Ghostface Killer ~ M. Never

by Never, M.

  I whip my head to Baz. “Where the fuck are we? Back in Colorado?”

  “Not quite, but the boonies just the same.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Where the fuck are we?”

  “Someplace you should think twice about trying to escape from. There’s nothing but forest for miles and miles, and I burned all your clothes. Tossed your shit, too. You’ve got nothing.”

  I expel a low growl picturing all the ways I want to torture and kill him as he sits next to me.

  “It’s a good thing I’m handcuffed to this bed.”

  “Why is that?” He picks up the steaming soup bowl.

  “Because if I wasn’t, I’d kill you. Slowly. And painfully.”

  Baz smirks arrogantly. “No, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t before, and you can’t now.”

  “Want to unlock me and put your money where your mouth is?”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I enjoy you in this position.” His eyes flash as his gaze lands right between my thighs. “Plus, you’re pregnant. Which means no rigorous activity.”

  “So, rough sex is out?” I shoot my mouth off.

  Baz rumbles. “Don’t fucking tempt me, Stevie. You were the best fucking lay I’ve ever had. I have no problems crawling back into that wet, tight pussy.”

  “Keep dreaming. I wouldn’t let you back in with a crowbar.”

  “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?” He scoops up some soup with the spoon and attempts to feed me.

  “Get it away!” I cry, turning my head.

  “You need to eat. Nourish that baby of ours.” He pushes the spoon in my face. “Don’t think you’re gonna starve yourself to death.”

  “It’s not that.” I hold my breath, trying to cut off the nauseating smell.

  “Then what the fuck is it?” He continues to fight me.

  “It’s the morning sickness. I can’t eat. Get it away. I’m gonna hurl.”

  “Morning sickness?” He doesn’t buy it. “It’s five o’clock at night.”

  “It’s just called morning sickness. I have it all the damn time. I can only tolerate crackers and ginger ale right now. And in small fucking amounts.”

  Baz drops the spoon into the soup bowl, pissed. “You better not be fucking with me, Stevie.” He pauses. “Is that even your real name?”

  “Yes, it’s my real name. I wasn’t lying when I told you.”

  “No, you were just lying about everything else.” His tone is so bitter. So harsh. So pained.

  “You never gave me a chance to explain.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.” He shoots up off the bed and grabs the tray.

  “Baz!” I plead before he leaves the room. “I have to pee. Bad.”

  He regards me like he knew this was coming then walks out. Shit, he is out to make me suffer. I’m going to end up sleeping in a puddle of my own piss, and he’s going to gloat while I do.

  I cross my legs, doing my damnedest to ignore the prickly sensation trying to escape out of my bladder. A few minutes later, Baz returns with a key in one hand and a gun in another.

  “Don’t make me shoot you, Stevie. Don’t turn this into a tragedy.” He unlocks one of the cuffs, releasing my hands.

  As much as I want to kick the living shit out of him, the nausea is getting worse. I feel really weak and just collectively like crap. I’m definitely not one of those women who glows during pregnancy.

  “Walk.” Baz nudges me with the barrel of the gun. I steal a quick glance to see if the safety is off. To confirm if he’s serious about shooting me. It is, and he is.

  Obediently, I walk out of the room, clenching my jaw the whole time. An unwelcome reminder of the power of his fist ghosting across my sore face.

  I get my first glimpse of the house as I walk out into the hallway. Big, spacious, the entryway sweeping, providing an unobstructed view of the open living area below. The log cabin is warm with golden tones, maroon leather couches, and fur throw rugs in front of a crackling, stone fireplace.

  We walk a few steps down the hall until we come to a door. “In there.”

  I swing open the door to the bathroom and step inside. It’s not huge by any means, but it does house a shower, a toilet, and a dual vanity. There’s also a six-point deer head on the wall. That’s an interesting place to mount a trophy.

  As I go to shut the door, Baz blocks it with his arm. I stare at him, annoyed. “You gonna watch me?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna watch you,” he spits.

  Geez, we didn’t even get this intimate in his cabin in Colorado.

