by Carian Cole
“Stop chasing him,” I yell, but I’m not sure she hears me or can make out my hoarse, choppy words. Chasing a running dog only makes it run more. If she would stop chasing him and just sit and wait, he’d most likely stop and come back to look for her.
“Freeze!”
The deep voice booms through the forest behind me and, for a moment, I think it’s the man I just strangled—not dead, after all. I stop in my tracks; then I glance back and realize it’s not him.
“Get him!” the girl shrieks.
“Put your hands up and don’t move.” Three cops have guns aimed at me as they inch closer. Their eyes are locked on me, waiting for me to either run off or pull out a weapon of my own.
Oh, shit. They think she’s telling them to get me.
I don’t resist. I don’t try to say anything at all. I do exactly what they tell me to do, their guns still pointed at me and each officer waiting for me to make the wrong move. I slowly put my hands up over my head as two of the officers come after me and the other goes after the girl.
I had completely forgotten about the 911 call and, honestly, I’m surprised they were able to find us. But I now notice that the whole scene is suddenly crawling with people.
Confusion shrouds my brain as I’m put in handcuffs. It hits me how this appears as I look around, at everyone’s hard glares and the accusations on their faces. I barely listen to the officer reading me my rights. They march me past the hole and the dead body that’s being covered, toward the dirt road where several police cars and an ambulance are waiting with strobing lights. Panic has caused my voice to retreat to its hiding place, where it’s only heard in my own head.
Let me go.
I didn’t hurt her.
I saved her.
Hands push me roughly into the backseat of the police car, and the door is slammed in my face before the officer walks away to talk to someone else. The girl is being carried—crying, arms and legs flailing—into the back of the ambulance by a male and female officer. We lock eyes before the doors of the ambulance are closed.
I only wanted to save you.
Tell them I saved you.
Tell them I’m not crazy.
2
Holly
When I close my eyes, I replay the moment he found me.
I was frozen with fear and fascination as he strangled the bad man. I watched as the man who had kept me for years struggled to breathe, his eyes bulging from his head. As much as I wanted him dead, a twinge of guilt twisted up like a vine around my emotions as I witnessed his death. He was, after all, the hand that fed me. He was the only person I had seen or had any interaction with for years.
The man choking him was an animal with long, messy, blond hair and wild eyes, his muscular arms and hands covered with brightly colored tattoos. His voice rough and raw, but the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. He killed my captor with zero hesitation. Once he gained control, that was it. The powerful fierceness that poured from him was controlled. Owned. Unstoppable. He had no fear.
He was beautiful. Exquisite. My captivation quickly shifted from the man who took me to the man who now mesmerized me with every fiber of his existence. He was, in every way, the man I knew would save me.
Too much is happening at once. There are too many people, too many sounds, too many smells, too much brightness. Too much everything. I need my books. I need Poppy.
And where is the prince?
I know these people are doctors and police officers because I’ve seen them on television. Not these exact ones, but similar ones. I lie motionless on a hospital bed as they poke at me, hoping if I don’t move maybe they’ll get bored and go away. Or maybe some crisis will happen, and they’ll all run from my room and forget me to go witness a fight or a proposal. That’s what usually happens on TV.
I’m free. The realization suddenly hits me.
“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” asks a gray-haired nurse. She has a friendly, sincere smile that makes me want to smile back. Earlier, she gently helped me into a thin robe that feels scratchy against my skin. She keeps trying to hold my hand, but I pull it away and shove it under my body to hide it from her. I don’t mind the smiles, but I don’t want touching.
My name, my name. What is my name?
Hollipop, Hollipop, you’re my little Hollipop…
The song Mommy used to sing to me floats through my head. Her voice is as clear as it was way back then, but that’s not my name.
Is it?
I’m given a glass of orange juice and cookies on a tray next to the bed, and my stomach twists at the sight of them. Cold juice! In a real glass, not plastic or paper. I want the treats so bad my hands tremble and my mouth waters, but I’m afraid to touch them and bring them to my lips. Nice things mean something bad will happen, and I don’t want any more bad things to happen today. I resist the urge to throw them at her.
“You must be thirsty and hungry,” the nurse coaxes, and I want so badly to trust her, but I’ve heard those words before. “Do you want something different, honey? I can get you soda, or water, or apple juice. I have crackers, or I can get you a bowl of chicken soup?”
I want every single thing she listed.
Instead, I shake my head defiantly. No, I’m not willing to trade today. I can still stand. I can still lift my head. I can still see clearly. I am not yet sick or weak enough to give into trading.
Disappointment and concern shadow her face. “You can talk to me. You’re safe now. The doctor will be in soon, and she’s going to have a nice talk with you and the police officer, so we can find your family and get you home.”
My heart jumps to my throat, and air rushes up my lungs. Home? I can go home? Mommy and Daddy will finally come get me?
He told me I’d never see my family again and I’d never be going home again. Not ever. He said they didn’t want me anymore and had replaced me with a new little girl who was better than me. Is it possible they’re really coming for me?
