I won't mention that I can see her this time. I shouldn't have the first time. But I went down there and smelled myself on her skin and the visions of her writhing on the floor as she moaned flooded me and all my plans dissolved. Already burning from the heat those thoughts stoked, she opened her smart mouth and ignited them. She had the nerve to lie to me and I had to humble her.
I am always on the brink, living on the balance of wanting to hurt her and fuck her. It's why I have to hold the knife so tight, why I allow myself to give her little cuts, to let blood. It satisfies the rage just enough, but I could slip and then it could be over.
And I don't want it to be.
Fuck.
That's the thing about keeping a person alive. In a way you are just as much a hostage to them as they are to you.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap.
A bird on the skylight above my bed awakens me. I didn't notice it yesterday. I'll still get sunlight. That was thoughtful of him. I watch the bird attack the glass for no ostensible reason. “Keep trying bird, you'll see there's no point,” I groan aloud.
If I don't look down, or move from the bed, with the white walls and sunny skylight, this almost feels like a vacation in the woods. But the soreness between my legs, on my neck and wrists; the aching muscles and tender spots from when he slammed me against the wall, they are a reminder that these moments are an illusion.
I used to wake up with a day full of chores, constantly feeling overwhelmed. Now, I lie in wait for Night. There are no monotonous tasks, no mundane errands. My survival rests on the most basic acts here. Choosing to eat, sleep, bathe—everything is a delicate balance in this power struggle.
At first, I forced myself not to think about Johnny. It hurt too much to think about how he was coping, what I was missing. But lately, days go by before he comes to mind. Survival doesn’t allow for excess or luxuries. All my energy must focus on the present. But when Johnny does sneak in, it still hurts, not just because I miss him, but because of the guilt I feel in becoming used to a world without him. I wonder if I am becoming my mother, and it scares me, so even in those increasingly infrequent moments when I allow myself to recall Johnny, I have to force him away.
On this morning, when if I squint a certain way things can almost look normal, I feel him, the memories of him, trying to force their way to the surface. I sit up, the sudden movement a way to distract myself, and cry out as soon as I see the balaclava-clad face. He's just sitting there, in the corner of the room in that perfectly void silence he has mastered. I don't know how long he's been watching me.
“Oh fuck!” I scream, catching my breath. You'd think by now, nothing would startle me, but this shit never gets old. “You scared the shit out of me!” I say, like he's an old friend, like he cares, like his intentions were anything but to frighten me, hoping that if I act familiar with him, he'll see me as a person and not just a toy for his sick pleasures.
I brush a wild lock of hair away, and my heart slows a bit as I lock into his blinking eyes peeking through his mask.
I know what he's here for. I think the cat and mouse game stopped yesterday. Instinctively, I cross my legs under the blanket, the one I earned through oral sex days ago.
“How long have you been there?” I ask. It's pointless, but when you have no one to talk to, you try.
He points to a tray that he must have carried in. On it is fruit, water, and a few hard-boiled eggs. I'm hungry, but he keeps me fed enough now so that I don't act like a stray around food.
“Thanks,” I say begrudgingly.
He stands up, and my breath hitches. We may not use money, but nothing here is free. I notice he's dressed well today. At least compared to his t-shirt and torn jeans. Today, he's wearing a buttoned down shirt, with a fresh pair of jeans and boots.
“You look nice,” I add, trying to ingratiate him though the words taste like sour milk on my tongue.
He doesn't respond. Instead, he unbuttons his shirt as he stands over me, those eyes paralyzing me into submission. He rests the shirt gently on the weathered wooden chair behind him, revealing just a white tank underneath, his muscles suggesting his physical domination over me.
His heavy boots clunk loudly against the wooden floor as he slowly strides towards me. I know he does this on purpose. He uses every tool, including sound, to create the ambiance he wants. He is capable of becoming a ghost when he likes.
But today, he wants me to recognize the tension of each step. There are only three needed in this small space before he is standing beside me. He whips off the cover and I gasp. I'm so used to being nude, that I forget I am still covered in the little pink nightie he gave me. He reaches down, softly guiding his hand along my cheekbone and then sharply gripping it to turn my eyes up. His other finger runs along the fresh scrapes on my neck. Then at the neckline of the dress.
He's already hard as he does this, the bulge in his pants taunting just inches from my face.
He pulls a little on the neckline to show me something. Blood. One of my cuts must have bled in my sleep. I don't know all the rules and if that's going to upset him enough to cause some kind of punishment, but he seems to move past it for now, letting the dress fall back against my skin.
In a sudden burst, he reaches for my ankles, turning and pulling me to the edge of the bed. I pant, as he meets me on his knees, positioned between my thighs.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know I was bleeding.”
He doesn't heed my words as he pushes up the hem, running his fingers up and down my lips, triggering me to squirm in a mixture of arousal and discomfort. I told myself I had to hide the old me to get through this, but she claws to the surface. She won't let me completely lose myself in the moment yet.
He takes his rough hands and clamps them down on my thighs, his disciplinary glare saying it all.
I nod.
“How does your pussy feel?” he asks.