  With a resigned huff, I march over to the toilet and pull my underwear down. I do it in such a way that when I bend over, my bare ass is on full display.

  I hear a low, guttural groan come from behind me. I smile. I have many methods of torture.

  I sit down on the toilet and do my business, Baz watching me the whole time. Not awkward at all. He’s lucky my bladder doesn’t get stage fright.

  Once I’m done, I flush and wash my hands, stalling as long as I can to devise some kind of plan of escape. I could take him by surprise, but I need something big and hard to hit him over the head with. The deer head would work if I could lift it off the damn wall. Baz is large, tall, and broad. If I could take him down, I could probably suffocate him with a submission hold, but I know he won’t go easy. Not without a fight. Especially with the green fury churning in his eyes.

  And with my precious cargo, I’m not as reckless as I’d usually be. No, now I need to be smart. Especially since I’m practically naked and exiled in the middle of a winter wonderland.

  “Let’s go.” He knocks my shoulder with the barrel of the gun. My exhale is laced with annoyance as I walk back to the bedroom. “Get on the bed, put your hands back over your head.” He gestures with the Glock. I listen, grudgingly. “Lock them.” Pausing to stare him down with daggers, I mentally stab him to death as I lightly click the metal until it’s secure around my wrist. Fucker.

  Baz walks over once I’m bound and checks the handcuffs. He tightens the one I just refastened. Oh, he isn’t stupid. I had left it loose enough to slip out of.

  “Nice try.” The cuff is biting into my skin now.

  “You’re one hell of an actor,” I tell him.

  “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, no?” He pauses pointedly and gazes down at me. “And I wasn’t acting.” The sentence is acerbic.

  “Then who is this person standing in front of me?”

  “My darker half.” A little bit of the crazy dissipates in his eyes as he reaches down to touch me. I edge away, but he merely brushes his fingertips along my lower abdomen, a brief, wistful look skirting across his face.

  Everything south of his fingers tightens as I try to reject his touch. Want to reject it, but the feelings I harbor for Baz are still present. Still as strong and brilliant and prevalent as they had been in Colorado. I want to hate him. I want to want to kill him. But when he looks at me like that, touches me like that, all I want to do is go back. Start all over, tell him everything. Give us a fighting chance.

  He suddenly yanks his hand away, snapping out of whatever daze he was just lost in.

  “You’re a fucking siren, Stevie.” It isn’t a compliment. It’s a resentful declaration. My heart sinks, but the emotion isn’t worn on my sleeve.

  I watch helplessly as he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  I relax once I’m alone, the constant sickness pulling me under. I allow it to. I’m exhausted from constantly fighting the rising bile and turbulence in my stomach.

  I blow out a deep breath, sinking into the mattress. I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep. The stress isn’t helping my situation.

  Attempting to get comfortable, I give in to the daunting fatigue.

  It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.

  I DON’T KNOW how long I sleep, but it’s a deep, dream-filled slumber. Clips of my life turn over, mostly from when I’m a child.
I remember the way the dreams feel more than what they’re actually about. Loneliness is the star emotion. So lonely, so desolate. I just wanted someone to love me. Anyone. One of my foster parents, a teacher, my mother. Why couldn’t she love me more than the drugs? I don’t even know what she looked like. Despair takes over as I morph into an adult, watching as I hold a newborn in my arms. I’m humming. I’m happy. For the first time in my life, I feel happiness.

  Then I look up, and my face is missing, just rubbed away. The baby screams, and I jolt awake.

  “Oh, God!” I try to touch my stomach, but my hands are still bound over my head. “Damn it!” I scream, fighting against the metal. I just want to cradle my belly.

  I look up and find Baz standing there with a tray, a confused expression, and riotous eyes. I hate him momentarily. Hate him for not allowing me to soothe myself and my child the way I need.

  “Can you please fucking uncuff me?” I fight with the shackles.

  “Calm the fuck down, and no,” he snaps.

  Rage radiates. “Baz!”

  “You think I’m going to release you in this state? I’m crazy, not stupid.” He places the tray down as my heart beats as hard as a bass drum.

