Stolen

by Jalena Dunphy

  “Kyle is different. I can tell he really likes you, just with the way he seemed yesterday when he showed up with your bag. He was asking how you were and if you were okay, things like that. He seems like a good kid.

  “You’re in quite the jam here, sweetie, and while some of it you may be able to fix on your own, some of it will just have to work out on its own over time. There’s no magical cure for fixing people’s emotions or their reactions to what happens to them. Life is messy. It always has been and always will be unless a day comes where emotions don’t exist anymore.

  “Kyle mentioned that there was going to be a party tomorrow night and that he planned on asking you to go with him. I suggest you go. Get out. Get away from all of this for a while. Be nineteen for a night. You deserve it. I know you well enough to know that you think you don’t, but you do. You’ve been through more than most people go through their whole lives and you’ve come through it all like a champion. You’re an amazing person, honey, and you deserve to be happy. Don’t deny yourself that. Just remember, whatever is meant to be will be. You can’t change that, so in the meantime don’t bother trying. Let it be and see where the pieces fall.”

  I feel tears threatening to spill, but I hold them back, or maybe I don’t. My hands are getting wet from the water falling onto them. I’m crying and I can’t seem to stop. She’s never acknowledged that she thought I was coping well with everything going on in my life. She so rarely acknowledges any of it at all, period, and maybe she’s right. Maybe it would be okay if I take a night off from the seriousness and just have fun.

  Argh! I forget that Rachel will probably be at the party. That was the main reason I wanted to avoid going.

  “Mom, Rachel is going to be at the party tomorrow; well, probably will be. What if she sees Kyle and me and does something in front of all the people there? That would be mortifying.” My head falls into my open palms, a groan rising up my throat, coming out sounding more like a growl.

  Why did this have to happen? My life had been so simple two days ago. Well, besides being stalked for years, living in fear because said stalker was never caught and my boyfriend dying.

  Mom pulls me, head still in my hands, into her chest. She’s warm and familiar. She’s like a living, breathing solid form of love. She strokes my hair and softly whispers that everything is okay, that this may be sloppy for a bit, but it will turn out how it’s meant to and there’s no influence I can provide that will change that fact.

  “Jess, I still think you should go tomorrow. Who knows, maybe this will work out okay. But even if it doesn’t, that’s finality, too. Any end is a good end because it offers closure one way or another.”

  I’ve never thought about it like that. An end is an end no matter the end. It’s so simple. Why did I never think that before? It’s a false hope, I’m aware, but this thought makes me think maybe this will be okay after all, or . . . more likely, I’ll come home with a black and blue face having come repeatedly in contact with Rachel’s fist.

  Did I mention that my life had been simple? I should have just stayed to myself like I’ve been doing since I lost all my friends because of the virus my life became infected with, aka, unknown bastard who came in like the parasite he is, sucking the life out of all those around me.

  I don’t think my friends in high school would have abandoned me if it hadn’t been for their parents. After Rogan died, the obvious questions were—who killed him and why? Investigating into the lives of his family, friends, and girlfriend led the detectives, and subsequently the reporters, to a juicy nugget they sank their teeth into and ran with endlessly—a stalker in my life who very well may have had something to do with Rogan’s death.

  Everyone was cautious to be around me after that. I can’t blame them, but it did suck. All I had left was mom, Cass, and Bruce. Nothing against them or anything, but it would have been nice to have others to confide in, others to be there when the days were so exhausting and the nights so terrifying. The nights aren’t so fun still, but at least I sleep through most of them now.

  After it became just the four of us, I’ll admit I hid inside my head for a long time. It wasn’t until I graduated high school and could get away from the looks, the whispers, the not so subtle comments on how it must have been because of me that Rogan died, from everyone around me that I attempted coming out into the world of the living; even then I was only marginally better. I became more a zombie than the corpse I had been while suffering my last year of high school.

  Maybe that’s not the correct analogy; after all, I did get up in the morning, go to school in the day, and suffer miserably in the night. That sounds like a zombie’s life already. I’ll think of a better one and get back to you.