“Umm…do you want my honest answer?”
He half grunts.
“It's sore. You're thicker than Carter.” It's the truth, but I add that in there to stroke his ego.
“Don't fucking say his name again,” he snaps. “He doesn't exist here.”
I nod sharply.
He gently unbuttons the tiny pink buttons on my nightie, halfway, so the limp fabric falls open, exposing my breasts.
“Play with your tits,” he orders.
“O-okay.”
I close my eyes and reach up for them, taking deep, staggered breaths as I fondle them. At first, I'm almost too nervous to feel anything, but as my breaths calm, I am able to escape into my touch.
“Open your eyes.” He commands.
I take a beat before following. He's right there, still in front of me, forcing me to look into those eyes. Eyes that have stolen everything. Eyes that have taken me to starvation and filth and then back to life. Eyes that terrified me. Eyes that have watched me come so hard my entire body convulsed.
I hate that they're beautiful. I hate that they are the kind of eyes you could stare at for hours, studying the nuances in their coloring, and how the hues of green, blue and gold change with the light. How can someone so sinister be blessed with something so stunning?
I get lost in them for a moment, slowing my hands.
“Don't stop, Vesp. Only when I say.”
I continue, looking into those eyes as I please my own body, so that I can't associate them with pain at this moment, only carnal pleasure.
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a glass figure. He pushes my legs further apart so I am exposed to him, taking the pointed tip and running it along the wet flesh.
“You want me to fuck you,” he says assuredly. “Your pussy puckers open. It never lies. It wants to swallow my cum again.”
The cabin is quiet, making me self-conscious about my breathing which is heavy and ragged.
He runs his finger along the entrance, and I feel empty. A yearning inside wants him to slip those fingers in and fill the vacuum.
“If you think you're sore today, wait until tonight,” he taunts. “I want tears.”
My lip quivers as I desperately hold in a tear at the rim of my eye, but when he flips me onto my stomach, I let it fall out of his view.
He pulls open my ass cheeks, I hear him spit a few times, then run his wet hands along the hole. Carter has never even asked for this. I've never explored that area. I wrestle for oxygen as he presses me into the mattress. I flail my arms, desperately reaching behind myself and only catching air.
“The more you fight, the more it will hurt. Take a few breaths.” He pulls my face out of the mattress with a sharp yank of my hair.
I pause, realizing the fight is futile. I have to go along with this. Become the girl who adapts. I resist old Vesper's pleas to continue fighting and let my shaky hands claw on the bed sheets.
He presses the glass against the hole first without breaching the entrance. Then slowly, he slides the glass tool into my backside. I cry against the sheets from the pressure. It's not as painful as I thought it would be, but the invasiveness breaches my soul. He glides it in and out a few times, being surprisingly gentle, until the pressure subsides and the feeling becomes something I can't quite label. It's totally new and my brain and body are unsure of the verdict.
“Good dirty girl,” he grunts. It's the first time he's ever complimented me, and it's surprisingly reassuring. It calms me to know I did something to get on his good side. Night spins me onto my back again and comes to his feet. His body shines with a thin layer of perspiration from his efforts. His cock is still rigid through his pants.
“You don't take this out of your ass, only I do. You don't make yourself come when I'm not here today. That pussy, mouth, and ass is mine to fuck. You can play with your tits; you can do anything but come. If you do, I'll know. And I will make you bleed.”
I sit there, stunned, unsure how I'll be able to sit here all day with this thing in me.
“Acknowledge me, Vesper.”
“Yes,” I mutter.
He looks down at my face, streaked with tears, a physical response from the earlier intrusion and steps closer to me.
“You will like this.” He says it as though it's a comfort. I don't take it as him meaning tonight, or just having sex with him. He means all of this. Eventually I will like this life. What kind of mad person takes someone from their home and believes they will ever like it? That's when I realize his weakness. He believes that one day I'll want to be here, and if I can get him to believe that, then I might have the chance to regain my freedom.
“Here you go, Sam.” Katie hands me a cold beer with a warm smile on her face. Scoot wins. I don't want him snooping, so this means I have to visit him and assure him I am a perfectly functioning member of society.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. I lean back on the porch swing as Scoot takes his beer from his wife's hand. Katie's alright in my book. She tries really hard to get me to like her, but she doesn't understand I don't really like people. So the fact that I don't despise her, well she's reached her limit with me. “Dinner was g-great.”
“My pleasure. I'll be right back.”
She leaves me and Scoot on the porch to enjoy our drinks. “See? This isn't so bad is it?” he asks.
“Never ssssaid it was.”
“You sound a lot better than the last time I saw you.”
That's because today you didn't ambush me shortly after an unplanned kidnapping.
I shrug. Whenever anyone calls attention to my stammer, even to compliment a lack thereof, it gets worse. He and my dad never seemed to have understood that very simple concept.
Across the street, a woman comes out onto her lawn with tiny shorts and a green tube top. She's not wearing a bra and her nipples shoot right through the fabric.
“Yeah,” Scoot sighs. She just moved in a few weeks ago. God bless America.”
