. But I also can't come across as aggressive either. So I sit with my knees up in front of me, sideways in the bath, my arms resting loosely on my knees. I'm thrumming the fingers of one hand on the edge of the bath rhythmically.

  The cocky smile on his face falters a little, I note with pleasure. As I thought! He's one of those sadistic little bastards, who get pleasure out of seeing women cower in fear. If I'm right, he will want to hurt me, but he won't. Not unless provoked or I panic, so he can pretend that my frantic screaming and panic required restraint to calm me. He needs to be able to justify his actions to himself. I'm not going to panic, so he'll probably try and incite me. I need to make sure he doesn't succeed.

  "Well, quiet this morning aren't we Missy? After the spectacular fight you put up yesterday." He leers at me again, but this time his eyes regard me cautiously. I'm not reacting as anticipated.

  Fight? I wish I could remember. It explains some of my injuries. He takes my tray and departs, leaving the door open. Opposite the door way is a plain white wall. I can't see anything else. He brings another tray, and places it on the basin.

  "What did you drug me with?" I keep my voice low and steady.

  "Rohypnol, the date rape drug of choice!" he laughs and cups his groin, as he grinds his hips at me. I pretend not to notice.

  "Why?" I still, only my fingers working the enamel of the bath rhythmically.

  "Someone has it in for you bad, baby doll. I don't question why, so long as I'm paid." He scratches his crotch. Gross.

  "Who?"

  "Well now that would be telling. You'll find out soon enough. I believe he is coming to pay you a personal visit later." Skinny man is doing his dirty grinding thing again. Yuk!

  "How long will you keep me here?" My voice is still low and measured and my expression, flat and unchanging.

  "Oh Buttercup, long enough that you and me will get to know each other, real good!" He leans down with his face not far from mine, and I have to hold my breath not to gag at the smell of his fetid mouth.

  "I've been paid for a month in advance!" he laughs standing back up.

  Shit, a month? That is a long, long time. I resist the urge to shudder. A month, in here, like this? I won't make it!

  "Well if that's the case, I need some stuff." I say calmly, maintaining eye contact. Time to prepare my defence and offence positions.

  He gazes back at me, his face full of curiosity. "Like what? A hacksaw for the handcuffs?" he snorts, finding the thought hilarious.

  "Maybe later, although I'd prefer the key," I sneer. "But let's start with more practical items. A first aid kit, for my arm. A towel and toiletries, so I can wash, brush my teeth and stuff.

  "In fact, get a pen and paper, and write this down. I have allergies, and a trip to the emergency room, could result in you having to pay your advance back to your employer." I hold his gaze. I don't have allergies, but I am going to make looking after me, as difficult as possible for this arsehole, and hopefully not provoke him in the process.

  He hesitates and then looking irritated, mutters something about getting a pen and paper. He's back in under a minute, and I don't wait for him to speak.

  "Shampoo. It must be Burt's Bees Baby. Get two, because I use it as a body wash as well. I want the Dove Ultimate Clear deodorant stick. I want a tub of plain aqueous cream." I wait as he scribbles this down.

  "I want bottle of baby oil and Nair Hair remover." He looks up at my last request. "You can get me nice sharp razor blades instead if you want!" I chastise. His ears start to redden, but he scribbles down my request.

  "I also want a Pro-enamel toothpaste, for sensitive teeth and a manual toothbrush, with medium bristles - including the little rubber polish bristles. Make sure it has a flexible head." The concentration on his face is almost comical now, but I keep my voice assertive.

  "Advil Ibuprofen 200mg the Liqui-Gels - not tablets. Always Maxi Pads with wings – unscented please. I don't need thrush." The red spreads from his ears to his face and neck, but to his credit he keeps scribbling.

  "Make that a box of 60. And I want a softer toilet tissue, the kind with Aloe Vera. Two large towels."

  Skinny man shakes his hand out. Good, writer's cramp. Join me in my pain. I don't wait for him to catch up this time, forcing him to scurry on through the pain.

