by Nicole Casey
I look at the photos, and I imagine what life has in store for them next. It’s silly, of course, but I’ve been told I’m a natural born storyteller. And so, I fill in the missing pieces between snapshots. Like what had happened after the Robinson’s returned from their honeymoon in Aruba—a trip that had used up nearly a dozen rolls of film? Did she quickly realize the man couldn’t screw the cap back on the toothpaste to save his life? Did he wonder how the hell the woman could possibly need three dozen pairs of shoes? I imagine their first fight came quickly—because they’re both passionate and stubborn people. In the end, though, they’ll always work it out. They aren’t perfect, and they’ll spend a lot of time-fighting, but they love each other. And so long as they never forget that, they’ll be OK.
And what about Lindsay Miller’s graduation photos? I think she’ll meet her first serious boyfriend in college. He’ll be a great guy, but after a year or two, they’ll realize they just aren’t right for each other. But they won’t part on angry terms, and they’ll even get together for coffee a couple of times after a nasty breakup or particularly bad exam. Five years later when she’s finished college and found Mr. Right, she’ll even invite her first love to her wedding, and just for a minute, both of them will wonder if they’d made a mistake breaking up.
Hey, it’s not picture-perfect all the time—I said I was a good storyteller, not a fabricator of fairy tales.
Why did I do it? It all came down to the same thing, really: to create a life that existed beyond this moment, because if it existed for them, it could exist for me, too, right?
The bell above the door to the shop jingled, and I shoved the stack of photos in my hand into the waiting envelope as nonchalantly as I could. It was all well and good to daydream about customers’ lives; it was another thing entirely to get caught doing it. Aside from looking like a nosy snoop, I was fairly certain there were laws against this sort of thing—or at least company policies that discouraged peeping-tom employees.
Fortunately, the customer who had just walked in and caught me unaware was Mrs. Jenkins, and while the woman had a heart of gold, she had the eyesight of a potato. I’d developed her film a half hour ago, and it was obvious she had taken the pictures herself since half the prints were of the inside of the lens cap.
It was rather strange for the woman to be out so late, but the reason became clear a moment later when her son walked in with a half-crazed gleam in his eyes. His hands were full of bags from every store on the strip—they’d been Christmas shopping. She couldn’t get around on her own, and her son stepped up to help her out as often as he could. There were limits to just how many tea cozies, handmade quilts and lace doilies a person could peruse before they went a little screwy. And it looked like Mr. Jenkins Jr. had passed that mark about an hour ago.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jenkins, Mr. Jenkins. Enjoying the weather?”—the usual small talk through which two or more people completely ignored what they would really like to say in favor of the same pleasant, but meaningless banter ad nauseam. I was very good at small talk. I’d spent most of my life engaged in nothing but small talk. My father wasn’t the meaningful conversation-type.
“It’s lovely, dear,” she replied while her son nodded and ran his fingers through the sparse hair on the top of his head, making it stick straight up. I didn’t think he cared. Since he looked about two minutes away from ripping it out from the roots, what difference did it make if it stood on end?
Something else registered in his eyes a moment later though, as his gaze darted back and forth between the envelope of photos in my hand and my chest. I turned away and took as much time as I could retrieving and opening a bag for Mrs. Jenkins photos. I didn’t want him to look at me that way. I didn’t want any of them to look at me that way.
I slipped the envelope into the bag and turned around to hand it to Mrs. Jenkins while I kept my eyes carefully averted from her son. A few more mundane pleasantries and the pair bustled out the door, hoping to squeeze in a little more shopping before the stores closed up for the night. I checked the clock—five more minutes and I was done for the day, too. And since it was unlikely anyone would come dashing in at the last minute, I shut down the developer machine and started to close out the cash register.
Six minutes later, I closed and locked the door behind me. The busy street was still filled with people making away with their last-minute purchases. I watched them for a moment. What had they been shopping for? Christmas presents for parents and children, nieces and nephews? Who were they in a hurry to get home to?
A young woman darted across the street to her car, bags flapping at her side. I imagined she’d just found the perfect present for her impossible mother-in-law. She was hurrying home to show off her find to her husband, and he’d pretend to be vexed that she’d found the better present. Really though, he was happy that his wife put so much effort into the woman who could be more than difficult to get along with sometimes.
OK, that was a little fairy-tale-ish, but it was Christmastime. I was allowed to be a bit fanciful. Reality could kiss my ass.
The woman dropped her bags in her trunk and slipped into the car, and as if that was my cue, I turned away and started down the street in the opposite direction. I stayed on the main street for a block and a half, but then veered off through the parking lot of the Cash n’ Carry—it took four minutes off the walk home. During the warm, summer months I didn’t mind the extra time to get home, but it was winter now, and the wind had picked up. It billowed up my calf-length skirt and snuck up the sleeves of my long, puffy coat. I could even feel it testing the edges of my knitted hat as it tried to find a way in. I pulled my hat down further, so low that my eyelashes brushed against the brim when I blinked.
