Flood

  The van came to a slow, meandering off the road I could feel the large twigs snap like old bones as we ran over them. As we stop, I listen as the front door squeaks open and violently slams shut. My heart races marathons in my chest as I heard the crunching branches under his footsteps move around the back getting closer. I quickly scooted all the way to the front of the van feeling around in the darkness for a weapon but came up empty. In unfamiliar territory, I feel like a plant ripped from the ground with exposed roots; vulnerable.

  The back doors swung wide open exposing the night and his shadowed silhouette.

  “Please,” I plead with him, “what do you want?” My lips are trembling.

  “Get out.” He spat angrily.

  Trying to move further away, I back myself into the corner, and noticing a small door on the partition I make a move for it.

  He climbs in hastily and grabs my ankle pulling me out hard and I fall backward onto the knotted forest floor. He kicks my shoulder, pushing me over to my stomach putting the blindfold and gag back on, already soaked with tears.

  “Get up,” he violently jerks me up by my arm and grabs my face, “you will walk or I will drag you, understand?”

  Nodding, I let out a muffled sob.

  Leading me through the woods, his grip dug deep into my upper arm, yanking me every time I was too slow for his liking. Losing my shoes in the fight, I have to tread the rocky ground with my bare feet, cutting them deeply along the way. Maybe my blood will leave a trail at least, hope whispers.

  After walking for what felt like hours in nothing but the silence of the night, I hear the jingle and turn of the key as he opens a creaky door. My feet rejoice on solid ground until he throws me onto the floor locking the door behind him. Not daring to move, I stay where I am placed in fear of retaliation. Listening to the floorboards groan under his weight I try to focus on my breathing and not regress into a panic attack.

  Attempting not to shake as he strides over to me, I sat up steadying myself with my bound hands on the ground in front of me. He slips off my blindfold and gag and paces over to a small kitchen table and sits down staring at me. Knowing better than to scream from an isolated cabin, I keep my mouth shut rather than anger him further, he looks furious already. I’m not crying, yet tears run down my face in protest, my head is pounding. Wincing at the pain, I take in my surroundings looking for a weapon or a phone.

  The cabin is musty and old with decaying shutters and floorboards warped from time. It is small but with other rooms down a small hallway as far as I can see. It looks like something had been nesting in the languishing cupboards and certainly smells like it as well. The moth-eaten curtains let in little light from the almost full moon; instead he relies on camping lanterns for illumination giving the dancing shadows an eerie effect. Waiting for him to speak, I shift around in pain unable to get comfortable. Stressed and afraid, I am surprisingly calm, as if my brain has shut down except for the emergency services needed to keep me alive.

  He runs his hand over his face as if in heavy thought, “you understand why I'm angry, right?” He looks to me.

  Shaking my head, I try to think of what I could have done to him but come up blank.

  “I didn't want this…” he pauses leaning forward as if to be sincere, “ I didn't want this for you, for us.” Getting up he slithers closer to me, “how could you do this to us?” He waits for an answer.

  “Do...do what?” I ask trembling.

  “Sleep with him,” he draws in a deep breath, “after all I've done for you.”

  Then it hit me; those presents weren't from Greg at all, I knew he wouldn't do something like that.

  “How?” His voice deepens with displeasure as he waits for his answer.

  Embarrassed that he knows such intimate details, I tell the truth, “I, I love him.” I finally admit it.

  Standing up with fury in his eyes he slaps me with the back of his hand, splitting my lip. I double over protecting myself from further hits.

  Slowly withdrawing back to the table, he contemplates things and then swiftly strides back to me kneeling down gently picking me up, and cupping my cheek. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes, “how about we start over?”

  Nodding my head, I don't pull away from him in fear of reprisals.

  “We can start over, be a real family,” he runs his fingers through my hair. He tenderly starts running his other hand up my dress with eager eyes.

  “No!” I shout as I pull away in revulsion. Then I hear it, a small pathetic whimper of a baby, and I instantly make the connection. “Janie...her baby?” I say in disgust of what he did to her. “Oh my god,” I dart my eyes between the cries and him, “oh my god…”

  “We can be a real family again, just like before,” he inches closer to me with twisted eyes, He wears death like a perfume.

  Backing myself against the cabin wall, I don't think before I speak, “you're crazy,” I shake my head.

  He backs away fuming and pauses, “you will learn,” he says coldly as he grabs my deeply bruised arm dragging me across the room. He opens a creaky door and hauls me downstairs to the dark basement, my wounded feet hitting each painful step. Throwing me on the floor he says, “you just need time to think.” And he walks back up the old creaking staircase slamming the door behind him.

  Hearing the jingle of the locks, I knew there is no escaping this pitch-black circumstance. This is what my dreams were warning me about. Laying on my back, I start to feel the burning pain of my broken arm and damaged feet, with my head pounding so hard I think it might burst. Finally alone and realizing the full implication of my situation, I begin sobbing uncontrollably yet quietly. I need James, I need his embrace, his warmth, his protection, his love. I need to stay sane I tell myself as I look over and see a ghost; such bad timing. I need to escape. I will survive, I promise myself.

