by Kitty Thomas
Maybe I would go into research like I'd originally planned. Don a lab coat and stay out of the spotlight. As I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor for my session, I held out the fragile hope everything hadn't ended for me.
“You look a bit better this week. I take it the journaling was helpful? Cathartic maybe?”
I nodded, a nonverbal lie. I looked better because I was employing the fake it til you make it technique, acting as if I were fine in the vain hope it would make it so.
I handed her the journal and stretched out on the couch while she flipped through it.
“This is more than I expected. I'm very pleased.” She said it as if I were a dog eager for a biscuit.
I didn't care one way or the other about her approval, but I smiled anyway. It was easier to just go along.
If I went along and cooperated, she'd write me a prescription at the end of the session, and hopefully a combination of drugs and life itself would make me free of him. Happy.
I waited while she read and felt suddenly self-conscious. Though I hadn't revealed everything, or even the most graphic things that had happened during my enslavement, it was enough. It was far more intimate a portrait of those days than I would share with anyone who wasn't offering drugs to numb it all down to a pleasant fuzziness.
Finally, she closed the journal and looked up. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Would you like to tell me why it's all written in third person though?”
I don't know why I said it, I just blurted the first thing that came into my head. “It's not about me. It's just a story.”
I was less shocked at having said it, and more shocked that it was true.
I had dissociated. Every sexual encounter I'd written as if it had happened to someone else.
I closed my eyes and went back, remembering, seeing his eyes, his hands on my body, not someone else's. I expected to feel revulsion, fear, panic, disgust, but what I felt instead was much more disturbing. I felt the heat surge between my legs, the wetness of my panties, and full-on arousal.
I was barely there through the rest of the session, on autopilot, responding as the doctor expected, until the session was over and it was time to write a prescription. She scribbled something on the prescription pad and handed me the journal, telling me to keep up the good work and she'd see me next week.
I stopped off at the bathroom on the way out, ashamed of my physical reaction in the doctor's office and what I was about to do, but I needed release. I locked the door behind me and unzipped my pants, letting them fall in a whisper to the floor. I leaned forward against the door, one hand pressed against the cold metal, anchoring me as I brought myself to orgasm with the other.
His face was in my mind as I came, stifling a moan. I pulled my pants back up, my fingers trembling as I buttoned them. I washed my hands in the sink. The soap smelled like the soap from my elementary school. I didn't look at my face in the mirror. I didn't want to see my eyes.
After getting my prescription filled, I wandered through the city. I left my car in the parking garage and took a cab. Before I knew where I'd asked the driver to take me, I was sitting in front of the Atlanta Zoo.
I paid the fare and shoved the prescription bottle into my bag. I'd expressed, not primarily depression, but anxiety in Dr. Blake's office, a skittish jumpiness around loud noises, too many people, social situations.
And the truth was, I'd so often stayed in the house watching television because going out made me nervous. I'd managed to have a burst of courage for about a week to get out of my parents' house, but it was coming quickly to an end.
And so I had a bottle containing a two-week supply of Xanax. Not quite Valium, but who's complaining? My hand gripped the bottle nestled in my purse for comfort, and I went to the zoo.
I stopped off at one of the little cafeterias and had lunch, fattening greasy fried food. Chicken, potato salad, baked beans. Staples of the south. Comfort food. I wandered, observing the animals in their cages.
I hadn't been to the zoo as an adult. It had always bothered me watching animals in cages like a creepy voyeur while acting like it was good clean fun. But I could identify with their plight now, and I didn't feel nearly as bad for them as I would have at one time.
None of them seemed distressed. I couldn't quite believe they didn't know what was going on, but at the same time, they seemed okay with it. Safe. Secure. Knowing they were taken care of, that they didn't have to face the big bad world and participate in the cruel dance for survival as others of their kind did.
Some of them were lying around; some of them were playing and doing goofy antics for the crowds that had gathered, especially the bears and monkeys. They always tended to perform.
A large group of children on a school field trip rushed to the monkey cage near where I stood looking on. I jumped and moved out of the way, unable to deal with the sudden noise and flutter of activity. Each of the children had a brightly colored balloon tied around his or her wrist. A woman about my age shouted to quiet them.
“Blue balloons need to go with Miss Patti to The Wild Planet Cafe for lunch. Red and Yellow Balloons stay where you are.”
More children ran up then with green balloons and a haggard Miss Patti for the shift change. I slipped into a man-made cave nearby that was air-conditioned and had videos. My pulse raced as my anxiety crept higher. They were only children, but it felt like a close brush with death.
I focused on one of the screens to distract myself, my hand skimming over the surface to find a knob to turn up the volume. The video showed a crowd of angry PETA members protesting the cruelty of keeping animals in cages at the zoo. Painted signs and morally outraged faces filled the screen.
A voice-over began to play, “In our modern age, some are concerned about the practice of keeping animals caged. Although this is a valid concern, unfortunately once an animal has lived in captivity for so long, it's more cruel to release them back into the wild. They no longer have the survival skills. This is more true for those born into captivity, but is also true for adult animals who haven't always been with us.”