My head falls back onto the pillows, my eyelids growing heavy. I remember beds and pillows now, how soft and warm they are. I don’t ever want to lift my head from this softness again.
Clutching my backpack close to me, I let the wave of exhaustion take hold of me so I can dream of my prince with his bright blue eyes. I always knew he would come save me.
Strangers wake me up and smile unfamiliar smiles at me as they talk and whisper among themselves in the corner of the room and in the hallway outside my door. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, or how long I’ve been asleep. There’s a clock on the wall, but I forgot how to tell time a long time ago. The sun shining through the blinds is startling, and I want to go to the window and stare outside. I want to feel the warmth on my face.
I don’t know who these people in my room are, but they’re wearing uniforms so they must be important.
“Where is Poppy?” I finally ask, to no one in particular.
“Who is Poppy?” the nearest woman asks, taking a step closer. The others turn, waiting for my reply.
No one has talked back to me in so long that I’m surprised whenever these new people respond to me. I’m used to watching people talk on television, and sometimes I talked to them, but they never actually talked back or asked me questions.
“My friend,” I answer.
She smiles encouragingly. “Was someone else being held with you in the woods?”
“Yes, Poppy.”
“Is Poppy a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“What happened to Poppy?”
“Poppy ran away. We have to find him. The bad man might get him and hurt him.” Fear, confusion, and sadness wash over me in a wave. Poppy and I need each other. He must be just as scared as I am right now.
The woman steps closer to the bed and holds up a photograph. “Is this the bad man?” she asks, her voice low, almost soothing. “Or is this Poppy?”
I shake my head, my eyes locked onto the photo. “No. That’s the prince. He came t
o save us.”
She nods slowly. “I see. Can you tell me your name?”
I stare back at her, only wanting to take the picture from her so I can keep it. I have been asked my name so many times but…“Hollipop,” I whisper.
The woman smiles again, nodding vigorously. “Yes, that’s very good. It’s Holly,” she says. “Holly Daniels.”
Her words make my breath catch, and those two words repeat over and over like an echo: HollyDanielsHollyDanielsHollyDanielsHollyDaniels…
I pull my backpack closer and lift it onto my lap. On the back, across the top, are faint letters written in black magic marker. Mommy wrote them so I would know it was mine.
The woman leans closer, following my finger as I run it slowly over the faded letters, which are just barely visible. “This is you,” she says softly. “You’re Holly Daniels. You were kidnapped when you were eight years old. Do you remember, Holly?”
Yes. I remember the bad man pulling up to my friend, Sammi, and me on the sidewalk while we were walking home from school. He grabbed my arm so hard I screamed. My friend screamed too, and I watched her run away. I watched her leave me alone. I remember being yanked into the backseat of a dark car and a big hand being held over my mouth. I remember the taste of blood when I bit him.
“You’ve been gone for ten years, Holly,” she tells me very gently. “You’re safe now, and your family is on their way here right now.”
My hands grip the tattered backpack filled with my books. Ten years…that can’t be true…it just can’t. I know how to add—I practiced with rocks and my books—and ten years is so many. Ten years is a big pile of little rocks.
All the questions made me remember my time with the man, especially the beginning. At first, I cried nonstop and begged to go home. When that didn’t happen, I prayed for someone to come get me. When that didn’t happen, I tried to find a way out of the room I was trapped in. When there was no way out, I read my books, over and over and over, losing myself in the stories until I became a part of them. That’s how I found out the prince would come save me. It was in all the books, clear as day. So I waited as patiently as I could for him to come.
Even after the bad man gave me a television, I continued to read the books every day. They were my lifeline and the only thing I had that was mine, from before the bad man. I slept with my head on my backpack, using it as a pillow, and the words from the books inside seeped into my dreams, saving me little by little, telling me not to give up hope. Sometimes, the man would take me out of the basement, cover my head with something dark and smelly, and carry me to a hole in the woods. He’d leave me there, to make me appreciate him more. I have no idea how long he kept me in the hole each time, but it felt like forever. And he was right. I was always glad to see him when he came back and pulled me out. Even he was better than total darkness and silence.
I didn’t realize it had taken the prince ten years to finally come, but he did, and that’s all that mattered. I wonder when he’ll be coming back for me, to take me to the happily-ever-after part.
I hope it will be soon.
As much as I kick, scream, and play dead, people continue to fuss over me, making me feel very uncomfortable. They wash me and brush my hair, and I scream the entire time until they finally leave, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief. I wish I could change the channel and see something else now. I don’t like this show anymore.
I pick at the food they gave me, leery of its hidden agenda and odd textures and flavors. I yank it all apart with my fingers and nibble on tiny pieces, my tongue searching for a hint of acrid flavor that will make me feel tired and sick. After my meal, I huddle on the bed, pulling the thin white sheet against me, wondering what’s going to happen next. My question is answered instantly when a group of people burst into the room and close the door behind them.
