Then I do something. It's not really a calculation. It's as animal as the man before me, unfazed by the wounds along his arm and chest. It's beyond language. If I can't speak to the part of himself he's imprisoning, I can speak to the one who's here right now.
I descend to my knees and bow my head. This isn't a standoff. This isn't a battle. This is acceptance. Acceptance that needs to go both ways.
I reach out my hand, not looking up. Hoping he'll accept. That my demands are humble, not defiant. I wait, but there's nothing. Just as I begin to drop my arm, a rough, soaked hand clenches it.
I gasp in shock. Terror and relief wrestle inside of me, unsure of what this means. I look up and my gaze meet his as he pulls me to my feet. My eyes shoot down to the knife in his other hand and I recoil instinctively. He looks down at it, and back up at me, dragging me closer to the barn. He plunges it into the old, cracked wood before slamming me up against the wooden exterior.
“I did this…” he mutters against my lips, “to save you.” Grasping my face between his blood soaked hands, he presses his mouth to mine. A spiteful kiss laced with rage and surrender. Tasting of blood and perspiration. Victory never tasted so bitter.
But he pulls the kiss away as powerfully as he thrust it on me.
Sam grabs my skirt, finding a small tear from my jaunt in the woods and rips it open. He wipes a hand clean on the fabric. He slides his fingers inside of me, afterward bringing them up to his face to see them better. Fresh blood glazes his new fingertips--the remains of the life we created together still slowly trickling from me.
“I'm gonna take you like I did the first time you ran,” he rasps in my ear. This time his reasons are different. Sam finishes ripping my dress open, so that the hot night air breathes on my humid skin, and he runs his mouth along my torso, leaving a scattered trail of blood wherever he touches me. The smell of iron and sweat crawl up my nose inciting a hunger, like the craving for meat. I curl my fingers into his damp hair, through caked blood. It doesn't even phase me. I've been so close to death for so long, it's just a part of my life now.
He stands back up, taking sharp, impatient breaths. His hard chest pushes against mine with each inhale. I reach below and feel his potent need. He lets his jeans fall to the floor, so he is just man — skin, hair, blood, muscle, sweat. Without wasting a second, he grabs me, dragging me into the barn.
It's so fast, but I see a trail of blood lead to the opposite direction, where I can't see, where his earlier violence must lay. He shows me into an empty stall.
“I want to see your body in the light,” he grunts, pushing me down onto the thin layer of hay. “I’m gonna fuck you like an animal.”
The itchy straw sticks to my wet skin as he mounts me. The musky smell of livestock wafts in the air, intermingled with our own natural musk.
He forces his way in. It's not gentle. He lets me scream as he opens me up, his first thrusts slow. Not for my comfort, but because he wants the moment to last. It allows me to relax around his girth, and to enjoy the feeling of his cock in my ass. And just when I have found that comfort, he pumps harder, pulling my hair like he's riding his horse.
He grunts and groans as he plows into me.
This is my punishment.
This is my reward.
Finally, all those times he took a part of me and replaced it with himself have come to this. Because I am deriving a pure, untainted pleasure from this. No guilt. No shame.
I made the right choice to stay. It was a gamble of the highest stakes and it's paid off.
I reach under and play with my clit, taking myself to climax just as he lets out a powerful moan, his cock pulsating within the tight grip of my ass. His fullness and the reverberating echoes of my orgasm drown out the dull cramps in my belly from the loss.
He rolls off of me and onto his back. Something has changed. His eyes are human again. His body not so rigid.
I know better than to expect him to say anything, so I do.
On my knees, I turn to face him. He looks up at me inquisitively.
“I'm here,” I say one more time, before lying beside him, facing him in the fetal position. He doesn't react for the first few seconds, still tentative. But then he slides closer, reaching his arm underneath, and pulling me in close.
I run my fingers along the warm, slick blood on his arm. I’ve never had a problem with gore, one of the reasons I decided I had the fortitude for nursing. I trail along until my finger stops at the gaping wound, and then another.
