by Linnea May
Faced with the prospect of spending the weekend in my empty place, I had started walking as soon as I left the office, but quickly realized that my heels are not meant for this. I couldn’t take them off because it’s too cold, so I just stumbled into the first bar I came to, which was this little shit hole. I’ve been dwelling in my pain for the past hour, staring at nothing and drinking this God-awful bourbon, afraid to go home.
It’s pathetic, I know, but so appropriate, considering the turn my life has taken.
I’m not saying my life was glorious before. No, it definitely wasn’t. But I had been content and felt no need to change anything. First of all, I had a job. Nothing special. I wasn’t changing the world or anything, but it paid the bills and I enjoyed it. I worked at the university as the secretary to a muddle-headed professor. He may have been brilliant in his field, but he was unable to master simpler things, such as responding to emails, creating PowerPoint presentations, and searching the university’s intranet.
Professor Miller appreciated my work. He was the nicest man I’ve ever met, always greeting me with a smile, and he was so easy to impress with simple things that come easy to any millennial. He was an older gentleman with very polite manners, who thanked me profusely for every little thing I did. Working for him was easy, it was predictable. My job with him was the safe constant I needed in my life.
And now it’s gone.
He’s gone.
Professor Miller died in an accident, hit by a passing car as he was crossing the street, lost in his own world and not paying attention. When he died, my job died, as well. Losing him was more than just a pay-the-bills job-related tragedy: I lost my safe and secure haven, the calm and reliable constant in my life that kept me sane after kicking Luke out of my life.
Luke. My ex-boyfriend. The son of a bitch who had the audacity to fuck another girl in our bed, and on our sheets, when he thought I was out of town. Yes, he really was that stupid. Or maybe I’m the stupid one for trusting him, considering he was always so insecure. Maybe that should have clued me in that maybe he was the problem?
I will never forget the expression on his face when I walked through the door. I had arrived back home a day early, because I couldn’t stand another minute with my relatives who I had been visiting. I wanted to surprise him, bearing those dumb chocolates he likes, ready to make up from another awful fight we had had the day before I left.
I did surprise him, but not in the way I imagined.
I caught him in the act, yet he was the one who’d accused me time and again of cheating, because of my “sick” needs, as he put it. He never understood me. He lacked the decency to even listen to me when I tried to talk with him about it. Every time I summoned the courage to talk about my deepest desires, he looked at me with that appalled and disgusted look on his face and told me that I needed therapy. As if I wasn’t feeling weird enough about it already.
I should have known that we weren’t meant to be together, but still I clung on, hoping that eventually things would work out. I couldn’t let go of him, or rather, I couldn’t let go of the idea of us together. In a way, I should be grateful that this happened. Finding him screwing another girl was just the kick I needed to finally free myself of him.
My week started by throwing Luke out of the apartment that we’ve been living in together for more than nine months - and my week ended with me losing my job when my boss was killed. Everything happened so fast, one atrocious thing after another. I caught Luke on Sunday, threw him out on Monday, Professor Miller was hit by a car on Wednesday and died on Thursday, and today I was told that I will no longer be needed once the professor’s office is cleaned out.
Everybody was visibly upset about Professor Miller’s death—his colleagues, the assistants, the students—but they all treated me like I was a machine, as if I wouldn’t mourn his death just as much as they did. After all, I’m just a secretary, not his academic equal, and I wouldn’t be someone who had any close ties to him - or so they think. While others cried, walked around in shock, and consoled one another, I was bombarded with things that had to be organized and done. The cherry on top was when I was called into the Dean’s office and advised that because the funding for my position was tied directly to his teaching position – and since the position wouldn’t be filled until a national search was conducted and it could take up to a year – my secretarial position was no longer needed. Seriously?
So here I am. Drinking shitty bourbon in a shitty bar. All by myself. Drowning in self-pity at the mess that is my life.
It doesn’t help that this woman is sitting across from me. That damn Barbie doll with her ridiculous bright red fur coat. It’s so hideous-looking, but it’s a perfect match for its owner. She looks just like the girl I caught Luke with. A dumb blonde, with fake lashes, fake nails, fake tits, fake everything. Her fat lips are painted in a ridiculously bright hooker red that matches her ugly fur coat. I bet she really is a hooker. She’s by herself, sipping on a bourbon just like I am, and constantly checking the time and watching the door of the bar. She’s probably waiting for a john.
I was already here when she walked in, and she caught my attention from the start, not only because of that hideous coat and her resemblance to that other bitch, but because she was wearing a black mask when she came in. It was covering up most of her face. As soon as she sat down, she took it off and placed it on the counter right next to her drink.
She makes me furious. Women like her make me furious. I watch her as she sips on her drink, leaving red lipstick marks on the glass, and constantly shifting her attention between checking her phone and staring at her manicured nails coated in blood red. She has what many men would consider to be the perfect body and a beautiful face—as far as I can tell with all that glob she has plastered on it—but her entire get-up and attitude screams total lack of respect—for herself and anyone else.
