“No…no,” I beg hoarsely. He leaves the door open behind him and I'm so despondent, I would follow with no regard for my safety, but I'm shackled by the ankle. Before I can try to understand his intentions, he's back, with a bucket in one hand and a white paper bag in the other.
It hits me instantly. The aroma of food. Despite the dehydration, I begin to salivate. I would do anything for that fucking food and water. I'm delirious with the need.
He places the bucket down and brings the bag to my face as if he wants me to peek in. I do. It's like he's been reading my fantasies. Burgers and fries. Oh god. Fuck. I begin to cry. I can't believe I'm crying over a hamburger.
He pulls the bag away and sets it back where the water was. He returns with the bucket. Inside of it is soapy water and a sponge.
He points at this and then the food.
I look down at my body. It's covered in scrapes and mud. I've defecated and pissed in another spot in the room and I have become numb to the scent of it.
“If I wash, you'll feed me?” I ask, with a sense of hope that belies the perverseness of the situation.
He nods.
“Okay. Untie my hands. I'll do it. I promise.”
He shakes his head, putting the bucket down and dropping in his sinewy arm down to the elbow. He's not as covered as he was last time, wearing a t-shirt that shows his arms and jeans that are torn and covered in grease and paint, like he works in construction or something. My eyes run up along his arm, and that's when I notice a series of violent scars along the outer part of his biceps, like the skin has been ripped off at some point.
He pulls out the large sponge, soapy water running down his muscled forearm and back into the bucket.
He's not interested in me bathing myself.
You think you know hunger, but you don't really know hunger. Not the type that makes everything hurt. When you feel like the life force is being syphoned from your body with each hour. Where the rational side, the thing that makes you human and separates you from an animal is smothered by instinct. It turns you into the most basic creature, where nothing else matters but getting the nutrients you need to keep breathing.
“Okay. I won't fight. You can clean me. But can I please, just a sip. To wet my mouth?” My lips stick together with each word, making an awful suction sound.
He squeezes the sponge over my head so that the water rains down on me. It's warm; it's been so long since I felt warmth. And I let it run over my lips, trying to steal every last bit of moisture from it. I don't care about the bitter taste of soap, I'll take it however I can get it.
I focus on the promising scent of food, intermingled with the clean scent of soap as he pulls me up to my feet. It's not forceful, it's actually soft and in any other circumstances, somewhat seductive. He unties the rope around my wrists. He at least had the mercy to loosen them a little bit when he put me in here. They were so tight the night he took me, my hands had gone numb and purple. I probably would have lost them if he hadn't. But there are rope burns that are raw and red. He doesn't rub them, but again trickles the soapy water over the wounds.
He uses his bare hands to rub the slick suds along my body. They are a rough contrast to the slipperiness of the soap. I shudder. I haven't seen or spoken to a person in who knows how long. The loneliness eats at you. And it makes you hypersensitive to the presence of another person. His touch, though violating, is human. And just like the night he took me, my brain and body can't reconcile both sides of the equation.
He spends extra time on my breasts, massaging them, rubbing against the stiff nipples. I turn away when he does this, not that the mask gives me a view of his face at all. Just those eyes and a pair of plump lips, lips that were contrastingly soft and harsh when he kissed me that night. He glides a hand down my belly, past the patch of hair and rubs me down there. Cleaning, yes, but also toying with me, showing me he has all the control. That he can touch me how he wants.
I focus on the rich smell of warm food across the room, and not the carnal feeling his hands provoke.
He walks behind me, I try to turn but he pushes my face forward, and then bends me at the waist, spreading my ass apart. He scrubs it with the sponge vigorously, cleaning away the filth I have been unable to.
He comes forward again, and from the bucket he pulls out a razor. I flinch in horror. He puts his finger to his lips and points at the food, reminding me what my compliance will produce.
