Left (Still Standing, #1)

by Graves, T. R.

  "HELP! I NEED HELP N—" I scream louder than ever but am stopped midsentence when Colt backhands me, jerking my head back and against the headboard.

  When he goes over to the dresser and rummages around in a drawer, I notice that the furniture he'd moved out a few days ago is back. Nothing about that realization gives me a warm fuzzy. Instead, it signals to me that he's both psychotic and psychopathic. In his delusional state of mind, he's assumed that all he needed to do is to bring the furniture—me—back to the apartment and everything would instantly go back to the way it was a week ago.

  No way in hell!

  I'm just about to call for help again when he shoves a balled-up pair of socks into my mouth—muffling my every word—and holds it in place by using the tie to gag me.

  "Now, that should make it impossible for anyone to hear you or for you to talk while I'm talking," Colt says, cupping my cheeks in the palms of his hands, pulling my forehead to him, and kissing me tenderly.

  Nothing about the love and tenderness he's showing me right now bears the remnants of the way he just backhanded and gagged me.

  "I wish you hadn't made me hit you. I've been promising myself all day that I'd never lay another hand on you if we were ever together again. Then you go and make me do it. Why are you suddenly so difficult? You've never been like this before," Colt says before gritting his teeth and squinting his eyes. "It's that guy you've been fucking. He's changed you."

  I shake my head, fighting to stay away from him, his repulsive kisses, and his abuse. Something about being tied up and unable to get away from Colt sends through me a wave of panic similar to the one I experienced the only time I ever rode a rollercoaster.

  Dr. Aaron and I went to Six Flags over Texas in Dallas. Always a thrill-seeker, he thought the bigger and scarier the ride, the better. I wanted to have his sense of adventure so bad that I agreed to go on one of his rides with him. With a good-spirited gleam in his eyes, he picked the biggest and scariest one.

  We waited in line forever. I had plenty of time to turn back. I didn't. I was determined to have an adventure with him. When it was finally our turn, I hopped on the cart we'd been assigned like I was a pro. Nervously giggling, I waited while the shoulder harness came down over my head and shoulders and the attendant came by to make sure I was secure.

  The instant the ride took off, I regretted my decision. With a pure and unadulterated panic, I jerked against the restraints. When I realized there was no going back and no way to free myself, I screamed as if it were a matter of life and death... because for me, it was. I was sure the drops and turns and twists were going to be the death of me.

  Right here... right now, I feel like I did that day on the rollercoaster. I'm sure that if I don't get loose from these ropes and away from Colt, I'll die, and it makes me want to scream for dear life. Instead, I close my eyes and take several long, calming breaths. I may want to scream, but it will not help. A clear level head is the only weapon I have at my disposal.

  I can't lose that.

  With my eyes closed, I envision a Colt who hasn't had a nervous breakdown. I pretend he's not my stalking ex-boyfriend who'd rather kidnap me than be without me. I imagine that I'm not bound and gagged or scared to death and open my eyes. I plan to study Colt's every move and watch for the slightest advantage.

  "Bay, you and I need to talk. We can't do that"—he waves around my face—"with you tied up like this, but I can't take any of it off if you're just going to yell for help. If you promise that you'll listen to me and let me talk, I'll get rid of the gag."

  I may not know what I'm going to do or how I'm going to do it, but I do know I need to be untied.

  It's my only shot.

  I nod.

  "You promise you won't scream?"

  I nod again.

  "Good girl," Colt says, kissing my cheek this time.

  He painfully pulls the sock from behind the tie—leaving my gag in place—and waits a second, watching me to see if he's going to have to shove it back in. Again, I have to fight my instinct to scream. I behave, reminding myself that I can't be bound and gagged if I have any hopes of freeing myself from this familiar stranger.

  Once he's sure I'm not going to scream my head off, Colt releases the knot on the tie and slides it down to my neck and tilts up my head. He ducks in quickly and kisses my lips. He pulls back and watches me before kissing me again. Like before, he pulls back for less than a second before he kisses me one last time. This kiss is deep, and he's pulling me into him like he can't get enough of me.