She’s the kind of woman who destroys—destroys families, destroys reputations, destroys hopes and dreams—and betrays everything that’s honorable.
I don’t know if it’s the effects of the cheap bourbon, the general misery streaming through my veins from my fucked-up life, or the hatred this woman provokes in me by triggering the memory about Luke, but when Barbie doll gets down from her high chair to head for the restroom, I find myself getting up from my seat, as well.
I want to hurt her. I want to share my fucking misery with her, even if it’s only through a small and simple act. My body is moving all on its own, driven by blind and rabid fury, as I walk over to take that hideous red fur coat from the back of her empty chair and walk away with it, out the door, and into the dark night.
Chapter 2
Liana
Why did I just do that? As soon as I walk out the door of the bar, I begin to question my actions.
But I don’t turn around.
Instead, I wrap the giant red fur coat around my shoulders and start scurrying briskly down the street. I’m pressing my little purse against my side, clutching it with one hand, holding the coat with the other. I’m not in prime shape, so I find myself starting to pant after just a few yards. Only after turning a corner do I feel safe enough to slow my gait to walking.
I am gasping for air—though trying not to attract too much attention—and breaking a sweat, but my feet continue to carry me down the sidewalk. This is not the safest area of the city to be in, and I probably shouldn’t be walking all by myself out here, especially at dusk, but I’m not worried enough to hail a cab.
What is safety, anyway?
I thought my job was safe. I thought I was—kind of—safe in my relationship with Luke.
Who says I’d be any less safe here? Alone, at night, on a street in a rough neighborhood.
After all, I’m the one who just committed a crime, and a dumb one at that. Even through my sweating and panting, I still find myself holding the red fur coat wrapped around my small body closed with clenched fingers. I’m a rather short perso
n, and this coat is way too big for me, but it protects me from the cold a lot better than my own coat did—the coat I left on the back of my stool at the bar because I was so focused on stealing this one. I’m sure they have a lost and found, and I can just come back tomorrow to fetch it. No harm, no foul.
Or Barbie doll will take it once she realizes hers has disappeared, which then would make this a simple exchange and not a theft. And she’s definitely the one who made out better on the deal, if you ask me.
What is this atrocity I am wearing, anyway? It feels warm, but itchy and artificial. At least it’s not real fur.
When I bury my hands into the coat’s pockets to keep them warm, I feel the thickness of a folded-up piece of paper. I produce what turns out to be a small business card. Just as I suspected, this coat’s owner appears to be a sex worker, but more of a high-class kind of escort than what I suspected. Apparently, she goes by the unimaginative name Ruby Red, which may explain the hideous coat. I didn’t know escorts had business cards. Who do they give those to? Are there like parties or something, where they meet up with “like-minded” people and exchange contacts for future use?
I furrow my eyebrows and roll my eyes at that idea and turn the card over to see if there’s anything written on the back. There are only two words, written in curly calligraphy: Violent Delights.
Is that her motto? A promise? I wonder what it means.
I put the card back in the pocket, and as I continue walking, I am reminded why I ended up in that bar in the first place. Not only is it extremely cold out, but my feet also hurt from all the walking I did earlier. I am not used to wearing heels all day. The only reason I wore them today was because they are the only shoes I have that match my black suit. Out of respect, I wanted to wear something black and formal today because I know Professor Miller would have appreciated it. He was always one for tradition and etiquette. This is my way of showing my respect to him.
I can practically see his kind and paternal smile.
A single tear rolls down my cold cheek as my thoughts wander to him. I will miss this man, my boss, my mentor, in some regard. He taught me many things, but most of all, he gave me a place that made me feel stable and secure.
“Thank you.”
The words escape my lips in a faint whisper. He thanked me so much, for so many things, even small things, like printing out a simple e-mail. He always wanted his e-mails printed out each morning and placed in a neat pile in the middle of his desk, that’s how old-school he was. If it wasn’t on paper, it wasn’t real.
I turn up the huge collar of the hideous coat and start walking faster. I’m getting more and more miserable out here in the cold and need to find the next subway station, or call a cab.
I take in my surroundings. The area I am walking in is empty and scary at night. There are no other pedestrians, and even vehicles appear to be a rarity. It’s time for me to find out exactly where I am so I can get home.
I stop for a moment, turning and searching for anything that would help me figure it out, a street sign, a bus station. But I can’t seem to find anything.
Just as I continue hurrying down the sidewalk, I hear a car approaching me from behind. I only notice it because it’s driving at a very slow speed. Other cars have passed by me, but they were traveling at what I would consider to be a normal speed. This one is making me a bit nervous because the driver seems to be slowing down, almost as if he’s following me.
I don’t dare turn around to look to see if he wants anything from me. That’s rule number one on the street: no eye contact. Instead, I walk even faster and try to exude confidence, indicating that I won’t have his shit and have no interest in talking to him.
The car keeps following me.