  So, anyway, here I am; no friends, yet again; a love interest who just had to be the love interest of the girl I had a short-lived friendship with; a stalker who’s still out there somewhere; and a night of what I’m sure will be filled with disaster of monumental proportion.

  I love my life oh so much! Insert sarcasm here.

  “Thanks mom. You’re pretty awesome, you know that?”

  “Of course I know that,” she jokes, whipping the towel off the counter and at my face.

  I catch it in my hand before it hits me. “Hey!” I yell as I throw it back into her face. She misses, and it lands in the sink filled with dirty dishwater. “Ha! You deserved that. That was child abuse!” I scold her with absolutely no sincerity.

  “Oh, yuck, Jess. I should make you get that, but you’ve had a bad day so you get a reprieve. I’ll remember this for another time; be aware. Now go get cleaned up. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I run up the stairs two at a time feeling slightly better after talking to mom, grab some pj’s out of my room, and take a welcomed, hot, shower, washing the day and some hours away. How many hours has this day been? More than twenty-four. Maybe thirty-six?

  I start ticking the hours off on my fingers, a habit I started almost three years ago when counting hours was a self-imposed punishment, a way to remind me of the endless amount of them that lay ahead of me. Now, it’s a nervous tick I haven’t been able to stop.

  There were some days that doing this was the only thing that got me through the day. Hours were all that mattered, and soon days were meant only as place holders for events in the week. Asking me what hour of the week it is would be more efficient than asking me what day of the week it is. I’m aware it’s an insane habit, but it keeps me sane; an ironic fact I’m also aware of, but nonetheless.

  Back to counting.

  It was around five last night when I woke up at Kyle’s, no wait, it wasn’t. It was seven. Okay, seven last night, it’s around six now. Oh, my God! It’s only been twenty-three hours since my life became the caboose in a wreck of a train ride—only twenty-three hours. It only took hours for me to ruin everything, only hours to see things fall apart before my eyes. Days go by for most people, but not for me; for me I get hours, lots and lots of hours, that makes this hour 108 for the week, if you’re curious.

  Exhaustion hits fast.

  I wrap myself in the towel hanging by the shower, needing something to hold on to, as I sink to the bathtub floor, the water still on, the towel soon drenched. Between the water beating against my skin, the soaked towel wrapped around me, and the tears pouring out of my eyes, I feel worse than tired; I feel like my heart is exploding, or imploding as it were, since there’s no messy cleanup to worry about. I feel weighted down with the realities of my life. I feel cold; not just on my skin from having used up all the hot water, but inside as well.

  My body is shaking badly, but I can’t find the strength to do anything about it. I can’t lift my arm to turn off the water. I can’t move my legs to stand. I can’t even move the soaked towel that’s keeping the freezing water trapped to my body off me, and I don’t care about any of that.

  What has happened to me?

  I rest my head against the shower wall, closing my eyes to the torrent of water and the to
rment of my thoughts, only to be interrupted by banging on the bathroom door. Can’t I ever get away from it all without someone trying to bring me back, trying to fix something that will never be fixed?

  More banging.

  Oh, for the love of God. “Shut up, I’m coming,” I shout to no one in particular as I whip my arm out from under the towel, instantly regretting it.

  Holy shit, my arm feels like a large, soaked, wet dog. Upon further review, it’s wrinkly, like a pug’s face, from being under the water so long, pale white, probably from freezing, and uncomfortably numb.

  I manage to turn the faucet handle, my arm slumping down onto my leg afterwards. I’m terrified to move now. How are my legs going to feel considering they’ve been bent in two, my knees pulled into my chest, for I don’t know how long now?

  The door flies open, a welcomed relief honestly. I think I’m going to need some help prying myself out of this sardine can otherwise known as a bathtub.

