by Rowan Hanlon
“Oh, you think you know everything but apparently, you don’t,” he said. “You don’t even know when someone is following you into your sad condo where you spend your nights alone, sometimes crying.”
“You were spying on me?” she asked. “You put some nanny cam shit in my house with a little camera? Is that what you did? If I’d known that, I’d have given you a show, you sick fuck.”
He didn’t respond, but then he pulled out the pliers. The sight of them made Sloan seize up and she backed up, though there was nowhere to go. Even so, the pliers sent her into a panic and her feet pushed against the floor, shoving her back into the wall, as if she thought if she pushed hard enough the wall would give and release her.
“We both know who’s in charge here,” he said. “And it ain’t you.”
She didn’t respond. What could she have said? Nothing would have worked. This person had a one-track mind and nothing was going to change it. There was no reasoning with madness and she knew that. She knew how crazy he was. He was so crazy he scared her, though her pride refused her to allow it to show.
“What do we have left?” he asked, holding the pliers out towards her. “A toenail? One toenail? One itty bitty little toenail?”
He grabbed her hands and looked at them, smiling. “Oh, I see these are starting to grow back. Maybe I can take them off again.”
She jerked her hands back, which infuriated him. He grabbed her head, pulled it to his and hissed, “What you fail to realize is just how fucked you are. There is no getting out. Therefore, there is no getting to me.”
“I will get out of here,” she said. “That’s a promise.”
He laughed as if she amused him so very much. “You? Get out of here? You will never, ever see the light of day again.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “And I will bask in the sun when I do.”
“You ain’t going nowhere,” he said.
“I will,” she told him. “I will escape this hellhole. And I will hunt you afterwards. I will hunt you down and then I will kill you.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “Sure, sure. You scare me so much.”
“Just you wait and see,” she said, the confidence rising in her voice. “I’m getting out of here.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he told her.
“It will,” she said, nodding. “It will happen. I will get out of here.”
And she had. While it hadn’t taken her long to realize that the chains he had put her in, binding her arms and feet, were connected to a bolt that was drilled into the wall, it did take a few days to admit to herself that she couldn’t do anything about it. And this really pissed her off. Fuck the bolt was a common phrase that scurried through her mind numerous times throughout the day. She’d stare at that bolt for hours, hating it, hating the person who had made it, hating the store that had sold it to that bastard. She’d yank and pull on the chains but the bolt never, ever gave. And, of course, the wall was made of cinderblocks. They were unyielding. They were solid. She might as well have been chained to a monolith.
However, she knew, like anyone else, that cinderblocks can crumble when a person starts prying at them with a sharp object. She had no sharp objects. But he did. He brought in—and used—sharp objects on her all the time. One day, he would forget one and then she would use it to break free. All she needed was one screwdriver, a knife of some sort or even those pliers he loved to use. That’s all. He’d just have to make a mistake and forget. Once he did that, she was as good as gone. And so, she waited, biding her time, watching him and his behavior, zoning in on his faults and weaknesses. And she would exploit them whenever possible. His main weakness was his confidence. She knew she had to chip away at that just like if she ever got a blunt object, she could chip away at the cinder blocks. Chipping away would be what would save her. She just had to finesse her strategy.
He eventually made his mistake, as he was bound to. The day he came in with the pliers was the day he made his mistake. That day, she got him so riled up that he couldn’t see straight. He was on the verge of just ending her, she could tell. His head was about to explode in rage. She wasn’t easy. She didn’t go along. She never begged. Her only weapon was her mouth, which she used to break him down. She not only told him how much he was going to suffer when she got him back, she told him how everyone in the world despised him. She told him how pathetic he was and that his mother should have had an abortion. And, eventually, it got to him.
It was that day that it did. She got to him so much he threw the pliers at her, barely missing her head. They landed near her feet with a loud clang on the concrete floor. He didn’t even notice, not with all the rage he was feeling. He stomped out of the room, slammed the door shut and cursed all the way down the hall, shouting expletives that would make even the most hardened criminal cringe.
And Sloan smiled. She smiled and used her foot to get the pliers to her hand. And once in her hand, she turned to the wall and began to chisel out her freedom.
This took days. Cinderblocks are thick and they are coarse and they make hands bleed. Soon enough, the chain began to give a little. Whenever he was in the room, she managed to hide the pliers by sitting on them and turn his attention to other matters. She never stopped insulting him. She never gave in. And it drove him crazy. He could not, would not, break her. The only way he could do that was to kill her. And she wasn’t going out like that.
The chain was connected to a bolt that was screwed into the wall. It was hard work as the nails on her fingers had still not grown out. But she kept at it, bleeding oftentimes. She was determined to get out of there. There was no stopping her.
And then, like a miracle, it happened. The bolt became looser and looser and it gradually got to the point where she could twist it with just a little effort. And, soon enough, it gave and she was able to pull it out, marveling at its size. It was the biggest bolt she’d ever seen and she wondered how he’d even gotten it in the wall.