  65

  James bends down to look at the necklace he had gotten for me, ripped off by the broken metal gate during the fight. A CSU team is already there taking pictures and collecting evidence; he watches as one gently picks up the necklace and places it in a numbered envelope. He tries to keep the throbbing anger from bubbling over, but all he wants to do is knock down every door in town to find me.

  The detective in charge has already sent officers to go door to door for interviews while keeping James close to prevent him from doing anything reckless. He listens to the distant calls in the forest as the search team changes pace searching for me. Meanwhile, he racks his brain for possible suspects coming up with a long list including all her teachers, coworkers, and father. Secretly hoping it's the father because that will make it easier to find me and would mean some twisted pervert doesn't have me. He heads back to the office to begin his task of calling in witnesses to interview, never once letting me fade from his mind.

  * * *

  The station is now overflowing with agitated people angry to be accused of any wrongdoing. Ambient offices noises and the shrill constant ring of phones is getting to James. Any one of those calls could be about me and he's distressed he can't answer them all at once. After interviewing over half the school staff and town, a few people remain a no-show: Mr. Miller, Greg, and other backwoods town folk. After assembling files, the more he reads about them, the more compelling suspects they make out to be. He decides to visit Greg first.

  He will find his house abandoned, he will find all those pictures of me and assume it's a shrine, he will see the mess I made and assume there was a struggle, he will assume his absence and mine are intertwined; but they are very wrong.

  66

  They drag him through the backwoods behind the trailer park, where no one dares to venture alone. Things happen back there, things no one mentions or ever questions, it’s like the backstage of life with the curtains always drawn. His legs drag through a thicket of branches, leaves crunch underfoot as the extra weight they carry press their feet deep into the soft wet earth. They reach their ambiguous destination of an open area encompassed by tree
s and throw him into the ground before Robert.

  He takes a long drag of his cigarette, kneels down to his level, and blows the smoke in his face, “where is she,” his voice was lethal.

  “Wha..who? Why am I here? What do you want?” He moreover pleads in fear, trembling with every word.

  Pausing for effect, “You have a history Bob,” he takes another drag, “a long history of hurting little girls.”

  His eyes dart around to the others, but they have no sympathy for a pedophile, “that, that’s in the past, I’m better now,” his words shake.

  “It’s a small town Bob, and another woman, a girl has gone missing since you’ve been out, you telling me that’s a coincidence?” he says, flicking the ash from his shortening cigarette.

  His eyes widen in fear, “yes, yes! I would never do...hurt anyone! I told you I’m better; they reformed me! I’m seeing a doctor and everything! Please just let me go!” He pleads with is open hands.

  “A doctor,” he mocks sarcastically looking to the others.

  “You have a doctors note for molesting little girls,” Sam kicks him in the side.

  He doubles over, throwing up his hands for protection, “please don’t!

  Pathetic,” Rusty snorts.

  “Where is she,” Robert demands standing up.

  “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about, please…” He begs.

  “April, she’s missing, and you just happen to live down her street.” Robert accuses.

  “It’s a small town, like you said! Please, I don’t know where she is, I have nothing to do with it I swear.”

  “He swears…” Rusty mocks with a laugh, “must be true then.”

  “Please it’s true, how can I make you believe me,” Bob pleads with them.

  Robert takes one last long drag of his cigarette, kneeling back to his level, “we have some...methods to be sure of what you're saying,” Robert takes his cigarette and burrows it into his exposed arm.

  He screams in pain, he thinks it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, but it’s just the beginning.

  67

  No one's afraid of the dark; they’re afraid of what’s in it—I try comforting myself. I've always loved the dark, but this, this is different, there is a malice in this darkness, and it wants to hurt me. I look to the only source of light; an old iron furnace with four lengthwise slits glowing from within. Four is good; four is whole. Then I see a poker sticking out of the end slits, a weapon. Before I started crawling over to it, the locks on the basement door began clinking open. The blinding light behind him must mean its day, had it been days or just one night? It feels like it's been a week down here alone.

  He descends the stairs after locking the door behind him; he leans against the wall across from me cleaning his glasses and leering at me all the while. My skin prickles under his gaze as he hangs a lantern on one of the loose pipes above for more light. Grabbing a dirty rope from the back corner, he fastens it to the top of the pole in the middle of the room and ties the other end around my wrist.

  “Have you thought things through?” He questions grievously, slipping his glasses back on.

  Objectfully I remain silent.

  Irritated, he yanks his end of the rope upward jerking me the same way. Pulling me up until my toes are barely grazing the cool ground as my head slams backward onto the pole, exacerbating my migraine. Securing the rope end where I can't reach, he leaves without a word, locking the doors behind him. Leaving the lantern, I now have some illumination to see my surroundings. Looking above there is no way I can reach the rope end or even begin to untie those knots.