“Sam…” I lament. He’s hurt himself so many times tonight and I hurt for him. “We need to take care of these. I can stitch you up.”
He doesn’t answer, which is to be expected, but when I look up for confirmation, he’s already asleep. His face is blanketed with serenity underneath the smudges of blood.
I rest against his bloody torso, matted in straw, until we both fall asleep.
Sunlight slips through the wood plank walls and shines into my eyes to awaken me. My stirring wakes Sam, who has wrapped himself around me. I still can't tell if it's affection or mistrust.
“Good morning,” I wince. Despite the full night's sleep, I am still exhausted from the ordeal my body went through and have a strong hankering for steak.
He sits up, barn debris falling from his blood-stained nude body as he stretches. He gives me a curt nod. Good morning to you too.
The blood on his body has dried, but the wounds still glisten with congealed blood. He barely winces as he moves. I don’t know how he handles the pain so well. “We need to get your wounds stitched. You’ve slept in this mess without cleaning them. You’re going to get an infection. And I'm starving. I need iron. I need meat, please,” I propose.
He looks me up and down, and nods thoughtfully. He comes to his feet and offers me his hand. I stand up, remembering I am completely naked. Modesty shouldn't have a place here, but last night, I told him I wanted things to keep growing. So I test him.
“I have no clothes here.”
He points a finger up, signaling for me to stay put. He puts on his jeans and slips out of the stall, running out of my sight, and returns with his t-shirt. He beats away straw from it before handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I offer coyly.
He leads me towards the picturesque farmhouse I had only seen for the first time yesterday. But instead of treating it like some forbidden fortress, he leads me up the stairs and through the front door.
I want to take it all in. The antique furniture I can tell was not collected, but has lived in this home for generations. Spots where there were once frames hung for many years, and removed, leaving just the trace of their outlines on the wall. But he takes me to the bathroom so quickly, I barely have time to absorb and interpret these pieces of him.
In the bathroom is a huge, claw foot, cast iron tub, with a flimsy pale yellow shower curtain draped around it. He turns on the water and gestures for me to enter first. I pull off my shirt and he his jeans and we enter together.
Filth and muck rinse off our bodies and down the drain. That’s when I am able to get a full view of the damage, the deep cuts, possibly a dozen, all carved into thick scar tissue.
But even with the fresh wounds, once the blood is rinsed away, he doesn't look like a monster, but a young man, roughened with scars, but handsome enough for them to only add to his mystique. Nothing about him makes sense. He should have never had to do the things he did to get me, or any woman for that matter. Though I know by now, this has nothing to do with sex.
He cleans my hair and I clean his. Something he's done for me so many times before, but I've never had the chance to reciprocate. Between us, there's silence. Just the sprinkling of the shower water hitting the tub and our bodies.
“Am I staying here?” I ask. I'm used to doing the talking for the both of us.
He shrugs. He didn't plan for this.
He yanks the shower curtain open, giving me one last glance of his dripping naked body before closing it behind him. I fin
ish and towel myself off, wondering where he went. He returns within seconds with a needle kit, thread and rubbing alcohol.
He offers it to me with a shrug. Will this do?
I nod and direct him to sit on the edge of the tub. I thread the needle and take a deep breath, rubbing alcohol along the wound and dipping the needle and thread in the solution.
I plunge the needle into side of his cut. He hisses.
“Sorry!”
He winches and nods, encouraging me to keep going. I weave across the cuts. These aren’t small nicks and the skin is thick from existing scar tissue, so it takes tremendous pain tolerance on his end.
The experience is so wholly unpleasant for him, I cannot understand how or why last night he was the very person who opened his own flesh with a knife.
“What happened? In the barn?” I have to ask knowing he has no way to answer sitting here naked without a pen or pad. He doesn’t acknowledge the question. I didn’t expect even that much anyway.