  I want to jerk away, but I don't. I play along since I can't afford to antagonize him and he has the tie that can be used as a noose still wrapped around my neck. With a sigh, he breaks free from our embrace, looks down at me, and strokes my hair.

  I study him harder than he studies me. My life depends on me picking up on the tiniest opportunity. As much as I hate to admit it, I know Colt better than anyone. Because of that and without his saying a word, I see in his glassy eyes, his clenched jaw, and his deep regret that Colt is not kissing me because he thinks we're going to get back together.

  He's kissing me... GOOD-BYE!

  "Colt, I want you to think about what you're about to do! Just because Wyatt Colt Henderson II is your father doesn't mean you will not rot in jail if you kill me," I mutter, hoping against all hope that I've misread his intentions.

  Sardonic, Colt laughs. "You always were able to see through me, Bay. That's why I love you. The problem is that if I can't have you... no one will. If I can't have you... I'd rather be dead."

  Holy hell! Holy hell! Holy hell!

  Desperate, I say, "Colt, I swear to God we'll be together for the rest of our lives if you'll just stop scaring me like this."

  Colt's eyes swell with tears, mucous runs from his nose, and he stares at me like I've just been fatally shot. "Bay, I-I know what a kiss feels like when you love someone," he says, wiping his nose on his shoulder and looking back at me. "I know this because I was getting those kinds of kisses until last Thursday. The way you just went through the motions—kissing me but not really kissing me—tells me all I need to know. You don't love me anymore, and you never will," Colt says. His words are muffled by tears and phlegm. Sorrow and desperation.

  "Colt. You don't know me as well as you think if you believe for one minute I don't care for you. Jesus! I'd give anything in the whole world if I didn't care. I swear I would," I say, nearly sobbing.

  "Shh! Don't cry, Bay. I love you so much. We're going to be together forever. We'll never have to leave each other. I promise," Colt says as if his every word were consoling. His words coupled with the gleam in his eyes is anything but reassuring, comforting, soothing.

  It's exactly the opposite.

  Nervous, I stutter, "Wh-what are you going to do, Colt?"

  Colt laughs and it's a detached and cruel kind of laugh. "Well, Bay... I thought since you have a history of mental illness in your family..." Colt stops midsentence when I look at him like he's mistaken. Then he answers my wrinkled brow with one of his own. "You know... your mother."

  Oh!

  Then he pulls a note from his pocket and flattens it out. "I thought I'd make sure the world knows why you killed yourself," Colt says, raising his eyebrows dramatically, "after you've killed me."

  What the hell?

  "Do you hear yourself, Colt?"

  "I do," he says smugly. "I can tell you exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to slit your wrists just like your mother did and drop you in the tub until you bleed to death or drown, whichever comes first."

  Colt seems to thrust his chest out the tiniest bit and sits up a little straighter. He's as proud of the poignancy of his plan as I am appalled at what he's contemplating. When I try to pull away from him, he snatches the tie around my neck.

  "You don't need to do that, Colt. I'll stay here with you. I'll help you get better. Stop talking like that. It's not funny," I say, glancing around and trying to formulate an escape plan.

 
When I catch sight of the bathroom, I remember the chief's comments about staying out of the bathroom because of the weapons found there. Right now, a weapon is exactly what I need. I think about everything in the bathroom I can use against Colt. Knowing I'll fair better if I envision myself using it, I do just that.

  I could use a razor to cut him... distract him long enough for me to run. I could break a glass and use it to keep him away while I make a break for it. If I can't find anything else, I can always use a toothbrush to jab into his eye.

  When I see the scissors on the dresser near the bathroom, I know exactly what I'm going to use to bring Colt down. I also know my plan is dangerous. He could take them and use them on me before I have the chance to do anything to him.

  "Oh... I'm not trying to be funny," Colt—completely oblivious to my thoughts—says.

  While he's talking, he unties my ankles from the bed and ties them together. After he's finished releasing my feet from the bed, he goes to work on my wrists. Like he did with my feet, he frees my wrists from the bed before tying them to each other.