“She m-married?” I ask. It's a force of habit, wanting to know every little fact about people. Storing it into my mental database to come back to later in the event I'd like to pay a late-night visit.
“You interested?” he asks, surprisingly.
“No. Just don't want her husband to k-k-k-kick our asss-es.”
Scoot lets out a hearty laugh. “You gotta use the technique you know, pretend to be looking at the bushes on her lawn, or admiring the kids playing on the street in front of her. Check her out on your periphery.” He nudges me with the hand that's holding his beer.
Ha, he thinks he can offer me tips on watching people.
Yeah, she's hot for a woman in her forties. She knows it. She's probably always been hot and fed off of that attention. She knows we're watching. She's the kind of woman who likes that. She bends with her ass out a little extra. She sticks out her chest. I like to watch the one who really doesn’t notice. Who smiles about a pleasant thought that crosses her mind. Who doesn’t know the strap of her tank has fallen off her shoulder. Who undresses in front of the mirror and examines her flawless body looking for faults only she can see. Even the modest ones though, in public, they know on some level they're being watched. It's why I do what I do, to get rid of that extra layer of self-consciousness between us. The most intimate way two people can be together is when one doesn't know the other is watching.
Suddenly, the neighbor looks up, Scoot and I both expertly pretend we weren't just discussing her.
“Hey!” She waves. Her eyes move to me, she puts down her watering can and makes a beeline across the street. Fuck. No. Fuck.
I tense up dramatically. Scoot notices. “It's cool man. Relax. She's nice.”
Don't tell me to relax. I can't fucking relax. It's never fucking worked and yet he's always putting me in these impossible positions.
“Heeey! How are you?” she asks Scoot.
“Good, Milly. Getting some gardening done?”
“Yeah, thought I'd do so before your party starts tonight.”
Party?
Scoot looks over at me sheepishly. “Well, it's not a party, just a little thing in the backyard…” he dismisses.
“And who is this, fella?” She runs her finger up and down in my direction, oozing with overdone sexuality.
“Oh, this is my brother, Sam.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” she says, putting out a limp hand for me to take, like she's a lady. I nod and give it a gentle shake.
“Do you live around here?” she asks.
My throat clenches, a bead of sweat rolls down my temple. I don't have a way out of this.
“Y-y-y-y-y-yes.”
Her smile drops a bit and she tilts her head. “Ooooh that's nice.” I can see in her eyes; she's trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. She's thinking I'm a retard. Just like all the kids used to call me.
“I just moved in from Savannah, Georgia, just a few weeks ago. It's been a big move,” she transitions smoothly.
“Milly is getting a fresh start here,” Scoot adds.
“Divorce,” Milly confirms, wagging her tongue and pretending to tug on an invisible noose around her neck. “They say California is where you want to come to start over.”
“Everyone's flocking here,” Scoot replies, guiding the conversation for me. “Our family though, we're originals. Back generations, been here almost as long as this state has.”
I nod to maintain some modicum of participation in the conversation.
“Scoot!” Katie calls from the house. “Can I borrow you for a sec?”
“I'll be right back,” he calls tensely, knowing that I would rather be set on fire than continue this conversation alone.
Milly eases herself against a wooden support, waiting for me to say something else. But I can't. It'll only get worse.
“Scooter invited me to the party, but he didn't mention he had a brother!” she says, playfully shoving my knee.
I give her a shy chuckle. With Vesper, I've spoken clearly more frequently than I ever have. I no longer have to wait for a new home to enter so I can feel that rush that tun
es me like a dialer searching for a crisp channel on the radio. My notes are always off, my words spotty, but when I'm focused on survival, sex, or anger, it's like someone turns my tuner to the right spot and the words come out like a perfect melody.
“Well, I better finish up my gardening.” She finally relents.
I smile and nod.
“I'll see you later then?”
I nod again and give her a friendly wave.
She baby-waves at me before spinning on her heel and shoving her hands in her pocket.
Milly sways her hips as she crosses the street. A recent divorcee out on the prowl. I can smell the desperation.
At any other point in my life I'd be carving out a plan to get into that house and make her regret all the attention she ever begged for. But all I can think about is the pretty girl sitting in her room, with her ass stretched, waiting for me to fuck her.
Scoot failed to mention that the family dinner he had invited me to had grown into a neighborhood cookout. That's him in a nutshell right there: always pretending to give a shit, when he doesn't at all. He doesn't really know me or understand me. He thinks he can just keep prodding and pushing and I'll become like him. He knows this is my nightmare. A social gathering, where I have to talk to a bunch of people, some of whom I have never met. But if I leave he'll end up coming over to apologize and that's the last thing I need.
Just to add to the inherent misery, a few of his neighborhood friends who are cops are here tonight. I’m not worried they know who I am. In fact, when I do have to interact with these guys, I get a kick out of knowing they have no idea. Who would think Scoot’s little brother is The Night Prowler? But cops in general, they remind me of my dad, and I’d rather keep my contact with them to a minimum. I’ve kept my ear out for chatter when I was around them, but the one time work came up, Katie butted in and playfully ordered they not talk shop.
Take Me With You Page 11