Whenever I think Sam needs a small break, usually once I’ve wrapped up one laceration, but before moving onto the next, I rub his hair softly, and he allows himself to lean back onto me with his eyes closed, and accept my comfort. When I am finally done, he’s covered in black stitchings, like an old teddy bear being held together after decades of ownership.
“You look like a rag doll,” I laugh.
He snickers, walking over to the sink and running the water so hot it steams, and rinses off his face. As he does that, I tend to the small mess I made working on him. The door closes behind me and I spin around to see that Sam’s left, but the sink is still running. On the large foggy antique mirror over the sink is a finger-written note for me: Thank you. It had to be me so it wouldn't be you. I'm going to get meat. TRUST.
I wander through the house, first looking for something to wear other than the barn-scented t-shirt. His bedroom is right next to the bathroom, so the search is brief. The room is sparsely decorated and orderly. The twin sized bed and wooden desk in the corner hints that not much has changed here for a long time. Books line a shelf above the bed and bookcase on the adjacent wall. He is someone who escapes into fantasy. I pull open a small closet door, in it are many t-shirts and a few button downs. No surprise. But on the far end are a couple of suits. I touch them; the fabric isn't cheap. I know he has means, and that fact only adds to the mystery.
I glance over my shoulder and listen for sounds, just to make sure he isn't here before I tiptoe to a desk drawer. I slowly pull it open and there's nothing but a few pens and a notepad. It's clear this room is just for sleeping so I slip out and try the next room. The door is locked. I go from room to room, searching for clues on the upper level, but he seems to have hidden them in that locked room. This farmhouse looks like an innocent, sweet abode, with floral coverlets on beds, breezy white eyelet curtains, and old wood furniture. But every room lacks that worn-in look of a lived in house. The other bedrooms lack personal artifacts. Only Sam lives here, but it's like he's not really here.
I make my way downstairs to the first level. A cursory search tells me this will go nowhere, and he could turn up any minute. I look down at my shirt and realize the only things that likely survived Sam's tantrum are my dresses. Then sorrow pinches my heart. The baby. I couldn't bear to look at it. As far along as I was, I probably would have been able to tell the sex, but I have no idea. I've always been conflicted about the child growing inside of me. A symbol of my captivity. Of loss. But also a new life. A blessing. Hope. That baby changed things here dramatically. And maybe that was its purpose, to transform things here, not to live.
I've learned since being here to live in the pain, to go through it. Not hide from it or run around it. And going back there is just that. It's just another pain I have to live through.
I find a paper and pencil and leave him a note.
I don't want to wear t-shirts all day, so I've gone back to my cabin to get my dresses. I'll be back in a jiffy. I know your instinct is to chase me. And you can. But you'll just find me rummaging through a mess for my favorite things. Remember, TRUST.
I follow the path to the cabin confidently, reaching it in record time. I can tell an animal scavenged through some of my dry goods and the dish he dropped and I grow nauseous. Our baby. I run inside but it's gone. The blood spot is still there, but spread as if someone tried to clean it up. I tell myself Sam took care of it. I can't allow myself to think an animal came here and ate the tiny corpse. In another time, the mere thought of something like that would have turned me into a heaping mess of tears, but I am toughened now.
I solemnly pick through my things, hoping animals it didn't urinate on them. I rifle through the debris, mourning the record player and torn books. But I manage to pull out all of my dresses from the rubble. Some could use a cleaning, but they are in decent shape. I dust off some random crap from them, when the light glints on something. The Bee Gees record. The first thing he brought to me. It seems to have slid innocuously to the floor behind the table that was holding the record player, now on its side. I smile and grab it. A token of when things began to turn for the better. I think to myself that I will get him to learn the dance. And maybe one day we'll go to the movies together.
We can start over. We can leave here and then he won't have to hide me. We can't get to the place we both want to be until the shadow of our past isn't hovering over us.