  With my limbs still slightly shaking, I force myself to calm down. That dream. That dreadful, wretched dream. I want to erase all remnants of it.

  This baby will know who it’s mother is. It will be loved. It will be cherished. It will be protected. So help me fucking God.

  “You calm now?” Baz asks after a few long, agitating heartbeats.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I lie. I’m nowhere close to fine.

  Baz perches on the edge of the bed next to me, his usual spot, and picks a soda can up from the tray on the nightstand.

  “Drink it.” He shoves the long straw in my face. He brought me ginger ale. And when I glance over at the nightstand, there are crackers there, too. I can’t believe it. Even in his fucked-up state, he heard me. He listened.

  I take a long, slow pull of the crisp, sweet soda, and the cold effervescence instantly extinguishes the fire in my throat while the cool ginger calms the upset in my stomach. That small hint of relief is like a godsend.

  I release the straw from my lips and sink back into the mattress. This little one is going to give me a run for my money, I can tell already.

  “Finish it,” Baz pushes.

  I frown. “I can’t. Too much at once will make me throw up. I can only have little bits at a time.”

  He doesn’t look happy about that. “I can’t sit here all day while you sip.”

  “Then don’t. Uncuff me and leave me alone. I feel sick as a dog. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and hibernate until the second trimester.”

  “Nice try. But hell no.” Baz bangs the ginger ale back onto the tray causing the whole nightstand to shake before he gets up and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him once again.

  Someone needs anger management.

  THREE WEEKS AGO, I went to sleep handcuffed to a bed, and when I woke up the restraints were gone. I believed a piece of the man I knew, I cared for, was still present and stirring under the frenzied façade of the person holding me hostage. When I told Baz I just wanted to curl up into a ball and hibernate, I meant it. I’ve felt like death the last few weeks, and barely been able to get out of bed. The first two weeks he kept me locked in the room, visiting periodically during the day to let me use the bathroom, bring me ginger ale and crackers, and soup when I could stomach it. For a psycho, he’s quite attentive when he wants to be. Especially when I shower and he insists on watching. He doesn’t let me out of his sight. He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t. If I was in better health, I would definitely be feistier and harder to handle. But I’m so weak. So tired, the smallest exertion zaps my energy.

  It’s amazing that something the size of a pea can cause such havoc. Then again, the same could be said for a bullet.

  The last day or two I’ve started to come around. The nausea going rather than coming in longer and longer bouts.

  Astonishingly, I finished an entire bowl of soup yesterday under Baz’s watchful eye. I choked down the stringy pieces of chicken and everything.

  This morning though, something is different. I feel different. I feel hungry. No, not just hungry, famished. My stomach is actually growling.

  “Well, someone has decided food is a good thing, huh?” I pat my usually flat tummy. The lack of nutrition has caused me to lose weight.

  I don’t know how long I’m going to have to wait for Baz. He’s usually like clockwork, visiting as soon as the sun comes up. I glance out the window behind my bed. The sun is shining and the snow is glistening as far as the eye can see. He still hasn’t told me where we are. He hasn’t said much over the last few weeks. He’s tight-lipped with information, but one thing is crystal clear—he’s already as attached to this baby as I am. He doesn’t need to say it, because he shows it whenever he’s in my presence, touching my abdomen tenderly every chance he gets. Every chance I allow. As fucked up as this situation is—and it is completely fucked up—we still have some strange, underlying connection. A connection as undefinable now as it was before. I don’t understand it, and I don’t try to. It makes my head hurt, and my pain threshold is dangerously low as of late.

  My stomach rumbles again, louder this time. Someone is impatient. Wonder where the little demon gets that from?

  “Okay, jeez. You starve me for the last three weeks, and now you want to binge eat? Your daddy is having a psychotic episode. We need to proceed with caution.”

  I get up off the bed on shaky legs. “We’ll try the door, but no promises.” Baz hasn’t been volatile the last few weeks, but that fucking insane look in his eyes is becoming more intense. It takes a lot to scare me, and he’s effortlessly scaring the shit out of me.