Three more blocks and I’d be home, though that prospect was always met with conflicting emotions. The temperature was warm there, but the company was ice cold. It was home though. Right now, with the chilly evening air biting my skin, I’d be content to hide away in my room all night if it meant escaping the bitter wind’s persistent assault. I picked up my pace, ignoring the way my cold muscles objected. And the speed helped. It warmed the core of my body and spread some of that heat to my shoulders and thighs.
Suddenly, a loud screech sounded behind me. It made me skitter forward several steps. It was so close I thought whatever made the sound was going to plow right into me.
I spun around to find the front bumper of a van less than a foot from my calves. The wind had been blowing so hard I hadn’t heard it approach. Nothing but that piercing screech. The driver must have lost control of the vehicle on a patch of ice, and I breathed a grateful sigh, realizing that a few more inches and it could have splattered me like a bug on a windshield. Yes, maybe that was a bit melodramatic, but could you blame me after such a close call?
The driver got out of the vehicle, and I waved to him, letting him know I was fine. While I appreciated his concern, it was still just as cold out now as it had been thirty seconds ago. Since there was no harm done, I didn’t want to hang around to see if I could get frostbite.
“I’m fine, really,” I called above the wind when he continued to approach.
The passenger door opened at the same time, and another man stepped out. He looked unassuming; tall, but lanky. He was probably just concerned I’d been hurt.
Their approach was casual enough that I couldn’t pinpoint any particular reason to be frightened, but an icy shiver tremored down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind whipping my long braid against my face.
I hadn’t had a whole lot of run-ins with creepy freaks, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out if this was one such occasion. So, I turned on my heels and took off like a sprinter. I’d wanted to try out for the track and field team in my last year of high school, but my father had never let me. Right then though, I bet I put the school’s best runner—Julie Wells—to shame. The ground was a blur beneath my feet and the trees that lined the street whipped by.
I
heard footsteps behind me, heavy and fast. They were following me, running after me. But I was fast. I could beat Julie Wells around the school’s track course with both hands tied behind my back. So, I fought against the panic that welled in my chest and willed my legs to go faster.
Faster.
But their footsteps grew louder. And louder.
Oh god, they were close.
Within seconds, they were right behind me. Their heavy footfalls sounded against the pavement in cadence with my own. I tried to speed up, to stretch my legs out farther, but I was losing ground fast.
A hand gripped my arm from behind, and I screamed, silently cursing Julie Wells for making me think I was fast. The hand yanked me back so hard my feet came out from under me.
I kicked and flailed, but the vice-like grip on my arm didn’t relent. I felt like a marionette hanging awkwardly on one string.
I screamed louder as panic filled my chest. My breath came faster and my heart beat wildly. I could feel my pulse pounding in my head. I wasn’t beat yet though. I couldn’t give in, I had to fight.
I struggled to get my feet beneath me, and the moment I did, I lunged upward, not to my full height, just high enough to sink my teeth into the meaty hand on my arm. I bit hard, thanking the stars for the incisor teeth I’d always thought were just a little too sharp.
They were the only weapon I had, and I sunk them deep into the hand. A thick, metallic-tasting liquid flooded my mouth. I’d done damage—I knew it, but still, the bleeding hand held firm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another hand coming at me—fast.
And the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground. At first, a surge of victory flooded my veins. I’d won. I was free.
My shoulder hurt and my head throbbed, but I’d done it—I’d made him release me. I felt feral…powerful…
…And then I felt like a caged animal. A hand gripped each of my arms and yanked me upright. The faces that hadn’t seemed threatening when the man had stepped out of the van just a moment ago now twisted into evil sneers.
“You’re going to pay for that, bitch!” the man with the bloody hand growled while the two of them dragged me back toward their vehicle.
I dug my feet into the ground, but it did little to slow their pace.
I screamed.
They continued unperturbed.
And I knew why. A block ago, someone would have heard me. Someone would have rushed out to help, or called the police…or done something. But here, there was a rundown park to one side of me and an abandoned apartment building on the other. My only hope was that someone would be passing by like I had been. Still, it was hope, and I latched on, screaming so loud it hurt my own ears, and whipping my head back and forth, searching for someone—anyone. Please, anyone!
There was no one.
Beside the van, Bloody-hand started to open the door, but he jerked his hand away. I must have bitten into something substantial. He howled in pain.
It gave me a brief moment’s satisfaction to know I’d done some serious damage, and it renewed my dwindling hope of escape. I’d hurt him once; I could do it again.
But my hope was short-lived. Both hands shoved me, and I fell forward, banging my forehead against the carpeted floor of the van.
“Dose her,” Bloody-hand snarled.
That didn’t sound good—rather ironic, though. I’d spent my entire teenagehood avoiding every street drug and stolen prescription drug that circulated my high school, and these two buffoons were going to drug me? It probably shouldn’t have been the first thought to occur to me, but it was almost surreal. Two minutes ago, I’d been hurrying home like any other normal day. And now…now I was desperately clinging to the fleeting hope I could escape these monsters.