  I take in my surroundings with the weak illumination. The room has a dirty cement floor, walls of exposed decaying brick and a ceiling of rafters full of rusted pipes. Most importantly, the room is bare except for that poker, but I missed my chance, and now the ropes are chafing my wrists and cutting off my circulation fast. My arms feel like a thousand needles are pricking me as they go dead above me which I'm partially thankful for, the numbing of my broken arm currently being pulled apart is excruciating.

  Trying to flatten my feet is impossible, only my toes could make contact and leaning on the pole isn't maintainable. Never feeling this amount of discomfort in my whole life is making me thankful for all the little things, all the pains that were nothing compared to this. Even when I broke my legs, I had James and my mother to care and soothe me.

  This can't be happening is stuck in the front of my mind. Trying to erase the unhelpful thought only fixates it ever so stubbornly in my mind. Think of something else—good memories—think of how you'll stab him in the eye with the poker and then proceed to beat him unconscious and save the baby. Think of how 16 year olds are competing in the Olympics; you can surely handle this. Think of the family your going back to, think of their warmest hugs awaiting you. Good thoughts, think good thoughts.

  68

  It's clear that someone's been watching her from the passages in her diary. Thumbing through the pages, he can't help but think how this is probably my worst nightmare, a bunch of strangers reading and analyzing my every thought.

  Meanwhile, CSU brought all the hundreds of Greg's photos back for analysis, which really just means the officers are staring at each one for an inordinate amount of time. James sets the diary aside and spends all day and night staring at the photos, trying not to focus on me and my mirror like eyes in them but the background, and he finally spots a pattern. John Miller is in the background for almost half of them, too many times for coincidence.

  He's single, lives alone, just moved here to be a substitute teacher in place of the murdered Janie bell. That's one too many coincidences. They've been focusing on the wrong person. But he needs more evidence.

  69

  Picking up the shards of glass I try to make the mirror whole again. Its sharp and difficult light putting together a thousand piece puzzle with no edge pieces, and all the same color. Adding color with my blood as the shards cut deeper, I strain to finish in the dark ambiguity. Existing alone with the mirror, it's my only means of escape, I must finish it or stay broken. Blood pooling at my feet, I affix the last piece into place, the cracks slowly vanishing like a reverse car crash. Looking into the mirror, all I see is the dark expanse before me, behind me, all around me. I am in the mirror. Stuck. I scream for help. I shatter.

  The shattering of glass from above awakens me. The baby wails, heavy footsteps and curses ensue. Winter settles in my bones, feeling like glaciers groaning under the weight of despair. Fingers are as cold and numb as ice, yet the ropes have teeth, eating into my wrists. Blood begins it's slow descent down my arms from the struggling, the useless attempts at escape. I'm trying to disassociate from the present, not think about the future, and just remember the past. The better things. Don't think about the unbearable ache in your legs as if you've just hiked a mountain, or the pounding in your chest, your blood struggling to reach your fingertips. Don't think at all.

  He's coming.

  Head throbbing, his every step down the creaky stairs is like knives in my brain.

  Steady yourself. Don't give in.

  Circling around behind me he utters not a single word but is close enough for me to smell his scent of chemicals and wet earth. Thankfully he loosens the rope just enough for my feet to lie flat in the ground, my knees buckle under the new weight. I felt like I am hanging on for my life off a cliff with weak arms. Silently he stays behind me out of view giving me the same feeling as anticipating a horror movie jump scare.

  “Are you willing to be apart of your family?” He asks in a chilled tone.

  “I'm not your family!” I scream. I want my family; I want to go home. I just want to go home.

  Hearing a crack in the air before I felt the pain, my scream was delayed. Another crack, landing between my shoulder blades, then another, and another until I lost count. Trying to muffle my screams I bite my lip, resplitting it where he hit me. How much pain do you have to go through until giving up is
okay? Blood pools around my feet, I watch as it spreads through tear soaked eyes.

  Pain is in your mind; it's all in your mind, it always has been, just retreat.

  Retreat.

  70

  She slowly shuffles into the station, eyes darting around the room with tear stained eyes. In her arms is a crumpled rolled up brown paper bag. She spots James and hurriedly vaults over to him, “I, I brought these in case they might help…” she says unrolling the bag.

  “What is it?” James asks curiously.

  She places the boxes and letters carefully on his desk, “gifts she threw away, but I saved them in case she changed her mind. I think they were from Greg, I'm not really sure but do you think it will help?” Her eyes are full of hope.

  “Anything helps,” he says beginning to read the letters, “why don't you have a seat, I'll get you some coffee,” he says getting up.

  “No no no,” she waves her hands, “I just wanted to drop this off, I'm still going through the rest of the house to see...to see if there's anything…” her words caught in her throat as she hurried back out the door.

  James sat down to finish reading the crumpled letters in disgust of whoever wrote them. But In the back of his mind he knows it's Miller.

  He gets the gifts logged as evidence and sends them to CSU to see what they find. And what they find surprises everyone, even me.