Take Me With You(17)

The footsteps continue as I use my energy reserves to beg for help. I don't think I'm loud enough to be heard.

But then they approach a new area overhead and there's the sound of a door unlatching. My heart pounds with adrenaline, giving me a burst of energy I haven't had since the thirst began to overtake me.

Something thuds to the ground feet away from me. I scramble wildly trying to gauge where the person is. Terror creeps deep into my bones, but the need to survive is so strong, that it overrides the paralyzing fright. It's not bravery. Bravery implies there's a choice. “Wa-ter,” I rasp.

Silence. Silence that makes those goosebumps surface. Then in an instant, the blindfold is whipped off my face. I've gone without seeing for so long, my eyes forget how to focus. I blink a few times, trying to find something to hone in on and recalibrate my vision. Instinctively, I do so on a bottle of water about fifteen feet away from me. The firmly built man towering over me wearing a black balaclava quickly steals my attention, though.

I shake my head and shrink my body in fear. I don't feel human. I'm more like a caged animal. Like he's here to snuff me out. He pulls me to my knees. I look around and see I'm in a basement. A couple of short, cloudy, ground-level windows bring in hints of daylight. The light fighting its way in is bright with a tint of yellow; it must be a beautiful day out there.

I wait for him to say something, but he keeps silent.

He cups my chin and pulls it up to meet his eyes. Their clarity reminds me of the chunks of glass I used to collect at the beach as a kid. Still he says nothing.

He walks away and points at the water. I don't understand this game we're playing. But I am so thirsty.

I nod desperately. He turns away and heads back up the stairs, taking the bottle with him.

“No…no,” I beg hoarsely. He leaves the door open behind him and I'm so despondent, I would follow with no regard for my safety, but I'm shackled by the ankle. Before I can try to understand his intentions, he's back, with a bucket in one hand and a white paper bag in the other.

It hits me instantly. The aroma of food. Despite the dehydration, I begin to salivate. I would do anything for that fucking food and water. I'm delirious with the need.

He places the bucket down and brings the bag to my face as if he wants me to peek in. I do. It's like he's been reading my fantasies. Burgers and fries. Oh god. Fuck. I begin to cry. I can't believe I'm crying over a hamburger.

He pulls the bag away and sets it back where the water was. He returns with the bucket. Inside of it is soapy water and a sponge.

He points at this and then the food.

I look down at my body. It's covered in scrapes and mud. I've defecated and pissed in another spot in the room and I have become numb to the scent of it.

“If I wash, you'll feed me?” I ask, with a sense of hope that belies the perverseness of the situation.

He nods.

“Okay. Untie my hands. I'll do it. I promise.”

He shakes his head, putting the bucket down and dropping in his sinewy arm down to the elbow. He's not as covered as he was last time, wearing a t-shirt that shows his arms and jeans that are torn and covered in grease and paint, like he works in construction or something. My eyes run up along his arm, and that's when I notice a series of violent scars along the outer part of his biceps, like the skin has been ripped off at some point.

He pulls out the large sponge, soapy water running down his muscled forearm and back into the bucket.

He's not interested in me bathing myself.

You think you know hunger, but you don't really know hunger. Not the type that makes everything hurt. When you feel like the life force is being syphoned from your body with each hour. Where the rational side, the thing that makes you human and separates you from an animal is smothered by instinct. It turns you into the most basic creature, where nothing else matters but getting the nutrients you need to keep breathing.

“Okay. I won't fight. You can clean me. But can I please, just a sip. To wet my mouth?” My lips stick together with each word, making an awful suction sound.

He squeezes the sponge over my head so that the water rains down on me. It's warm; it's been so long since I felt warmth. And I let it run over my lips, trying to steal every last bit of moisture from it. I don't care about the bitter taste of soap, I'll take it however I can get it.

I focus on the promising scent of food, intermingled with the clean scent of soap as he pulls me up to my feet. It's not forceful, it's actually soft and in any other circumstances, somewhat seductive. He unties the rope around my wrists. He at least had the mercy to loosen them a little bit when he put me in here. They were so tight the night he took me, my hands had gone numb and purple. I probably would have lost them if he hadn't. But there are rope burns that are raw and red. He doesn't rub them, but again trickles the soapy water over the wounds.

He uses his bare hands to rub the slick suds along my body. They are a rough contrast to the slipperiness of the soap. I shudder. I haven't seen or spoken to a person in who knows how long. The loneliness eats at you. And it makes you hypersensitive to the presence of another person. His touch, though violating, is human. And just like the night he took me, my brain and body can't reconcile both sides of the equation.

He spends extra time on my breasts, massaging them, rubbing against the stiff nipples. I turn away when he does this, not that the mask gives me a view of his face at all. Just those eyes and a pair of plump lips, lips that were contrastingly soft and harsh when he kissed me that night. He glides a hand down my belly, past the patch of hair and rubs me down there. Cleaning, yes, but also toying with me, showing me he has all the control. That he can touch me how he wants.