  Satisfied with the modified version of freedom he's given me, Colt uses the wrist restraints to pull me closer to him, off the bed, and toward the bathroom. I eye the scissors as we pass, but there's no opportunity for me to grab them and gouge out his eyes, which is exactly what I'd love to do to him right now.

  Inside the bathroom, Colt—who is by now clinical, calm, and relaxed to the extreme—unsnaps and unzips my pants and slides them and my panties down to my feet before asking me to step out of them.

  The Colt I knew a week ago would have ferociously attacked and made love to me. He never could control himself around me if I was nude or half-dressed. His complete apathy tells me he's too busy carrying out his asinine plan to concern himself with anything else. Every time he touches me, my shaking becomes more volatile.

  In order to get my blouse off, Colt unties my wrists from each other. He has no patience with the blouse's long sleeves or his inability to get them over the cast. As quick as a flash, he dashes back into the bedroom, snatches the gigantic pair of scissors, and stomps toward me. I duck my head and curve in on myself.

  I assume he's finally snapped, that he's going to stab me to death. He doesn't. Instead, he begins cutting away at my cast. Something about it—the symbol of what he did to me—is upsetting and he wants it gone.

  "Colt, what are you doing? My wrist is broke. I need that on," I insist.

  Sniffling and wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, Colt says, "No, Bay. You're not going to need casts or restraints where you and I are going. You will only need my arms around you."

  Everything about Colt reminds me of the calm before a storm. A category-five hurricane. It's all I can do to stay as composed as I do when I say, "Colt, let's talk about the good times. There were plenty of those. We just need to remember what they were."

  Colt shrugs. "That's all I've been thinking about, Bay. You're the one who can't seem to remember them. You're the one who is putting a few days of bad ahead of years of good."

  At that very moment, Colt breaks the cast wide open, rips it from my arm, and tosses it behind me. Then he slides my shirt up and over my head, leaving me stripped bare in the middle of the bathroom. Nothing about my nudity is erotic or tempting to him. He's too interested in his plan for us to spend eternity together.

  Without a moment's hesitation, he drags me over to the bathtub and orders me to step into it. I square my shoulders and silently refuse. He gives the neck tie a jerk, and I fall back and into the tub, hitting my head on the tile surrounding it.

  When I've finally shaken off the stars, I see that Colt has taken off his own clothes. He has his back to me and he's opening the medicine cabinet.

  I could break that mirror and use one of the largest broken shards to stab Colt.

  With a new sense of urgency and fighting for my life, I jump to my feet. I'm about to lunge toward him, grab him around the neck, and try my best to choke him until he passes out when Colt twists around and faces me. That's when I see that he's ceremoniously holding an old-fashioned straight razor. I'm stopped in my tracks.

  He really is recreating my mother's death.

  "Jesus! Colt! Don't do this. You don't have to do this," I say, and my voice is high-pitched and unnerved.

  "Bay, this is a way for us to always be together. It's what's best," Colt says, studying my wrists and nodding like it's finally time.

  He turns the water on scalding hot and full blast. The temperature doesn't bother me. As a rule of thumb, the hotter the better when it comes to baths. What bothers me is the rate at which the bathtub is filling... and the memories of my mother's suicide. I can still recall—with perfect clarity—the way she floated beneath the surface of the murky red water.

  In a faraway and subconscious kind of way, I wish Colt would drug me again. At least then my death wouldn't be slow and torturous and full of memories I've spent a lifetime forgetting.

  "Colt... please. Please don't do this, Colt!" I plead, dropping to my knees, putting my hands in front of me, and begging him to reconsider what he's about to do.

  He shakes his head, and with his final sardonic laugh, I know there's nothing I can do to make him change his mind. He sits down behind me in the tub, grabs me around the waist, and twists until my back is against his chest. As if I were not fighting at all, he then pulls me down between his legs and puts a leg at a time over mine before intertwining our ankles and pinning me down.