  "I want a pillow – Memory foam, not feather, or I'll get hay fever and a blanket. It was cold last night. I don't want a cold or pneumonia. I need comfortable, clean clothes and underwear. I'm sure an experienced man as you, will be able to figure out my size without too much trouble."

  He finishes scribbling and looks at me with a pained expression.

  "Is that all?"

  "For now!” I say calmly, and continue to gaze pointedly at him.

  He shifts uncomfortably. "Um...where do I find the er... 'Pads with wings' and the...'Nair'?" he asks, turning puce as he checks his list.

  "You should be able to find everything at Walmart. Oh, and can I have the remote for the T.V. please?" I watch as his stance suddenly changes, and swiftly, the illusion of who's in control, visibly shifts back onto his side of the battlefield.

  "No remote. The instructions are very clear. News channels only. I think he is expecting some news that he wants you to watch."

  "Great, and I still don't get to know who 'he' is?" So Skinny Man is just a conscript. He will take orders from me, so long as the orders don't conflict with orders from his boss. That means I'm on the chain of command, just not at the top of it.

  "No ma'am." I swear he is almost apologetic. Big tough guy like this? It's almost too easy. I'll need to remember not to press my luck.

  "Fine, I would get going. I needed some of that stuff yesterday." I order. The irony of me giving orders to my captor doesn't go unnoticed.

  He mutters under his breath and shuffles out, closing the door behind him, and despite my predicament, I struggle not to burst out laughing. In fact, I'm still grinning when I climb out the bath, to inspect the tray of food he's brought me. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking I'll get out of this lightly, or even get out at all. But for the moment, I'll allow myself to enjoy my first little victory.

  I have two hard-boiled eggs, buttered toast, a banana and a 'now cold' coffee. I ignore the coffee, but decide to take my chances with the food. I'm sure if his plan was to keep me drugged, he would be a little cockier and the drug is more likely to be in the drink.

  I sit on the edge of the bath, eating my breakfast and watching the news, safe in the knowledge that I won't be disturbed for at least two hours, as my jailer scurries around Walmart on a Sunday morning, looking for my items. I wonder what clothes and underwear he will bring me.

  The newsreader, advises me that she is crossing to a colleague for the Entertainment and Celebrity news. Yeah, Yeah. Same old B.S. I take a bite of my toast and gasp, almost choking.

  Plastered across the screen behind the smiling young brunette, is an alarming close up, of a very dishevelled, drunk looking and painfully haunted, Chayton. His white dress shirt is open at the front, and his eyes are bloodshot and unfocused. Hair tumbles wildly about his face. A hand is raised, to ward off the photographer, so his mouth is hidden. Oh no!

  "The reclusive C.J. Donavan, was caught in a display of drunkenness last night, outside The Red, nightclub in Bellevue. Rumour has it, that he made a scene outside a prominent restaurant in Seattle on Friday night as well. He was overheard repeating the words 'She's gone. She's left me.' repeatedly to himself. Ladies, we didn't know our favourite and most elusive bachelor was taken, but it seems that he is not only back on the market, but back to his old 'bad boy' ways as well. Meanwhile..." The picture disappears from the TV screen, but the details are burned painfully onto my memory.

  Suddenly, I am aware that there is a world
outside of these four walls. The TV is not just a box of pictures and voices for entertainment. Shit. I was meant to meet Chayton on Friday night, to give him my answer. I never arrived. He must think...Oh my God. No! No. No. No!

  Oh Chayton baby. I haven't left you. Oh please, no. The pain, the agony on his face-because of me. How can I make it go away? How I can I tell him it's not true. I climb into the bath, and wrap myself up small, and sob. Huge, wet, rupturing sobs that go on and on, until my eyes are raw and scratchy, and my throat hurts, and my chest is heaving and aching from the effort. Poor, poor Chayton. I need to find a way back to him - to stop his pain.

  Shit! I sit up, wiping my nose with the back of my hand and sniffing loudly. If people think I've left, then no one will be looking for me for a while. Ice creeps through my veins at the realisation.