She still had the chains on her hands and on her feet but she could now walk around the room. And she did so, freely. He rarely let her out of the chains and she couldn’t even really remember the last time he did. She looked around the room, squinting in the semi-light the florescent gave from above. There was a steel table in the middle of it, the one he threw her on so he could do his torture. The table had a rack on the bottom, but there was nothing on it. There was her bathroom bucket, which he rarely changed. And that was it. There were a few pieces of papers strew here and there, but they were all insignificant.
As Sloan looked around, she wondered what sort of room this was. She knew she was in some old, abandoned industrial warehouse or even a factory. She sensed that she was on the outskirts of town, far off of the interstate. But the question now in her mind was how to get out of here once she got through that door.
She turned to the door. It was locked, of course. It was a thick, steel thing, ugly in its decade’s old peeling paint. He had the key. He would come in, shut the door and then turn to her and grin. At least that’s what she thought he did. He wore a mask that covered the lower part of his face. For all she knew, he could have been grimacing. but she knew he was grinning. He was the kind of person who got an enormous amount of pleasure out of what he did. Therefore, it made him happy and that made him grin. Hence, she hated his grin. She wished she could cut it off his face.
But that wasn’t what was important now. What was important was figuring a way out of the building and then on to safety. But where exactly was she in the building? The absence of windows would lead one to think they were in the basement.
If she were in a basement, which she had a feeling she was, she’d have to find the stairs that led up to another ground-level floor. And then she’d have to find her way out from there. And, of course, she had to account for him following her, especially since she was in the chains. She looked down at them. There were two cuffs around her wrists and a chain that connected them, then tw
o cuffs on her ankles and another chain there that connected them. She tried to run with the chains and found that, while difficult, she could, if she kept the ones on her wrists close to her body and if she made small, quick steps with her feet. However, it might be easier to jog. No matter what, she wouldn’t be able to run that fast with the chains. If he followed her and he caught her, it was back in the room or, even, death.
Sloan turned that thought over and over in her mind. It was either try to escape or it was death. Certain death. These were her options and both were grim.
Another thing to take in to account was the state she was in. She was weakened by the beatings and he almost starved her. She was so weak from not eating enough she usually didn’t have enough energy to move, which was probably the point. Her meals typically consisted of a dirty looking bottle of water that he’d probably bought at some crummy convenience store then threw in the back of his truck or whatever vehicle he drove, and a few pieces of white bread. That was pretty regular, about once a day. Once he gave her a pack of peanut butter and crackers. Once an opened can of roast beef, which smelled like death. But she’d eaten it. She had no choice. She was so starved she had stopped menstruating. She was actually surprised that she was still alive. The food he’d given her wasn’t enough to feed a small dog.
Considering all of these factors, she could not be chased by this maniac. She could not handle it, not with the chains, not in her weakened condition. She would not find an exit, she would not escape. If he came after her, it was the end of her and she knew it. Getting out of the room was important but so was staying alive. Even if she ran with all her might, she would inevitably fall and then he’d grab her and take her back to the room. Or he’d kill her.
Then, all of a sudden, it occurred to her what to do. The solution was brilliant in its simplicity. She’d have to find a way to either kill him inside the room or she’d have to disable him in such a manner he couldn’t run after her.
Sloan paused and remembered the game he’d made her play, almost on a daily basis. It was called “You Better Run.” They played the game inside of the room. When he first told her, “Shhh…. Shhh… Don’t say a word. Be still… And be quiet. Play the game and never rest because I’m coming for you. Wait it out… Wait forever. But just know there is no running and there is no escape. So be quiet, stay quiet, and wait for me to come for you. If you run, if you dare, you won’t run far. But then again, you better run if you know what’s good for you.”
Sloan didn’t understand the dynamics of the game and looked around the room in bewilderment. Was she supposed to run? And where? Into the wall? She turned to him in confusion and then he cracked the belt he’d been holding on the side of his leg. She yelped and ran into a corner of the room and he laughed and laughed and laughed.
“You dumb bitch,” he had said. “We’re not playing hide and seek.”
She had looked at him, wondering just how crazy this person was and shook her head. Then he came at her with the belt and, for her foolishness, she was beaten across the back with it. She was beaten until she passed out from the pain. When she woke up, she was again chained to the wall.
They didn’t play that game much anymore. This meant he was getting tired of her and would probably soon kill her anyway. She had to make an attempt at escape. If not, she would die in this room from starvation. There was really not even a way for her to commit suicide and she’d thought about that a lot when she first got there.
So, it was either an attempt at escape or it was a slow, excruciating death. So, it was an attempt at escape.
The plan had to come off without a hitch. There could be no hiccups, no mistakes. And, most importantly, he could never know she was planning on escaping. He had to always feel like he was in charge. And he had to be caught off-guard. He had to be relaxed. And one way to get anyone relaxed was to get them to talk about their favorite subject. She would guess his favorite subject would be himself and all the awful things he’d done to other, unfortunate women over the years.