I hold onto the record, thinking about my outlandish—or not so outlandish—proposal. Lost in thought, I hear Sam's familiar footsteps crunch against the scattered food on the steps outside my door.
I roll my eyes satisfied that Sam found me doing exactly what I said I would.
“What happened to trust?” I ask, as he enters, my back still facing away from the door.
The feet stop moving, and he's silent. But I am used to that. I have to look at him in order to communicate, either through gestures or notes, so I spin on my heels.
But the person in front of me isn't Sam.
We stare at each other for seconds that seem frozen. He seems just as shocked as me.
I still have that initial instinct to beg for help, but I think about Sam, and what will happen to him if I do. After all this, it feels like a betrayal.
As I stare the familiar face, searching my memory for who he could be. I haven't seen anyone other than Sam for so long, but this man's face feels relatively new. As if I hadn't first seen him that long ago.
He takes a big gulp; I can see from the way he struggles to speak that his mouth is dry.
“Are you…Vesper Rivers?” he asks.
Am I? I have her face, her body, her hair and eyes, but am I the girl that was taken months ago? I don't know anymore. If he's here to save me, he wouldn't be returning her, he'd be bringing back a stranger.
But lying doesn't seem like an option, and I nod hesitantly.
He lets out a heavy breath and stumbles back. “I'm…I'm sorry,” he says, stepping back outside, feeling for the door.
“Who are you?” I ask desperately, confused and frightened by his reaction.
“I…I have to go,” he stammers, shutting the door.
“Wait!” I shout, pounding and pushing against the door as he locks it. “Who are you?” I shout. But as I am so accustomed to, I am met with silence.
I pace back and forth, trying to place the face. It's so familiar. Then, with the intensity of a lightning strike it hits me all at once. I rummage through my things for pieces of the news clippings I tore during one of the times Sam taunted me. I had gathered some and hidden them under my mattress early on. In case I had died but someone found this place, there would be a clue. I scatter them on my messy bed, and frantically piece them together. And that's when I confirm what my gut already knew. There is an image of the press conference. Below, a caption listing the people in it from left to right. The man who just locked me back in my cabin is the man who is supposed to save me: Sheriff Andrew “Scooter” Hunter-Ridgefield.
There's an unlikely c
alm in my truck as I drive back from the butcher. Is this what freedom feels like? I can't remember the last time I didn't feel like a prisoner to my urges. Last night, I realized this could be it. I might not have to live with the constant tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I watched the house for fifteen minutes before leaving. Trust doesn't mean I have to be completely naive. But Vesp didn't leave. I could see her go from room to room through the windows. I expected that. She's starving to know more about me, and it doesn't upset me.
As I pull into the long driveway that leads up to the house, a sensation of dread usurps the fleeting semblance of liberty I felt during this short trip.
Everything looks just as I left it, but something is off. My sharp instincts kick on high alert. Did she play me? Is she gone, after all? I speed along the rocky driveway, bumping up and down the uneven road. I step out of the cab, surveying the vast open space that holds the house and barn.
Fresh tire tracks line the grass in front of the house. I could follow them to see where they lead, but I have to check the house first to see if she's still here.
I walk into the front door and he's sitting there, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a gun pointed at me with the other.
This has been a slow suicide. Every action since the night I first snuck out and climbed that tree. Taking Vesper, allowing her to make me sloppy—that was just when I finally had the guts to pull the trigger.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Scoot, the name I’ve called him since as far back as I can remember. The nickname he used in his bid for Sheriff to make him sound more folksy. But most people know him as Sheriff Andrew Hunter-Ridgefield.
His scowl drips with disgust.
“What have you done?” he asks, his tone a mix of rage and despair.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Oh wouldn't you like to know? Don't worry, the cavalry won't be rushing in here quite yet.”
I take stock of all the things I could bash his skull in with if it came to that. But I won't. As much as I loathe my brother, there's a sense of loyalty that undercuts all that bullshit.
Take Me With You Page 25