I glanced back over at the monkey cages, and one of the chimpanzees showed his teeth to me. It looked like a smile, and I wasn't sure if I was trying to give him human characteristics or if it really was an expression of happiness. Then he screeched a couple of times and went off to play with the others.
I waited for the children to move on to the next exhibit, and when there was a clear path I went to a less crowded area. I stood on a bridge with dozens of dispensers of duck food you could get at a quarter a pop. I gripped the railing and gazed into the dark water, taking slow, measured breaths.
Was this how it would always be? Such anxiety and agitation out in the open air? Would I add agoraphobia to the ever-growing list? I dug through my purse for the pill bottle. My body shook as I deposited a pill into my hand. I was about to pop it into my mouth when I stopped and stared at it.
Then for no reason I can explain, I dropped the little oval lie into the lake. A duck went for it but then swam away. My hand tilted slowly until the rest of the lies tumbled out and then dropped like tiny pebbles into the water. A crowd of ducks swam over, pecking at the pills, then left them swirling, squawking and upset they'd been tricked. I knew the feeling.
I dug in my pocket for a quarter and cranked the machine where the duck food was. The ducks deserved to have what they wanted and so did I. It no longer mattered to me what anyone else expected. Like my master, I had become separated from society.
I wasn't a part anymore, and the old rules no longer applied. They only applied if I wanted to be a part, and I found that I didn't. Of what use would a life based on a past reality be? I wasn't the same woman anymore, and I no longer wanted to be free.
I regretted now digging up the coffin the month before. Emily Vargas should have stayed buried. I sprinkled the duck food into the water and went to get the Mercedes.
Twelve
I knew now why I'd written reverse directi
ons. I'd never believed I would get lost. I'd always known I was going back. I just wanted a final taste of the freedom on the other side, like a bride intent on one last hoorah before her wedding day.
I wrote and mailed a letter to my parents knowing they'd never understand, but wishing somehow they could.
I felt a sense of smugness knowing the feds would be picking apart Nebraska looking for me, if they even made the attempt. Hopefully, crazy-induced or not, my letter would be seen as an insistence that they just let me be. It had been wrong to go back and give them false hope.
In my defense, I hadn't done it on purpose. I'd believed for small moments at a time that there was hope. But the only thing I longed for was to be back in his arms again, and I knew that would never change.
Maybe the doctor could cure me. I could be doped up on drugs and reconditioned in an office where I was told over and over again it wasn't my fault. That was the thing of it though, while I'd been stupid in leaving my drink unattended, I'd never believed I deserved it. I knew being captured wasn't my fault.
I hadn't thought I was bad. It could have been because he didn't have words at his disposal to break me down in that way. Maybe if he'd had speech and told me over and over it was my fault, I would have believed it. But that hadn't happened. I just craved that silent strength and power. I couldn't stop myself.
I didn't care how I'd gotten to this desire, only that I was here. He was the one thing in my life that made any kind of sense, and I didn't know his name. I knew even if he took me back, I would probably never know his name. Only Master.
I pulled up to the house and turned off the ignition. I was wearing clothes he'd given me, the journal and CD's clutched tightly in my hands. I knocked on the door and waited.
Was he even home? I'd persisted in the odd belief that he sat around all the time watching me on the video monitors, as if in doing so he was equally enslaved to me.
It was a beautiful day, one of those rare unseasonably warm days the south sometimes gets in December.
The sun was shining, the birds chirping, a light warm breeze blowing, and yet it felt stifling. Too open. Unsafe. Finally, the door opened.
Somehow I'd imagined he'd fall apart without me. He'd regret releasing me and be glad to have me back. But there was nothing disheveled or unkempt about his appearance. No hair out of place, and he was well-dressed. As always.
He regarded me with that arrogant coldness that somehow hadn't seemed so cold when I'd been on the other side of that door. And suddenly I wasn't so sure I had a place here anymore.
“Master, please . . . ”
He shut the door and locked it. I banged on the door for at least twenty minutes but nothing came of it. I slid to the ground on the massive porch and leaned against the heavy dark-stained wood. Had he really gotten bored with me?
He was just done? It was over because he said it was? I knew I should have gotten back in the car and gone home. I could intercept the letter when it arrived at my parents' house and burn it. No one ever had to know any of this. I could go back to my therapy appointments and resume their plans for me. To get better. To recover. To survive.
I was angry he would turn me away like this. I should turn him in if he wouldn't take me back, but I still couldn't do it.
My knuckles were bleeding. The last time they'd bled, I'd been begging to be set free. I let out a hysterical peal of laughter. A few minutes passed, and the door opened a few inches. Before I could get up, it was shut and locked again. I looked down. A water bottle, soft washcloth, ointment, and bandages for my hands.
Now I knew the game. I could see no reason he would help me if he really had lost interest. He'd never been that cruel. As with everything, the choice was up to me.