A few tears drop as I quiet myself, but I shake uncontrollably, afraid he'll cut me with it, like he did with the knife. But instead he shaves me: my legs, armpits, and most of my private area. He towels me off, brushes my wet hair and squeezes out the excess water.
Now I'm a clean caged animal.
I don't have time to care about my dignity. All I can think about is eating and drinking. He walks over to the food and tosses the bag at me. I pull out the water bottle and chug on it furiously, then I grab a handful of fries and shove them in my mouth.
A hand grips firmly on my arm. He puts up his other hand. Slow down, he's telling me. I'm a little embarrassed that I'm eating savagely enough for my kidnapper to have to show concern. But not too embarrassed as I shoot him a rebellious glare and finish shoving that handful of fries in my mouth without breaking eye contact. I do take his advice and slow down on the next bite. Focused on the deliciousness of the food, I don't pay attention to the work he's doing around me. I assume cleaning up my mess, but when he rolls a TV in front of me, it catches my eye. He turns the dial to ABC and adjusts the antenna. The image is grainy, with a line of static rolling up the screen intermittently.
I wonder if this is some form of entertainment he's trying to provide as I crouch there, damp and naked, biting out of my burger. It doesn't make sense considering his brutality during our last encounter, but when the anchors stop talking about the weather, it's clear what he's showing me.
“And up next, the latest news on the abducted Sacramento-area nursing student.”
My stomach rolls with discomfort and I almost lose my precious meal.
“Who are you?” I ask.
No answer.
“What are you going do to me?”
No answer.
“Why won't you speak to me?! I've already heard your voice.”
He turns and leaves, keeping my foot chained so I have no chance of escape.
As many fantasies as I had of eating a banquet all by myself, my shrunken stomach already feels like it'll burst, so I place the burger back in the wrapper. I don't know when my next meal will be, so it would be dumb to discard the food.
We're back with you, live on the six o'clock news. The family of a nursing student who was abducted on Friday evening from her Sacramento home, while her fiancé and young brother were bound and locked in separate rooms, spoke today.
They cut to a clip of my mother, sobbing in front of a bank of microphones. Pete and Carter stand solemnly behind her, rubbing her shoulders. “She's a good person. She was—is—going to be a nurse. She has plans to do good things…help people. Please, I beg you, just let her go. You can just drop her off and disappear. We don't care. We just want her back.”
A man dressed in a beige officer's uniform takes the podium. He introduces himself as Sheriff Andrew Hunter-Ridgefield. He makes a brief statement that they are doing everything they can to look for me. He looks young for the position, and I wonder if he has what it takes to find me.
I look around for Johnny, but he's not there. They must have thought this would be too much for him.
I crawl towards the screen to get a closer look at Carter, the jubilance he carried on his face, no matter how tired he was, entirely gone. The chain yanks at my leg, keeping me feet away from the screen, so I am left reaching, but unable to touch the pixels that form my family. I had been complaining days ago about the burdens of a mother who made me become a mother to my own brother. A boyfriend who was almost perfect, but I had the audacity to believe not perfect enough. I fantasized about a monster over him
, and now the fantasy is real. Maybe this is what I deserve.
The image of my family's press conference cuts away and back to the anchors.
Police are looking for this man.
On the screen is an almost comical sketch. It's a guy with a black mask. Two eyes and lips peek through. It's black and white, so there's nothing to indicate the color of his eyes. It could be anyone.
Police believe this is the work of the Night Prowler, who has plagued central California for about five years, first prowling and ransacking homes. However, police now believe in the past year, a rash of home invasions and rapes is the work of this same intruder who has grown increasingly violent.
It is believed he is roughly six feet tall with an athletic build. He may have a black sedan. It is estimated he is likely in his 20s. If you have any information regarding this case, please contact the Sacramento Sheriff's Office at…
Once the last sentence is being uttered, the man comes back downstairs and pulls the antenna off the set. Everything dissolves to snow and frantically I beg. “No! No!” I want to keep watching different news stations, see my family, and just be continually assured that I haven't been forgotten. But he doesn't give a shit and wheels the TV out of reach.