  I don’t care so much about my life, cause really, what’s that worth? Not much. It never has been. Born into nothing, ignored, neglected, harassed, raped, beaten, and turned into a killer, the world would be a much better place without a person like me in it. But the brand-new life inside of me has a fighting chance to be better. Gets to grace this world with a clean slate and maybe allow me to find some redemption, because I swear, this child will have a much better life than I ever had. A stellar, shining, happy life that will have no echoes of the darkness of mine.

  I pad to the door in bare feet and the ratty T-shirt I’ve been living in the past three weeks. I turn the knob with little hope but am pleasantly surprised when it turns all the way. My stomach growls again as if it knows I’m that much closer to feeding it.

  Cautiously, I make my way down the hall and down the stairs to the first floor. Once my naked feet hit the wood, I hear a muffled banging sound. What in the hell is that? I walk through the house, scouting for Baz. I call his name several times to alert him of my presence. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, misconstruing my wandering as an escape attempt or power move.

  “Baz?” I call again as I slip through the living room and into the expansive kitchen. This is where the banging is the loudest. I peek out the window over the sink to find Baz with a massive axe in his hand standing over a bluntly cut tree trunk. He’s cutting firewood. A lot of firewood. There are three piles taller than him. How long is he planning to keep me here? Until the second damn coming?

  He really doesn’t look good. His beard is long and straggly. His skin is sweaty and pale, and there are enormous dark circles under his eyes. I swear I could use them as a hammock. I know I shouldn’t be concerned, but I am. Because the memory of the man I met in Colorado has continuously haunted me. He may be standing in front of me in body, but not in spirit, and definitely not in mind. I don’t know who that person is outside. He’s a shell, devoid of any tenderness or passion or emotion or charisma that was so abundant before.

  Before Baz smashes the next log, he suddenly pauses, lifting his gaze to the window as if he senses me. Our eyes meet, and for a fleeting second, I worry he’s
going to freak out, finding me out of the room. Luckily, he doesn’t storm the house like the beaches of Normandy. He just heaves as he stands there, axe in hand, gaze so fucking dark it makes my stomach drop, and my thighs sort of tingle. Deranged be damned, apparently, because it’s clear I am still physically attracted to him. Highly attracted. How many more levels of fucked up can one person be?

  I disappear from the window, wanting to find something to eat as quickly as possible before he decides to come inside. I don’t want confrontation. Not on the first day I sort of feel human again.

  I rummage through the cabinets and the refrigerator. It’s slim pickings. Not the food choices. What is actually appetizing to me. I settle on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s quick, and the thought of it doesn’t make me queasy.

  I grab what I need and spread it out on the counter. My stomach grumbles so loud I swear it physically moves.

  “Okay, okay, geez.” I slap the organic slices of peanut buttered and jellied bread together and take a huge bite. I chew slowly, making sure whatever I put in my mouth isn’t going to come shooting back up after I swallow.

  All seems well. My stomach isn’t protesting, so I take another bite. Then another and another. Before I know it, I’ve polished off the whole sandwich, and I feel . . . hungry. Still hungry. “Seriously?” I talk downwards. “I call it now, you’re a boy.”

  Just as I grab for another piece of bread, the door off the kitchen swings open, and a cold gust of air sends goosebumps up my bare legs. I look over cautiously at Baz with a slice of bread in one hand and a butter knife in the other. It’s dull, but I could still cause some damage with it if I needed to. I watch him through the corner of my eye as he passes by me and opens the refrigerator door. The kitchen isn’t huge, but it’s not small either. There’s breathing room. I gauge him as he pulls out the carton of orange juice and starts to chug. My instincts tell me it’s safe to go back to making my sandwich. He isn’t looking to fight. His body language isn’t defensive and neither is his energy. For now.

  I definitely feel his eyes on my every move, though. We don’t say a word to each other, tension present, and as thick and as black as exhaust fumes. I just continue buttering the bread, trying like hell to ignore him. Go away, go away, go away, I chant to myself, eager for him to disappear.