Trapped in a moment I once begged and cried for, I feel numb, both mentally and in my heart. They stare at me, and I stare back. At first, I don’t recognize them, but slowly their faces merge with my memories and small flickers of recognition speed up my pulse.
My parents look older, with slightly graying hair, but they still look like they do in my very dim memories. My mother looks a lot like I remember her, still with shoulder-length blond hair, the same color as mine. She’s beautiful, like a movie star. My older brother is a handsome man now, not a fifteen-year-old boy who used to give me rides on his shoulders and push me on a swing in our backyard. My father looks like an older version of my brother, with the same light brown hair, although my father has gray streaks through his. They have the same brown eyes. Both of them are big, strong, and athletic.
I shift my attention back to the TV on the wall, unease rippling through me at the way they’re looking at me. Like they’re waiting for me to do something that I don’t know how to do, or expecting me to say words that will take away the pain and confusion in their eyes.
I’m in a cloud of surrealness, and I feel nothing but curiosity about these people as they stare at me. As the seconds tick by, I become more and more uncomfortable under their intense expressions and sobs, and I wish they would go away. I want Poppy. I want my prince. They don’t look at me this way.
My parents suddenly come forward and try to hug me, and my body stiffens from the unwelcome, foreign touch. I should know them, and feel safe with them, but I don’t. They’re just as much strangers to me as the nurses and doctors who have been coming and going.
Instinctively, my hand rises in self-defense when my mother reaches out to touch my face, and she starts to cry so hard my father has to console her and guide her away from me. I let my mind drift back to my stories, where it’s safe and comfortable.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl…
“Holly? Are you listening?” My brother has pulled a chair next to my bed and lightly touches my arm. “Holly?”
“Huh?” I shake my head and blink at him. I didn’t realize he was talking to me. I forgot Holly is me.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says hesitantly. He smiles, but when I don’t return it, it falters. “I always knew someday you would come home. I missed you. We all did. We just can’t believe you’re really here.”
I nod and hug my backpack tighter. He reaches a hand toward me again, but I shrink back. He blinks at me with a look of surprise and hurt at my reaction and pulls his hand away.
“Whatever happened, it doesn’t matter. It’s all behind you now.” He pauses, his expression sincere and almost hopeful as he leans forward. “All that matters now is that you’re home where you belong, and you’re safe.”
I listen, but my eyes are on my parents, who are now out in the hallway talking to doctors and police people. And a cute little blond girl holding my mother’s hand.
“Who’s that?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
Zac’s eyes follow mine questioningly before he turns back to me. ”That’s Lizzie,” he says carefully. “Our little sister. She just turned six.”
My teeth clench together as I scan her from head to toe. Lizzie looks almost exactly like I did before the bad man came and took me away. A perfect, happy little girl with braided hair and clean clothes, hanging on to Mommy’s hand. She glances around nervously at the people walking by, and Mommy pulls her closer to her, protectively.
The bad man hadn’t been lying about a replacement.
Zac’s mouth is set in a thin line as he watches me for few long moments. “Mom didn’t think you’d be ready to meet her yet,” he says, his tone flat. “They didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed isn’t what I’m feeling at all.
I’m feeling like this is a show I never want to watch again.
3
Tyler
I’m not sure how the news traveled so fast, but somehow what happened in the woods has spread like wildfire in this small town. By the time the cops bring me to the station, a crowd of crazy, pissed-off people are waiting in the parking lot, yelling names and accusati
ons at me as the cops try to maneuver me through them to get to the door:
Kidnapper!
You’re a monster!
Pedophile!
You’ll burn in hell, you freak!
Murderer!
Rot in prison!
Lock the psycho up!
I use my shoulder to wipe someone’s spit off the side of my face and keep my head down. I became an outcast in this town when I was sixteen years old, so I’m used to people staring at me and treating me like a sideshow freak. But I still can’t believe these idiots think I could actually hurt a young girl. I’m the one who found her and saved her from that psychopath. Doesn’t that make me the hero? Fucking morons.
“What were you doing out in the woods so early in the morning?”
I stare at the wall behind their heads, craving a cigarette really fucking bad and getting edgier by the minute. The bright light of the room is bothering my eyes, and the walls are closing in on me.
For hours the detectives have had me holed up in this tiny, stale room at the station, asking me the same questions, which I don’t try to answer. After the display in the parking lot, I don’t trust anyone. Especially when they’re all trying to pin kidnapping and murder charges on me.
“We know you can talk, Tyler, so cut the shit,” Britton says. The haggard-looking older detective doesn’t hide his disgust for me. He checks his watch for the hundredth time then glares at me. “We’re tired. Answer the fucking questions so we can all get out of here.”
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and thrum my fingers on the table between us. Nobody understands how hard it is to make myself talk, how much my own ears hate hearing my voice, or how difficult it is to just get the words out of my head, especially when I’m stressed out. I’m not stupid—I know part of it is psychological and part of it is physical, but that doesn’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference to me.