“Why did you do that?” I yell. “What was the point, huh? Am I ever going to see them again?” I ask.
He doesn't answer, but he pulls another water bottle out of his pocket and rests it right in front of me. Without further acknowledgement of my existence, he finishes cleaning up my mess, leaving a bucket and toilet paper in its place. Then he heads back up the stairs, closing the door behind him, and plunging me back into a world of solitude.
When my mother died and left me this ranch, I sold most of the animals. I didn't want to take care of all that myself, especially now being free to focus on the unpopular hobby I had picked up at a young age. While she was alive, there was always the chance that she would know; put two and two together. Figure out I wasn't always doing the things I said I did. And having her here, my fiercest protector, I felt obligated not to push the envelope too far. But then she died, and it was like a gasket blew in me.
Urges I had suppressed boiled to the surface. Anger stewed in me from being left alone. I began to crave access to the world I had shunned with her, a world she both protected me from and robbed me of, but I couldn't do it the way everyone else did. I wanted to taste, smell, and feel the things I had only watched until this point. I started doing the things her presence kept me from doing. Despite her faults, she reined me in somehow, and when she died, the strap snapped.
Now here's the ironic part: I got rid of most of the animals, only to find myself keeping the neediest of them all: a human woman.
I plan meticulously. It's what I do. Yet I found myself with a woman and no idea what I was going to do next. Of course, I know what I want. I'm a fucking man with needs, but I want it my way. When she begged me to take her, I thought holy shit, she feels this is different, too. I had a moment when I thought maybe she wasn't like the rest of the world that had rejected me and our connection was real. Then she started screaming, and I knew she was a lying fucking liar like my mother warned. She warned me women would only use me for my money. For the family name.
So I have a plan now. It took me a few days, but I realized this will be a lot like breaking a horse. First, I have to turn her into an animal. Take away everything that gives her power and strength. Reduce her needs to the most basic: food and water, sleep, sex. Second, I have to stroke her, get her to understand that compliance equals good things. It's the way you train any animal. I'll use food as a reward and other methods of positive reinforcement. Negative reinforcement, well, that's always in my back pocket.
She's been in the basement, but I've been working on building her a shed deeper in the property, in the woods where no one treads. I can't keep her in the house indefinitely, it's too risky. So I've been working hard on that between my day gigs.
God I want to fuck her so bad. Her soapy pussy in my hands almost made me break my plans again, but I need to break her in bit by bit.
As my oatmeal sits on the kitchen table cooling, I listen to the police scanner set up on a built-in desk just beside it. I’ve often used it to monitor patrols to know the best times to strike certain streets. Now, I’m listening for clues about Vesper’s case. There has been an increase in reports of suspicions persons all over Sacramento County. People are on edge. They’ve been patrolling her neighborhood and other neighborhoods I’ve prowled, hoping I’ll strike again. That means they might think she’s already dead and I’ll need to go back out. It makes sense. Usually when women disappear like that, it’s not good.
By the time I pull away from the scanner to address my dinner, it's cold and lumpy. I haven't been feeding myself well this week on account of being so busy. As I twirl the spoon in the pale goo, I get lost in its texture. Oatmeal will always remind me of my childhood.
“Why aren't you eating it?” my father asks. My throat tightens. “Just say it. I won't force you to eat it if you just say it. Just say 'no.' Say one word!” He snaps, losing his patience.
“Stop it!” mom scolds, coming to my side.
“You keep coddling him and he's never going to fucking learn. You're babying him. That's why he won't talk!”
“He's a sensitive boy. He'll talk when he's ready.”
“Gloria, he's almost five years old.”
“The doctor said he's fine. He has above average intelligence. In fact, he said he's extremely intelligent. And you badgering at him just makes it worse. It gives him a complex. Some kids just take longer to gain their verbal skills. He's special.”