  It is up to me then, I can't wait for rescue! I check the time. I have been howling at the moon for over an hour. My jailer could be back at any minute. I climb out the bath, move the mattress and wash my face with copious amounts of cold water. Crap! My eyes still feel scratchy. They will be red and raw when he gets back. He mustn't know I've been crying. I pat my face dry on my shirt, tidy myself up, and bunch up a hand full of toilet tissue. If he walks in, before I have recovered, I will put on a bout of sneezing, hide behind the tissue and blame it on my non-existent allergies. Luckily, it's another hour before he comes back and if my eyes are still red, he doesn't notice.

  "I hope I bought the right things," he mutters, as he puts the shopping bags down by the door.

  "Well I guess we won't find out.” I gaze at him pointedly.

  He looks at the bags and then back at me, completely bewildered.

  "I can't reach them all the way over there!"

  "Oh, yes of course." He shifts the bags to the space between the basin and the bath, and then collects my tray and starts to leave.

  "What's your name?” I ask.

  He halts his progress and looks at me with annoyance. "Why, so you can tell the cops when this is over?"

  I roll my eyes at him. "Make one up! I just want to know what to call you." I tilt my head. "Unless you would rather I choose an unsavoury one, and wear it thin?"

  "John. Call me John Doe." I roll my eyes again, this time at his unimaginative choice.

  "Original, but fine! John!"

  I wait until he takes another step towards the door. "John?"

  "What now?"

  "My wrist is really sore and I will need to treat it. Could you change the cuff to the other hand?" I watch his reaction carefully, as he thinks for a moment. "Please?"

  He puts the tray down on the floor by the door and comes back in, digging deep in the front pocket of his crinkled Chino's. Stepping up to the bath, he produces a small key. I watch carefully as he inserts the key, turns it and I offer him my other hand politely. He looks at me in surprise, and I offer a small smile of gratitude while he slips the cuff on and pockets the key.

  "Thank you, John."

  "Ma'am." And he leaves.

  Yes! I think I can get him to trust me. It's said that it usually take days or weeks for captives and their captors to bond. I think I can fast track the 'illusion' with 'John'. He's gone from calling me buttercup to Ma'am for heaven's sake. I take a deep breath and glance at the closed door again. For the second time, in my white prison cell, I'm feeling optimistic.

  I pile the bags into the bath with me, where I can go through them in comfort. I place the baby wash, baby oil, hair removal crème - I have big plans for that - on the corner of the bath, by the taps. The cream, toothpaste, first aid kit, painkillers and the toothbrush, I stack neatly on the other side of the taps. The towels are nice and thick and I fold them neatly, stacking them on the back of the bath behind me, and place my new hairbrush on top. I climb out of the bath now and inspect my new clothes. Five pairs of identical black sweatpants, five identical black t-shirts and five sets of matching briefs and cotton sports bras. Lazy bastard! He has correctly guessed my size, but everything is of a safe cut, to fit a size either side of mine.

  I fold the clothes into small piles, one for each day and put each set into its own shopping bag, using the now empty bags collecting in the bath, and then stack the packed bags, neatly on the floor next to the bath. I'll have to keep a bag for waste and a bag for laundry I think to myself. The irony makes me snort. Acacia is sorting through her lightweight baggage again. Well at least I'm doing something!

  I inspect the last two bulky bags and find to my delight that instead of a blanket he has bought a duvet, duvet-cover and matching pillowcase for the pillow. I strip the packaging, shoving it all into my new, shopping bag bin, now hanging from a small plastic hook on the wall.

  Before long, my bedding is ready, and folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. The mattress is out of the bath, and folded in half on the floor where I can sit and watch TV, although I have to sit awkwardly, sideways to accommodate the handcuff. I want to take a bath but I'm sure John would really enjoy that if he waltzed in with my lunch. Besides, there is the dilemma of changing my top and bra, with one armed handcuffed.

