My head jerks up, my eyes pop open, but I’m immediately disoriented by the fact I can’t see. Black. Thick and impenetrable. I feel a sense of urgency. Fight or flight. I gotta fight. Except . . .
I can’t see. Not at all. Up, down, left, right, I have no idea. I bulge my eyes as if that will make a difference.
Then it comes to me.
I’m in a room. I’m sprawled upon a bare mattress, wearing some kind of silky nightgown. My arms are bare, and cool metal bracelets encircle both my wrists. Handcuffs. I’ve been handcuffed, arms in front, hands at my waist. Furthermore, the manacles appear attached to a lead line of some sort, maybe rope, maybe chain. But I only have to give the slightest tug with my wrists to feel the corresponding resistance. I’m not just bound; I’m tethered to the ceiling, or a high spot on the wall.
As for the dark . . . I blink my eyes. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. My eyes are open. There’s no blindfold around my head. It’s the room itself. Windowless and, most likely, painted pitch-black, until not a single ray of ambient light can penetrate the gloom.
I wonder if I’m underground, and despite my best intentions, my heart rate accelerates, my breath growing ragged. Not underground. Not buried, please, please, please.
And for a moment, a split instant of time, other images come to me. Scenes from the past, another lifetime, another nightmare ago. I want to yell, scream, and beg. Bang my fists against wooden walls, kick my heels wildly.
Lying on the mattress, shivering uncontrollably, I dig my teeth into my lower lip, then ground myself with the pain. There will be no panic. There will be no pleading. So stuff it.
It takes a few deep breaths. The taste of my own blood against my tongue. But bit by bit, I feel my heart once again settle in my chest. Then, I close my eyes, because whether it’s logical or not, it makes the dark easier to take.
Slowly, it comes to me. My last memory: waking up in my own bedroom, the sinister shadow in the doorway, then a mist in the air.
Chloroform, I’m guessing. Or some other aerosolized sedative. I was drugged and then . . .
A sense of movement. I wanted to wake up, but I couldn’t.
I was brought here. Wherever here is.
Immediately, I’m dismayed. Not for myself. Instead, I see my mother’s face. The mother who baked me muffins and hugged me hard and begged me to take better care of myself. She loves me so much. And now I’ve gone, and broken her heart yet again.
Because I’m already pretty certain that whoever broke through three locks to get into my security-tight apartment—let alone prepared this room, complete with chained manacles—is more than your average bear. This isn’t me versus the arrogant loser I burned to death in his own garage, or even the amateur acts who preceded him. This is . . . something worse. Something more.
Someone to fear.
And I wish, for just one moment, I’d been brave enough to tell Dr. Keynes everything that happened five years ago. But there are secrets all survivors keep. Most likely, I’m about to pay for mine.
Just like Stacey Summers did.
*
I FALL ASLEEP. I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to help myself. The residue of the drugs, maybe even habit forged years ago when I also spent hours, days, weeks at a time with nothing better to do. Fight or flight, except, being all trussed up on a bare mattress, I can’t do either. So sleep becomes a flight of sorts, a temporary reprieve for my overworked limbic system, which can’t figure out what else to do. So much adrenaline, stress, and fear with no place to go, nothing to do but wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
Wishing my eyes would grow accustomed to the dark. Wishing for any sort of ease in the relentless tar-black gloom. After a while, I give up on sight and focus on touch instead. Moving tentatively, I dance my fingers across the mattress. Identify its size, standard twin. Feel the welting of the edges, become aware of a faint odor of mildew. It’s thin beneath me. Most likely old and tattered. Maybe even tossed on a street corner, then harvested by my host for just this purpose.
It’s not particularly comfortable or soft or soothing. But I like the mattress. It’s a source of thread and stuffing, maybe even wire coils. It’s a tool, and I’ll take it.
Next, I explore the garment now draped over my body. I’d gone to bed in an old T-shirt and men’s flannel boxers. Now I’m wearing some kind of short satin negligee. Lace trim around the neckline and bottom hem.
He changed my clothes. While I was unconscious, he’d stripped off my comfortable nightwear and replaced it with a more feminine—sexy?—counterpart. I’m tempted to feel insulted and violated by this act, but mostly I’m confused.
Most sexual sadist predators keep their victims naked—easy access, further degradation, take your pick. Or they might clad their unwilling prey in various S&M outfits/gadgets that fit their masochistic fantasies. But this, a silk nightie, speaks to something else. It’s . . . attentive in a way I already have a feeling I won’t like.
Jacob rarely gifted me with pretty nightgowns or anything more than practical clothes. I was a possession, and who wastes extra effort on their coffee table?
This man, the newest predator, is a freak. I repeat the word in my head. Try to feel it forcefully. A freak, a mutant, an aberration. Something less than human. Nothing worth worrying about.
But I’m lying to myself. Because already I can feel the metal handcuffs cutting into my skin. And when I tug on my wrists to make my arms more comfortable, I’m terribly aware of the sound of a tethering chain unspooling from above.
Enough. I sit up. Swing my legs over the edge of the mattress on the floor. Remind myself this is already more freedom than I had with Jacob. Wow, a whole room at my disposal. I might just get giddy with the rush.
The dark is still endless, oppressive. I can barely make out the lighter shadow of my bare arms as I take the first tentative step forward. One step, two, three, four. The room is bigger than I expected; I still haven’t come to a wall. Then my foot connects with substance. A rattling sound as a plastic container tips over.
I reach down and explore with my fingers, but I already know what I’ve found. A plastic bucket. The latrine of choice for kidnappers and sadists everywhere. But of course.
Behind the bucket I discover a wall. Drywall. It surprises me. For some reason, I’d been expecting cinder block or maybe cheap wood paneling. But no. The wall is smooth and bare. Drywall, as in a real room of a real house. Which would also explain the thin carpet padding my bare feet.
If I really am in a house . . .
I halt, strain my ears. Trying to get a sense of traffic outside, or maybe the distant sound of footsteps echoing overhead. At first, I hear nothing at all. Soundproofing, to go with the blackout paint job. But then, faintly, steadily, it comes to me.
Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
There is someone else in the room with me. I’m not alone.
I recoil. I can’t help myself. Then, instinctively, I grab the empty plastic bucket and clutch it to my chest. As what? A hammer or a shield?
I’m not thinking anymore. I want to. But for all my experience, training, and bravado, my heart rate has once again climbed and I’m shaking uncontrollably on my feet.
While across the room, maybe five, six feet from me . . .
Breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
He’s here. Watching me. Waiting for me to panic, freak out, beg for mercy? Or just enjoying the show?
Just like that, I’m angry. I don’t care what he does or what he thinks he can do to me. Compared to Jacob Ness, Mr. Silky Nightgown, Mr. Breathing Heavy, is nothing but a carnival sideshow. A Freak.
Just because he broke into my triple-locked apartment, ambushed me with drugs, and spirited me away to some blacked-out dungeon . . . I refuse to be afraid of him.
Instead, I’m thinking of my first visit with Samuel, the day after I got out of the hospital:
“Do you remember what you did to survive, Flora? Every rebellion, every submission, every lie, every adaptation?”