There’s no corner to turn down, no narrow alley through which I could disappear, no storefront to enter.
My heart begins to race. What is going on? Should I turn around? Should I yell at him to leave me alone?
But I don’t get to do any of those things. Before I can do anything, I am grabbed from behind by two incredibly strong arms.
I gasp in shock, unable to even scream because I am so overwhelmed by the abruptness of everything.
A man of ample size and strength wraps his arms around me, pulling me off my feet as he proceeds to drag me with him. I lose my balance, my arms helplessly flying up in the air, as I try to regain control.
And just as I find the will to shriek out in horror, the assailant presses a wet handkerchief over my mouth and nose, forcing me to inhale a pungent substance that turns the world black.
Chapter 3
Joseph
I wonder if this is what normal people feel like before they embark on a first date. The excitement, nervous anticipation of what’s to come. I can’t imagine that their feelings even come close to what I’m feeling when I head out to collect my toy.
There is never a set day or time, but always a window of when it will happen, a window of five days. I don’t want her to know exactly when it will happen, because it would ruin the surprise and affect her behavior. I want a raw and natural reaction when I take her, actual shock, actual fear.
However, the woman has to be prepared for me to take her—she has to be in a proper state, clean and waxed, equipped with certain things I want to see when she comes with me.
And one special item of her choosing. I know she will get lonely at some point, they always do. No matter how well prepared they feel, or how much they actually enjoy being in my possession, they all reach a point when it becomes too much to handle, when they wish for normalcy and a reminder of who they are outside of their temporary cage.
Whatever it is they need in that moment to calm and reassure themselves, I want them to have it. But just that one item. In some cases, I never found out what the woman had chosen to bring with her. Other times, it turned out to be obvious, such as a stuffed animal, a certain item of clothing, or some kind of memento. I may do unspeakable things to them, but I will never strip them of this one item. It’s one of the clear lines that I draw for myself, the line I draw to keep them sane and connected to the outer world.
Most of them expect me to come for them in the dark, which is why they scurry through the streets like little rabbits that are being chased, always throwing hurried looks over their shoulder to see if someone is following them. It’s fun to watch, but I never catch them this way. They feel safer during the day, while they’re out running mundane errands such as grocery shopping, or chatting with neighbors as they walk their dogs. They never check behind their backs then, and while it is harder to kidnap a woman during broad daylight, there is always a window of opportunity, a brief moment when they are oblivious and not expecting it, but they’re also out of sight of others.
The perfect moment to seize them.
That moment hasn’t happened with this one yet. My current prey is a perfect Barbie doll with blonde hair and svelte curves, who goes by the name Ruby Red. She is not only easily recognizable because of her striking red fur coat, but also very alert. The coat is her one distinctive feature, the token that sets her apart from everyone else.
Just like all the women before her, she was instructed to move around outside as much as possible—at least six hours per day, any time of the day, day or night—but she wasn’t supposed to draw attention by doing anything too out of the ordinary. She doesn’t have a day job that I’m keeping her away from—she is a full time escort, just like the others.
Ruby appears to be a true night owl, and it’s obvious she has no intention of changing her habits. I have been observing her for three days, and she’s rarely outside before dusk. Tonight is no different. Much to my dismay, she has frequented a shit hole bar every single night since I started watching her. I don’t like drinkers, something I clearly stated in my requirements. Nothing about her profile indicated she drank, so I am assuming it’s new, perhaps something she developed this week to cope with the stress that comes with an arrangem
ent like this. She seemed a lot more harried than any of the others, more frazzled, more worried. Definitely flighty – none of the others have spent as much time looking around as she does, moving like a nervous squirrel. Just tonight, she scurried down the street before disappearing into that bar, her refuge of choice, it seems.
I considered following her inside, to do things a little different than I have with the others. But that would be breaking protocol. I hate breaking the rules, especially the ones I’ve set up for myself, and the rules clearly state that it has to framed as an abduction with no prior contact. No chit-chat, no winking, not even any looking at her face. I like the mystery of not knowing.
I want to see her face at the same time she sees her cage for the first time. It’s a magical moment, one of the best, and almost better than some of the orgasms I will enjoy with her.
And it can only be that special if I don’t know too much beforehand. The girls are always asked to hide their faces behind a fabric mask that covers most of their features. It may be awkward for them to walk around like this, but that’s not my concern.
It is equally important that they don’t see me coming. Ruby, with her constant turning and watching and searching, was a little annoying in that regard. She is making it surprisingly easy tonight, though I am not prepared when she suddenly darts out of the bar half an hour sooner than she usually does. I only notice her when she has already turned her back to me, walking in hurried steps and, for a change, not looking anywhere but straight ahead, as she practically flees from the bar.
What’s going on with her? Did she get in trouble? Did someone harass her?
I start the car and follow her, as I always do. Usually, I have to be extremely careful because of her nervous behavior, but tonight she doesn’t waste a second looking behind her. She seems to be acting differently.