  I don't give up. I struggle to free myself from his grip. This goes on for a long time, but he never loses his advantage. He's too strong, and I'm too weak. As soon as he's sure I'm unable to offer another ounce of resistance, he takes my hands and twists my wrists until he can see them.

  "Colt, please don't," I plead again.

  He ignores me and the water—which has made its way to the middle of our chests—splashing up the sides of the tub as he puts my wrists to his lips and kisses them.

  "Bay... I've always loved you. I need you to know that," Colt whispers.

  "If you love me, Colt, you won't do this. You'll let me go and get the help you need," I say, desperately trying to jerk my hands away from his grip.

  Rather than let me go, his hold gets tighter, and as soon as it does, a searing pain shoots from my broken wrist down to my fingers and up my shoulders.

  "Ouch! Goddammit, Colt! It's broken! It hurts!" I wail.

  Without an ounce of remorse or regret... or hesitation, he picks up the straight blade and slices my broken wrist. In a slow motion and surreal way, I watch the clean and perfect line of blood burst from the wound and drip into the tub. Each blood droplet forms its own spiraling scarlet ribbon as it coils its way to the bottom of the clear water before dissipating and tainting its pureness.

  While I'm screaming for my life, Colt takes the blade and slices into the other wrist. An instant later, the same thing happens. A line of blood, large crimson droplets, scarlet ribbons coiling their way downward, darkening of the water. More ominous than anything is the sense that I'm about to die in quite nearly the same way my mother died.

  Making everything all the worse, the bath water is now all the way up to my chin. While Colt holds me tight and makes me watch it crawl up the sides of the tub, I try to figure out how—with blood loss weakness—I'm going get away.

  Ignoring me and my thoughts, Colt takes the blade and slices both of his own wrists. Instantly obvious is the fact that his cuts are deeper and more traumatic than the ones he gave me. In the back of my mind, I wonder if subconsciously he fought the monster inside him, if he purposefully made sure the slices on my wrists were not deep enough to kill me instantly.

  Does it really matter? I'll drown even if I don't bleed to death.

  In a bizarre ritualistic fashion, Colt puts his wrist to mine, pulls the tie from my neck, and binds our bleeding wrists together.

  "Now we're bound by blood, babe. You and me... forrreeverr..." Colt slurs, signaling to
me the fact that his pulsing cuts are causing significant symptoms for him already.

  At that very instant, the dark-red water makes its way over my mouth, and I realize it will only be seconds before it rises above my nose. Tilting my head back and up, I'm trying my best to keep my nose above the water line, but Colt's weight and his last bit of superhuman strength are working against me and pulling me down.

  I don't give up. I sit up as straight as I can with Colt pushing me down and pray that I can keep fighting. Deep down, I have my doubts. The last few days, all of tonight's fighting with Colt, and the anemia is taking its toll on me. It's getting nearly impossible for me to move, much less battle against Colt's tangled muscles and limbs.

  When the water covers my nose, I hold my breath and bounce. My only goal is to pop up above the surface just long enough to suck in a fresh breath. No matter how hard I try to get away from Colt or how much force I use when I try to bounce, I stay trapped beneath the water and am unable to breathe.

  Before I know what's happened, my body's instincts take over. I open my mouth and suck in a deep, deep lungful of bloody bath water. On its way in, it stings my nose and throat like its fire rather than water. The underwater coughing that follows only causes more water to be sucked into my lungs and succeeds in drowning me quicker.

  Seconds later, everything stops hurting, and I'm no longer fighting death. I'm welcoming it, welcoming a kinder, gentler place where there's no mental or physical torture.

  As if I'm living through a dream, I watch as my wrist separates from Colt's, and we drift in different directions. Because we are still physically tied to each other, I know logically this has got to be one of those out-of-body experiences people come back to life and talk about. Only there won't be any coming back for me.

  With the same dream-like quality, I see Momma's hand, her sweet, beautiful hand, reaching for me and trying desperately to pull me away from Colt, my murderer. With her return, I'm overwhelmed with relief because a part of me that has been missing for so long is finally back. I feel complete and whole for the first time since her death.