Take Me With You(33)

I push against a small door to find a very small washroom. There's no modern plumbing. There's makeshift wooden seat which I presume leads to a bucket underneath. It's too small a hole to fit even an entire leg through, so I don't entertain the thought of a grand escape. There is a basin full of water and another empty basin. On a small wooden shelf are fresh towels. On one wall is a small, faded mirror, ornately curved in shape. My face shocks me. It's thin, and my hair is wild. A bright red streak colors my pale neck from when he held the sharp knife against it. I run my finger against it and smudge the blood against my cheeks and lips like makeup. It's just a surface cut from the contact of the knife. It won't even scar. I know because I had many of these when he took me and they're all gone now. Erased from memory as I surely will be in a few months.

There is a pull cord and of course, I curiously yank it without thinking. Water rains down on me and I startle. It's some sort of makeshift shower. The water isn't hot, but it's warm enough, and already being naked and needing to cleanse away the earlier activities, I pull down the cord all the way and let the water fall on me.

A shower, even one as primitive as this one is an absolute luxury. I wash away the blood and evidence of the brutal sex we had, but the pink ligature marks on my ankles and neck stubbornly remain.

Blocked from my view earlier by the towels are small bottles. Shampoo and soap.

As the lukewarm water cascades down my skin, I think of the cute little abode in which I find myself, feeling a twinge of gratitude. This entire thing required thoughtful planning. Stop, Vesper. This is no different from the basement or a cage. But it is. He could keep me wherever he wants. Instead, he built me a home. He's given me a way to clean myself. A place without windows which means that at least I am safe from his prying eyes when I am alone.

He's stripped me of my dignity, but he's also giving it back to me in small pieces. If I behave, I can keep this.

Once complete, I wrap the towel around my body and use the small antique brush resting beside the empty basin to comb my hair. It's the first time in weeks I've felt comfortable. I don't know how long it will last, but this is the way things are now. Here, I still exist. The old Vesper Rivers will have to be stowed away, protected by the new one, so that when she is free again, she will still be whole. This is survival.





She looks like those jewelry boxes, a beautiful girl surrounded by pastel colors, confined to her perfect little world. She doesn't know I can still see her. Of course I would make sure to install peepholes throughout the little cabin. I'm me for fuck's sake.

She read the articles and cried. She understands now. It's only a matter of time before major resources are pulled from her search. There will be a little girl taken somewhere, a murder, then another. And with each of those she'll be pushed a little further towards the back burner. I saw how it used to bother my dad when a case couldn’t be solved, but you can’t pool your focus on one person forever. It’ll get to the point where they will require a mistake on my part to find her. I don’t make mistakes. Vesper understands that the only person who can take care of her now is me.

I won't mention that I can see her this time. I shouldn't have the first time. But I went down there and smelled myself on her skin and the visions of her writhing on the floor as she moaned flooded me and all my plans dissolved. Already burning from the heat those thoughts stoked, she opened her smart mouth and ignited them. She had the nerve to lie to me and I had to humble her.

I am always on the brink, living on the balance of wanting to hurt her and fuck her. It's why I have to hold the knife so tight, why I allow myself to give her little cuts, to let blood. It satisfies the rage just enough, but I could slip and then it could be over.

And I don't want it to be.

Fuck.

That's the thing about keeping a person alive. In a way you are just as much a hostage to them as they are to you.





Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap.

A bird on the skylight above my bed awakens me. I didn't notice it yesterday. I'll still get sunlight. That was thoughtful of him. I watch the bird attack the glass for no ostensible reason. “Keep trying bird, you'll see there's no point,” I groan aloud.

If I don't look down, or move from the bed, with the white walls and sunny skylight, this almost feels like a vacation in the woods. But the soreness between my legs, on my neck and wrists; the aching muscles and tender spots from when he slammed me against the wall, they are a reminder that these moments are an illusion.

I used to wake up with a day full of chores, constantly feeling overwhelmed. Now, I lie in wait for Night. There are no monotonous tasks, no mundane errands. My survival rests on the most basic acts here. Choosing to eat, sleep, bathe—everything is a delicate balance in this power struggle.

At first, I forced myself not to think about Johnny. It hurt too much to think about how he was coping, what I was missing. But lately, days go by before he comes to mind. Survival doesn’t allow for excess or luxuries. All my energy must focus on the present. But when Johnny does sneak in, it still hurts, not just because I miss him, but because of the guilt I feel in becoming used to a world without him. I wonder if I am becoming my mother, and it scares me, so even in those increasingly infrequent moments when I allow myself to recall Johnny, I have to force him away.

On this morning, when if I squint a certain way things can almost look normal, I feel him, the memories of him, trying to force their way to the surface. I sit up, the sudden movement a way to distract myself, and cry out as soon as I see the balaclava-clad face. He's just sitting there, in the corner of the room in that perfectly void silence he has mastered. I don't know how long he's been watching me.