  I pick up the first aid kit, and get to work on my damaged wrist. I soon have it patched up and I wrap a bandage around the other one to protect it from suffering the same fate. I brush my teeth, and brush the tangles out of my hair and sit down to wait. There is a new presenter on the TV. An older man, in his late sixties maybe? He is very grey and distinguished and I find his voice soothing even if his topics are dull and boring.

  Chapter 18

  "Thank you, John. Your shopping skills are commendable." I offer a small smile and John grunts something as he puts the tray down.

  "But I have a small problem," I continue. "I can't change my clothes with the hand cuffs on." John stands towering over me and I can see his brain visualising the problem. I do not like the direction his thoughts are taking.

  "You said your employer would be stopping by. Do you know when?" I gently remind him that he has to answer to someone.

  "In about an hour maybe," he mutters. "I give you half an hour. I will be right outside the door, so don't try anything funny."

  "I appreciate it. Really I do. Thank you." I smile again, striving for sincerity, and hold out the handcuff for him to remove.

  "No funny stuff!" he reminds me, as he walks out the door.

  "I won't, if you won't. No peeking," I call after him.

  I quickly run a bath and scrub my hair first. I had been so intent on making the shopping list a difficult one, that I didn't consider I might actually need to use the stuff. Oh well, if the shampoo is good enough for babies, it's good enough for me! I should have asked for a sponge, but have to make do with my hands as I wash my body. In record time, I'm clean, dry, creamed and dressed in fresh clothes. My wrists are wrapped again, and my dirty clothes are in my makeshift wash bag. I'm sitting, brushing the tangles from my towel dried hair, when exactly half an hour after freeing me, John comes back in. He looks almost disappointed that I'm finished, but says nothing as I hold out my arm for him to re-cuff.

  "Thank you again," I smile sweetly. It’s getting easier as my confidence is grows.

  By the time I've finished brushing out my hair, I'm feeling a lot more human. Today’s lunch is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and orange juice. I'll risk the orange juice. An annoyingly perfect looking group of young people are advertising a popular chain of fitness clubs. Exercise, I think, chewing my sandwich. Yes, I'll formulate an exercise routine, for later in the afternoon. It will help pass the time, and keep me limber, in case I really am in here for a month. It won't do to waste away.

  Finishing my meal, I focus on my expected visitor. Who is it? I need to know, and I need to know why I'm being held here. There are just far too many unknowns. I gaze around my room. Strange, but yes, this is now my room. For the time being anyway. Victoria would have a field day with this. This is me coping, I snort.

  Hey! I had an appointment with Victoria, immediately after my lunch with Grant.
What would Victoria do, if I missed the appointment? If I was a suicidal mess, I'm sure she would look for me in concern, but she isn't worried about me in that way. Would she assume that I had forgotten, or would she try to get in touch, and raise the alarm when she couldn't? Maybe there is still hope for help from the outside.

  At fifteen thirty exactly, I hear footsteps and scramble to sit on the side of the bath. I don't want my captor to have too much height over me. I would stand, but the cuff won't let me stand properly upright, and that would give off the wrong body language. I cross my legs, compose my face and set my shoulders straight and back, trying for relaxed and confident.

  The door opens and I feel the blood draining from my face. Oh God no! I am going to be sick.

  "Surprised to see me Acacia?"

  "Robert." I manage to croak. "Why?"

  He ignores my question and gazes around the room. "I like what you've done with the place. Very homely."

  "Why?" I ask again, a little more forcefully.

  "Now, Acacia. There's no rush. We have plenty of time for small talk, gossip and chit chat, before we get to the serious stuff."

  "Why?" I stick to my guns and he sighs, looking at me in pity as he runs a finger under my chin. I ignore his expression, and touch, and keep my gaze steady, waiting for an answer.

  "Well okay! If you must know," his tone becomes jovial and he preens like a peacock, smoothing his hair and straightening his shirt. I know my insistence has ruffled him, and it's deeply satisfying. Strike one!