  Wrapping my arms around my chest, tightly fisting the towel in two hands up to my chin, and bringing my arms to either side of my breasts in a protective stance, I must look like I’m wearing a turtleneck made out of a towel with the way I’m trying to cover myself, but I hadn’t expected this. I thought mom or Cass would come in, not Bruce! Definitely not Bruce. Oh, my God, this is embarrassing. I can’t even be sure everything is covered since I can’t feel most anything at the moment.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask in a harsher tone than is probably necessary.

  “Your mom invited me over for dinner. I got here a little while ago. Your mom and Cass have been calling for you, but when you didn’t answer, we came to see what was wrong. We’ve been knocking on the door for a couple of minutes. I’m sorry I came in like this, but I was worried you might have fallen.”

  His head is bent, looking away from me. I can clearly see that he’s embarrassed, which makes this situation only slightly less humiliating; only slightly.

  “I didn’t fall or anything, okay? I’m fine. I guess I just lost track of time. I was trying to relax from the day and probably fell asleep or something.” I lie to keep everyone calm. They don’t need to know I had a mild nervous breakdown, and I know it was mild. I’ve had far worse.

  “Do you mind leaving, though, so I can get out and dressed? Except mom. Would you mind staying and help me get out of here? I’m kinda stuck.” I grimace at the pain I’m sure to feel.

  “I got this, Beth,” Bruce intervenes.

  Um, no way! This is beyond his duty as my protector. “Um, no way! This is beyond your duty as my protector,” I reiterate my previous thoughts.

  He kneels in front of me, hands on the edge of the tub. “Jess, I won’t do this if it’ll make you uncomfortable, but I want to help and I think it will be easier for me to do this than your mom. You look like you might snap if you try to stand, so I think it will be better if I lift you out of the tub the way you are, then you can stretch out on your bed instead of falling over onto the hard flooring in here. Is that okay?”

  I think on his words for a moment, looking behind him at mom, who’s standing in the doorway looking worried as she nods in approval at his request. Maybe she’s afraid she won’t be able to help, that she would drop me as Bruce suggested might happen. I’m still not comfortable with this, mind you, but what choice do I have? I got myself into this position literally, so I’ll have to accept whatever means of help I can get to get out of this.

  I nod, muttering “Fine” under my breath.

  “Okay, I don’t want you to move. I’m going to put an arm under your knees and one on your back, then lift you. I’ll take you into your room and leave so you can stretch out on your bed.”

  This is going to be completely awkward, embarrassing, humiliating, uncomfortable, whichever word you want to pick to describe this situation. I can’t believe I did this. Counting hours like a crazy person and now having to be pried from a bathtub because I broke down over counting those very hours. I would say I need help, but I don’t want help, and I’ll never say aloud that I need it either. Everyone has tried to get me into a shrink’s office, but I refused then and will refuse just as adamantly now.

  My towel starts to pull away from me when his arm first goes under my knees. Stopping immediately, he grabs my robe hanging on the door, wrapping it tightly around my shivering body. The dryness is welcomed warmth; so welcomed I shift, what little I can shift anyway, pushing the soaked towel off me all while keeping the dry robe over my body. If anything is revealed, Bruce doesn’t let on. I suppose it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t mean he’s seen anything on me before, and I’m not about to let this become a show and tell experience.

  “Are you ready now?” he asks, after waiting patiently for me to get the towel/robe situation under control.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I agree.

  After some awkward attempts at lifting me, a minor robe shift, nothing coming out of hiding, thank the Cosmos, we’re in my room. My hands are holding tight to his neck, not wanting to let go to the warmth radiating off him. How is it that he’s so comforting?

  “You know what I was just thinking?” I ask him.

  “What’s that, Jess?”

  “I was just thinking how weird it is that I’m so comfortable with you. I mean, look at me, I’m a naked, soaking wet, shivering mess, yet I don’t feel embarrassed by that at all. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  In the middle of talking, he has sat on my bed with me on his lap, yet another “should be” awkward moment that feels anything but. I’m so incredibly lucky to have someone like him in my life.