In two minutes, I’d gone from normal to fighting for my life. And I was losing.
A weight pressed against my back—an elbow, maybe—and it stopped me from throwing my body backward, but I couldn’t stop fighting. I raised my feet off the ground and kicked out, again and again. My boots weren’t pretty—I didn’t wear pretty things—but they were sturdy. If I could just make contact, I knew it would buy me a second or two.
Something sharp jabbed my neck. It took me a second to realize what it was—a needle. When they’d said they were going to dose me, I envisioned one of them plugging my nose while the other forced me to swallow a bunch of pills. I hadn’t anticipated this. How could I have? My life had been normal two minutes ago.
I tried to kick out again, but my foot flopped limply back to the ground.
Again.
This time, I could barely make my leg move at all. My legs were so heavy. My whole body felt heavy actually, though I don’t know how that was possible since the rest of me was lying on the scratchy carpet. Could something seem heavy if you weren’t trying to lift it?
When my eyelids grew heavy, the panic I’d been holding at bay flooded my chest. I couldn’t keep it back any longer. Whatever they’d injected me with was doing this, and in a few seconds, I was going to be unconscious—I just knew it—and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to stop them.
I screamed in my head, too weak to open my mouth to let the sound out. And then I was even too weak to do that, and I drifted into oblivion.
It was only in that last moment of consciousness the thought hit me; would I ever wake up again?
Chapter 2
Scarlett
I came awake slowly, but right away I knew it wasn’t the first time I’d woken up since slipping into a drug-induced unconsciousness in the back of their van. The last time was cloudy, but it was there. I remembered bits and pieces. I was on a bed, and I was struggling with them. Their hands had been everywhere, ripping and tearing at my clothes. Brutal grips as I was turned this way and that, pinched and squeezed.
I recalled pleading, but it had done nothing. And then, when they’d torn off my bra, I’d gone berserk, kicking and flailing and screaming.
And then nothing.
Had they jabbed me with another needle? Or knocked me unconscious? By the way my head was throbbing from a focal point in the back, I figured I could guess which one.
But then what? What had they done when I was no longer fighting them, no longer even conscious to make the weakest of protests?
Fear lodged in my throat when I thought about the most likely thing they’d done. They’d been stripping me—on a bed. What else could their intentions have been?
But mentally assessing myself, I didn’t feel any different. There was no soreness between my thighs to suggest they’d used me that way. I could feel everything else—my shoulder ached, my arms hurt where they’d first grabbed me. And I could feel every bump and bruise from their rough-handling of me. But not that. They hadn’t raped me.
But why not? Were they waiting until I was conscious again? Is that what they wanted?—for me to fight them, knowing I was going to lose? If I continued to lay here, eyes closed and perfectly still, would they get bored with me, or think they’d done some sort of irreversible damage with their last blow?—no fun to play with a brain-damaged victim, was it? It was my best plan at the moment, or rather, my only plan until I could come up with something better.
So, I did my best to keep my breathing steady and keep my eyes closed without squeezing them too tightly-shut and giving myself away. I tried to keep my limbs still, but that was lowest on the priority list. It seemed reasonable that the body might move innately when unconscious like it did in ordinary sleep.
And then I moved on to assessing my situation.
I was on a bed, presumably the same one I’d woken up on before, but that was little help because I hadn’t had the time to look around and survey my surroundings then.
I was naked—I cringed mentally at the realization, but I struggled to keep my features smooth. But I could feel the same comfortably warm air across every inch of my body that wasn’t pressed against the mattress. My legs had been left—or positioned—slightly parted, and I felt an overwhelming urge to sq
ueeze them shut. I resisted—just barely.
There was no noise in the room aside from my relatively stable breathing, which suggested there was no one else here. That made it tempting to open my eyes, but not yet. For all I knew, it was a really big room and I just couldn’t hear the others breathing.
All right, so, I was naked, on a bed, in a room, the door to which may or may not be locked, and the men who’d done this to me may or may not be in the room with me. So far, this wasn’t looking very good for me.
I ever so slowly moved one hand from where it laid near my side, just enough to ascertain the likelihood of whether I’d been restrained. My hand seemed to move freely though, which made it unlikely.
That was at least one relief. If they did come at me again, I’d have some small chance of catching them off-guard and escaping—through the door which may or may not be locked. Still, that sounded like the beginnings of a plan to me. Not a good one, but better than nothing.
I’d listen for the sound of them approaching and the moment they did, I’d spring away and out the door—assuming it wasn’t locked from the outside or with a key. There was no point in worrying about it—there was no way for me to know ahead of time. And there was no sense in trying to fight them. I’d failed miserably on more than one attempt, and feared it would inevitably only lead to a repeat.
But minutes ticked by and still no movement. Maybe they’d just left me here for good. But just as I was beginning to entertain the possibility, I heard the grind of a lock and a door opened a second later.
I did my damnedest to fight the panic rising in my chest. I wanted to scream, to run, not to lay here and wait patiently for them to approach. But by some miracle, I was able to do it.