Yes, she had a feeling she wasn’t his first. He knew exactly what to do, how to get her, how to make her hurt, how to make her cry. He was meticulous in his approach at torture. Just picking this hellhole was smart. It was so far off the beaten path, everyone had probably forgotten it existed—if they had known it existed in the first place.
So, yes, he’d done this before and, she guessed, he’d done it a lot. And these types were unusually, abnormally confident in what they were doing. They didn’t second guess and they didn’t hesitate. They were resolute in their plans of violence. But what were they seeking? In the end, what satisfaction did they get for doing this to another human being?
Sloan pondered this for a while, unable to come up with a reasonable explanation of this need to hurt women. But it did give her pause. Where did this need to do that come from? This urge these bastards could not control? Perhaps it was just a form of anger at women, a form of misogyny. It was certainly that. And much, much more. This went beyond the pale.
When Sloan heard him at the door on that day, she had been standing off to the side, gazing at the wall, thinking about nothing. She had decided to just go for it. She had decided it was time. And when she heard him, she breathed a sigh of relief. Today was the day she sealed her fate. Whatever actions she took, she would take responsibility for. If the plan worked, she would congratulate herself. If it failed, she would die in one way or another.
She hurried to the other side of the room, pushed the bolt back into the wall and waited. He entered, glanced at her and then threw her a bottle of water and two pieces of stale white bread. She took the bread and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing hurriedly. Then she drank the water until it was all gone. For one small second, she actually felt refreshed. Then she turned her gaze on him.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said. “Am I your favorite?”
“Favorite what?” he asked and leaned against the table.
“Victim,” she said.
He eyed her and shook his head slightly, as if he were telling himself that sometimes he just didn’t know what to make of her. Then he said, cold as ice, “No, you’re not. Not by a long shot.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, then really laid on the patronizing, like she would if she were breaking up with a particularly bad boyfriend, “Knowing that makes me realize that our time together has come to an end. We’re both really, really sick of each other. It’s time we ended it.”
“I’m not getting what you’re saying,” he said.
“We both know I’m not getting out of this room,” she said. “And I just want you to know that what time we have left, you can feel free to divulge all the deviant behavior you’ve displayed with your other victims. You can tell me. Your secrets will go to the grave with me.” She paused and eyed him, liking the fact that she had him hooked, that he was hanging on her every word. “Come on, let’s have a chat. I really want to know these things.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like how did you get so good at it?” she asked. “And what was it about me that made you pick me?”
He just stared at her, refusing to answer.
“There’s got to be something I have in common with the others,” she said. “Come on, tell me. I’m curious. Who was the first girl you kidnapped?”
“You,” he said evenly.
“Not true,” she said. “You’re too good at this for me to be your first. Tell me her name at least.”
“She didn’t have a name,” he told her.
“You never found out her name?” she asked.
“I did not,” he said. “But she was quick and easy. They never found her body, just like they’ll never find yours.”
Sloan could barely keep from panicking at his words. And she couldn’t believe she was actually goading this serial killer the way she was. But what other choice did she have in the matter? This was the only weapon in her arsenal. She sho
ok off her fright and turned to him again. “What did you do with her body?” she asked.
“Buried it,” he said. “Well, I burned it, then I buried what was left.”
She had to fight to keep from trembling. She could not show how much he bothered her. Even so, the shivers went up and down her spine in the same manner as a knee-jerk reaction. She forced herself to ask, “What was left of her?”
“Bones mostly,” he said. “That’s all that was left. If I had gotten the fire hotter, they’d be gone, too.”
She shuddered but tried to not let it show. He did get to her. He did. How could he not? Even so, she told herself to remain calm and pushed all that aside. “What about the second girl?” she asked.
“This is tiresome,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why keep secrets with a dead girl?” she asked. “And we both know I’m as good as dead. Why not tell me? It’ll help pass the time until you finish me off.”
“Who says I will?” he asked. “Look at how long I’ve kept you alive.”
“True,” she said. “You are good at this. In fact, you’re too good. There must have been many others before me.”
“Not too many,” he replied.
“Well, even so, you’re too good at this.” She held up the water bottle. “You even know how much water I need daily to survive. And how much food. That’s why I get the peanut butter and crackers occasionally. If I didn’t get some protein, my muscles would start to atrophy and you know that. I’d essentially turn into a sack of potatoes, or where I’m from, taters. You’re smart. I’ll give you that.”
He liked that she had said that, then he narrowed his eyes at her, probably wondering why she was being so nice.
“What’s your favorite part of it?” she asked. “The raping? Having sex with someone who doesn’t want to have sex with you? Or is it the torture? I am going to bet it’s the torture. I saw that glint in your eyes just before you pulled my hair out that day. You loved my screams, didn’t you? It gives you a real sense of control, right? Am I right? To know that you have this helpless victim you can do damned near anything to and no one will ever know.”