  He clears his throat, looking contemplative for a moment before speaking. “I have to admit, I’ve often wondered why you’re so comfortable with me. Don’t get me wrong, I feel privileged that you are, but it has crossed my mind in the past. The only thing I can figure is that it’s like the Nightingale effect. Are you familiar with that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, in simplest terms, it’s when someone gets attached to the first person who takes on the role of, as you’ve put it ‘protector.’ I came into your life in a time of turmoil, causing you to seek comfort and safety in someone other than your family, and that just so happened to be me. I imagine if it had been my partner or just anyone else who could make you feel safe you would have reacted the same way. I’d like to think not. That it’s just me,” he says lightheartedly.

  I shove him in the chest.

  “But, in all seriousness, I do feel privileged that I’m in your life, that you’ve allowed me into your life. I just don’t think about the whys. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  I think about it for a second. I suppose it really doesn’t. He’s here and that’s all that matters.

  I tighten my hold around his neck, hugging him, whispering into his ear that it doesn’t and thanking him for always being there for me, even if only to pull me out of my bathtub.

  “No problem. Now can we eat? I’ve been starving forever waiting for you to get your ass out of that tub. People need to eat, you know,” he states while pinching my side, making me squirm in his lap and giggle ridiculously. I hate being tickled and am, unfortunately, extremely ticklish.

  I see a wicked gleam in his eyes. I try to stop him before this gets out of hand, yelling at him not to do it, but he doesn’t listen. Soon tears are streaming down my cheeks for entirely different reasons than in the shower. I can’t stop laughing and, believe me, I want to. This is not the fun laughing. Have I mentioned how much I hate being tickled?

  “Bruce, stop it!” I yell through fits of giggles.

  Mom appears in the doorway, yelling at both of us for acting like children. Bruce stops when she tells me to get dressed so we can eat, but as soon as she’s out the door and walking down the stairs, he starts again. I’m not prepared. I thought he had stopped for good, but I was wrong. I laugh some more before shoving him away from me, telling him between painful giggles to leave—it hurts to laugh this mu
ch.

  Holding his hand to his chest as he falls back onto my bed, he declares that I’ve wounded him terribly. “You don’t have to be so mean to me, ya know?”

  “Stop being such a baby. I didn’t hurt you, and even if I did, you deserve it. You shouldn’t have tickled me.”

  “Fine, fine, if you’re going to be a sore loser like that . . .”

  He throws me off him, so I end up flat on the bed with him standing at the edge staring triumphantly down at me. I’m thrown completely off guard, ending up winded and scatter-brained. As I see him stretching his hands out toward my sides, clearly preparing to tickle me some more, I kick my feet out to keep him at bay, holding my robe close to my chest and tucking in the sides beneath my body where I’m lying now; there’s no way he’s going to start tickling me again.

  “You better stay away from me! If you’re so hungry, go get some food and stop pestering me,” I shout in a dismissing tone.

  “Oh, I see how it is. I help you in your time of distress, and now I’m being dismissed. That’s pretty rude, ya know?”

  “I wouldn’t be dismissing you if you hadn’t started tickling me. I was having a moment actually and you ruined it. Who’s rude now?”

  “That’s still you,” he declares as he walks out the door, shutting it behind him, grinning like he just won some sort of victory against me.

  “What an ass,” I think aloud even though I’m smiling and don’t mean a word of it.

  I drop my robe onto my bed, walking toward my dresser to get new clothes out since mine are still in the bathroom. Just as I’m stepping into my pajama shorts, there’s a knock on the door. Assuming it’s mom or Cass, I tell whoever is on the other side to come in.

  “I’m coming. I just have to finish getting ready, okay?” I tell whoever is standing behind me. When there’s no response, I turn around.

  There’s little relief in having at least gotten into my shorts because I wasn’t in them when the door first opened and I hadn’t bothered to put any underwear on. I was in a hurry, so I wasn’t concerned, but now . . . now I wish I had. I really wish I had.