However sick, twisted, or perverse it was, this was the most free choice I'd ever been given. I'd been completely safe, not in any way dependent upon him, and yet, here I was a month later, begging on his doorstep like some stray to be taken in.
A month out in the world and all I had to show for it was a lot of mindless television and a few visits to the shrink's office. I carefully poured half the bottle of water onto the cloth. I gritted my teeth as I cleaned the torn skin on my knuckles. Then came the soothing aloe gel and the bandages. I drank the rest of the water and waited.
I reread my journal, the original. The other one, the sanitized copy, was still in the car. Here it was, every single thing he'd done to me and every single thing I'd submitted to so he wouldn't put me back in the bad cell. Emotions, feelings, degrading sexual acts.
I knew how I was supposed to react, but I couldn't call forth those feelings. Reading each scene described in vivid detail like erotica, I could feel the wetness pooling between my legs.
A couple of hours passed. I thought about knocking again, but my hands hurt too much. Besides, I had no doubt he knew I was out here still. If I kept banging, he might keep me locked out longer.
I carried on with the persistent belief that he'd open the door and let me back in, that this was the final test. I just had to prove my worthiness.
Finally the door opened, and he slipped a bowl of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and another bottled water outside before closing the door and locking me out again. I couldn't stop the smile that spread over my face. God, I'd completely lost my mind. I crumbled the crackers into the soup and ate. Everything was turning around on me. The soup was comforting again because it meant hope. He was engaging with me.
That night clouds rolled in, and it started to rain. Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed across the sky. The winds picked up and started to blow rainwater onto the porch.
The night and the rain brought a dip in temperature; it wasn't quite cold, but it wasn't comfortable anymore. I shivered and huddled into the corner of the porch, farthest from the path of the blowing rain.
I stared longingly at the Mercedes sitting a few feet away, unlocked. I could get inside and turn on the heater and lie curled on the back seat until the gas tank ran dry. But I didn't want to be farther away from him, in case he let me in.
Around midnight the door opened again, and pillows and heavy blankets were tossed out.
I moved back to the corner of the porch and huddled in the blankets until I fell asleep. When morning came, there was a new chill on the air, weather much more befitting of December. I snuggled deeper into the wool fabric, wondering if he'd let me freeze to death on his porch.
Soon, strong arms scooped me up and carried me into the house. He sat me down on the couch in the room we'd been in that last day, and left. He returned several minutes later with fresh clothes for me from the closet of the good cell.
I held them uncertainly.
He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow at me. I hesitated for just a moment. Being free for weeks had caused bits of my modesty to come back, but my desire to stay with him, whatever the cost, overcame that false wall I'd re-erected around myself.
I peeled the old, still slightly damp, clothing from my body. I was aware of the consuming way he stared at me, as if assessing whether I was worth keeping, as if I were a slave up at auction. If he let me stay, it might be a long-term investment.
I was oddly proud of myself for maintaining the shaving and how it displayed my obedience to him even from a distance. I put the other clothes on and then sat on the couch, looking up at him expectantly.
Finally, he signed. Why are you here? I told you to go. I released you.
“I don't want to be released. I want to stay.”
It's wrong to keep you here.
“It's more wrong to set me free! Don't you see what you've done to me?”
He shook his head and crossed the room to take my arm. His grip was punishing, much more rough than he normally handled me, unless we were in the dungeon and he was whipping me for his sexual gratification.
He led me to the door, and I knew he was throwing me out for good. If he managed to get me outside, that was it. I knew he'd let me die on the porch from exposure or s
tarvation before he'd ever open the door to me again.
I tried to pull away from him, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Master, please don't do this.”
He dragged me down the hallway, ignoring my pleas. Finally, I got angry. Rage like I'd felt at the cemetery as I'd dug down through six feet of earth as if I could bring back something that was long gone.
“NO!” I jerked free of him. It wasn't that I was stronger or had suddenly developed superpowers. It was that the vehemence and determination had surprised him enough to cause him to loosen his grip.
I backed further into the house, grabbing a candlestick that was sitting on a table in the entryway. An antique candlestick that probably cost more than I'd made in a month back when I'd been Emily Vargas, self-help guru.
He smiled at me, his eyes alight with genuine amusement. We both knew I couldn't overpower him, even with a weapon. He could easily disarm me and throw me outside. Still, he stood back, his arms crossed again over his chest, waiting to see what I'd do. I'd just become interesting to him again.
Good for me.
“Just fucking listen to me!” My voice was stronger than it had ever been with him. I had nothing left to lose.
I wasn't afraid of him anymore. I was only afraid of being without him.
I kept the candlestick raised. “Don't you see how fucked up this is? You think it's wrong to keep me? Well you should have thought about that shit before you took me! I'm your responsibility now. You created me. You made me this way. This is your fucking mess. If you suddenly care about morality, then don't make me go. Let me stay. I'll be your slave. I'll be your whore. I'll never fight you. I won't disobey. Whatever you want, just don't make me go back. Please. I can't live in that world anymore. You know it's true. I just want to be yours.”