He holds it up for me to see, and I take a couple steps closer. Glad I can be this guy’s personal MapQuest
“There, there it is.” I land my index finger on the grid where Hemlock Street runs into Driscoll. It’s only a mile or so back. “You’re not too lost at least.”
That’s when I feel a sharp prick in my wrist. That’s when the hair on the back of my neck finally rises.
Why is a needle hanging from my wrist?
I snap my arm back, but I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I feel like my entire body has been dropped in a pool of Jell-O and I’m trying to move.
The man’s hand seizes my wrist before I can step back. “No.” His voice is different now, less friendly. “I’m not lost at all.”
I’m floating and sinking at the same time, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being thrown through the van’s door and sealed shut behind it. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I can’t do anything but think of him. The way he looked in bed with me tonight. The way he looked on the sidewalk after asking me to spend my life with him. The way he’ll look tomorrow when he finds out what has happened.
“Torrin . . .” It sputters past my lips barely loud enough for me to hear, then the darkness creeps in.
It sucks me under until I can’t remember my name. It takes me down until I’m not sure I want to remember it.
THE DARK ISN’T as black as it used to be. Not because it’s changed any but because I’ve changed. I’ve gotten used to it. What once was dark isn’t so suffocating. What once was black isn’t so consuming.
That’s the dream I wake up from. Weird.
I stretch my legs and arms and sit up on the couch. So I guess it isn’t really morning anymore. A quick check of the clock hanging above his recliner reveals it’s almost twelve thirty. Lunchtime.
I roll my neck to get out the kinks. Sleeping on an old couch with a flat pillow isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s a lot better than what I used to sleep on.
I stand up slowly to test my legs. If I stand up too quickly, I fall right back down. I’ve learned that lesson more times than I care to count. I hear the television upstairs in his room, the usual show on at this time of the day. Just in time for the usual lunch. The usual.
Every day is predictable because every day is the same. There was a time I would have hated living with a rigid schedule, but that girl is gone. This one, whoever she is, likes knowing what to expect because it doesn’t feel like so long ago when I couldn’t predict anything. This is better.
Sometimes I have to remind myself of that, but most days I’m content with the mundane schedule. Today’s different though, at least a little. Instead of moving toward the kitchen because it’s 12:20 and lunch is to be on the table at twelve thirty, I find myself lingering beside the couch. An emotion flares inside my chest, one that starts out small as a seed then blossoms into something so large I feel like it’s going to break me open.
I had a lot of these days at first, but they’ve decreased in frequency and intensity. This one’s different though. As intense as any I’ve had—maybe more than any of them. Of course the dream’s to blame for that. The dream of him.
I can still see his face that last night, the way the dark shadowed half of his face and the moon illuminated the other half. The way he looked at me like I was everything. The way he smiled like we shared a whole lifetime of secrets.
God, those dreams are painful. Too painful. Part of me wishes they’d go away so I wouldn’t have to feel as if my ribs are being cracked from something growing inside my chest. Another part never wants to stop dreaming about him because that’s all I had left of him—dreams.
It’s a poor substitute for the real thing, but it’s a better alternative than losing him totally.
As I move toward the kitchen, my legs feel weaker with every step, almost like the muscles have atrophied. There’s probably some truth to that. My legs aren’t nearly as strong as they used to be. Neither is the rest of my body. That’s part of his plan of course. The weaker I am, the stronger he is. The frailer I become, the more powerful he grows.
I try to shove all of those thoughts away before I make it into the kitchen. They don’t do me any good, but they could do me harm. That girl, that life—that boy—they’re all gone. Another life.
This is my life.
It’s not a bad one. It could be worse. At first, it was, but now . . . it’s not too bad. He told me that so many times at first it started to cycle through my mind involuntarily. Somewhere along the way, I adopted the same belief. This life isn’t so bad.