“Special? So that's what they're calling them now…”
I watch them argue. My mom knows I understand, but sometimes I think my dad thinks I don't get what they say. Dad looks down at me, and his eyes flare. He snatches the spoon out of my hand. “Eat it! Eat it!” He shoves the oatmeal to my lips but I clench them shut. The spoon hurts my lips and teeth, but I won't swallow. A sound comes out of my chest, but I can't get my lips and throat to join. I want to say STOP. It's in here, but I can't make it come out.
“See? It's there, you just have to stop babying him!”
“Stop it!” my mother yells, pulling his arm away.
We all look over to the entrance. Scooter, my older brother, is standing there. My dad likes Scooter a lot more than me. He speaks perfectly. Sometimes they go on fishing trips without me.
Dad sighs. “Come on Scoot, eat your breakfast. Everything is fine.” He turns to the kitchen counter to grab his badge and gun.
“Okay,” Scooter says skeptically.
My mother crouches down and uses her apron to wipe the oatmeal off my face. “You really should eat some. You'll be hungry later,” she whispers, wiping my messy hair out of my eyes.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The pounding on my front door shakes me out of my thoughts. I scramble to turn off the police scanning equipment, pull it out of the wall and shove it into the cabinets above the desk.
I shuffle over to the door, peek past the curtains and see it's Scooter outside. Speak of the spawn of the devil. I wasn't expecting him, and I'm not particularly happy he's here. I open the door, and turn back towards the kitchen table, leaving Scoot to his own devices to follow me in and close the door behind himself.
“Nice to see you too, Sam.”
Without missing a step, I give him a single, sarcastic wave.
“I haven't heard from you in what has it been? Three weeks? I keep calling and you don't answer here. I was about to drive up to the ranch this weekend to see if you were alive.”
The ranch. It's mine. I hate how he thinks that he can just come up there. Especially now.
“I'm f-f-f-ine.” Fuck. Shit. “B-b-b-been b-b-b-usy.”
He tucks his chin in shock. “Shit man, you're way worse since I last saw you.”
He's just like our fucking dad. Zero nuance and the sensitivity of a rabid fucking
bull. The last thing you say to someone with a speech impediment is how bad they sound. You'd think he'd have figured that out by now.
“T-t-t-thanks asssss-h-h-ole.”
I pull out my chair violently in a nonverbal sign of protest and sit down with a thud. The oatmeal sits there, the sickly blob reminding me of how different our lives have been even though we had the same parents.
He helps himself to a seat. “Okay, you've been spending all your time there, alone. Which makes no sense since most of your work is here. You're a ghost these days. And your stuttering is getting progressively worse…” His tone changes as if he's telling me a secret. “Is this about mom? You know, losing her was hard for me too.”
“I-I-It's only an h-h-h-our.” I open my mouth to continue speaking, but that familiar feeling of my mouth and throat tightening, of the words getting stuck on the way out—it's not going to stop. I'm too on edge being ambushed by him. I sigh and shoot up to my feet, stomp to the counter where there's a notepad and a pen, and write.
Don't wanna talk about it. How's work?
I plop back in my chair and slide the notepad to him.
He grins to himself and points at the pad and shoves it back to me. It makes me chuckle a bit too. I change the page and scribble the answer.
Fine. Lots of communities being built. Schools getting fixed. I've had to turn down jobs at this point.
“Well, that's good news,” he says. “Been a while since I've been up to the farm. You have time to work on it?”
Scooter is so fucking greedy. I know it irks him that mom left me the ranch. We both got plenty after she died, but he just couldn't handle that small slight, that maybe just once I got the longer end of the stick. To him, the ranch was a place of refuge, a place where he'd come up and fish and ride horses on the weekend with dad. To me, that ranch was a prison. Despite that, I can't bring myself to leave it behind.
“Anyway, Katie wanted to see about you coming over for dinner. And your nieces and nephew want to see their uncle.”
Take Me With You Page 6