I plan meticulously. It's what I do. Yet I found myself with a woman and no idea what I was going to do next. Of course, I know what I want. I'm a fucking man with needs, but I want it my way. When she begged me to take her, I thought holy shit, she feels this is different, too. I had a moment when I thought maybe she wasn't like the rest of the world that had rejected me and our connection was real. Then she started screaming, and I knew she was a lying fucking liar like my mother warned. She warned me women would only use me for my money. For the family name.
So I have a plan now. It took me a few days, but I realized this will be a lot like breaking a horse. First, I have to turn her into an animal. Take away everything that gives her power and strength. Reduce her needs to the most basic: food and water, sleep, sex. Second, I have to stroke her, get her to understand that compliance equals good things. It's the way you train any animal. I'll use food as a reward and other methods of positive reinforcement. Negative reinforcement, well, that's always in my back pocket.
She's been in the basement, but I've been working on building her a shed deeper in the property, in the woods where no one treads. I can't keep her in the house indefinitely, it's too risky. So I've been working hard on that between my day gigs.
God I want to fuck her so bad. Her soapy pussy in my hands almost made me break my plans again, but I need to break her in bit by bit.
As my oatmeal sits on the kitchen table cooling, I listen to the police scanner set up on a built-in desk just beside it. I’ve often used it to monitor patrols to know the best times to strike certain streets. Now, I’m listening for clues about Vesper’s case. There has been an increase in reports of suspicions persons all over Sacramento County. People are on edge. They’ve been patrolling her neighborhood and other neighborhoods I’ve prowled, hoping I’ll strike again. That means they might think she’s already dead and I’ll need to go back out. It makes sense. Usually when women disappear like that, it’s not good.
By the time I pull away from the scanner to address my dinner, it's cold and lumpy. I haven't been feeding myself well this week on account of being so busy. As I twirl the spoon in the pale goo, I get lost in its texture. Oatmeal will always remind me of my childhood.
“Why aren't you eating it?” my father asks. My throat tightens. “Just say it. I won't force you to eat it if you just say it. Just say 'no.' Say one word!” He snaps, losing his patience.
“Stop it!” mom scolds, coming to my side.
“You keep coddling him and he's never going to fucking learn. You're babying him. That's why he won't talk!”
“He's a sensitive boy. He'll talk when he's ready.”
“Gloria, he's almost five years old.”
“The doctor said he's fine. He has above average intelligence. In fact, he said he's extremely intelligent. And you badgering at him just makes it worse. It gives him a complex. Some kids just take longer to gain their verbal skills. He's special.”
“Special? So that's what they're calling them now…”
I watch them argue. My mom knows I understand, but sometimes I think my dad thinks I don't get what they say. Dad looks down at me, and his eyes flare. He snatches the spoon out of my hand. “Eat it! Eat it!” He shoves the oatmeal to my lips but I clench them shut. The spoon hurts my lips and teeth, but I won't swallow. A sound comes out of my chest, but I can't get my lips and throat to join. I want to say STOP. It's in here, but I can't make it come out.
“See? It's there, you just have to stop babying him!”
“Stop it!” my mother yells, pulling his arm away.
We all look over to the entrance. Scooter, my older brother, is standing there. My dad likes Scooter a lot more than me. He speaks perfectly. Sometimes they go on fishing trips without me.
Dad sighs. “Come on Scoot, eat your breakfast. Everything is fine.” He turns to the kitchen counter to grab his badge and gun.
“Okay,” Scooter says skeptically.
My mother crouches down and uses her apron to wipe the oatmeal off my face. “You really should eat some. You'll be hungry later,” she whispers, wiping my messy hair out of my eyes.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The pounding on my front door shakes me out of my thoughts. I scramble to turn off the police scanning equipment, pull it out of the wall and shove it into the cabinets above the desk.
I shuffle over to the door, peek past the curtains and see it's Scooter outside. Speak of the spawn of the devil. I wasn't expecting him, and I'm not particularly happy he's here. I open the door, and turn back towards the kitchen table, leaving Scoot to his own devices to follow me in and close the door behind himself.
“Nice to see you too, Sam.”
Without missing a step, I give him a single, sarcastic wave.
“I haven't heard from you in what has it been? Three weeks? I keep calling and you don't answer here. I was about to drive up to the ranch this weekend to see if you were alive.”
The ranch. It's mine. I hate how he thinks that he can just come up there. Especially now.
“I'm f-f-f-ine.” Fuck. Shit. “B-b-b-been b-b-b-usy.”
He tucks his chin in shock. “Shit man, you're way worse since I last saw you.”
He's just like our fucking dad. Zero nuance and the sensitivity of a rabid fucking bull. The last thing you say to someone with a speech impediment is how bad they sound. You'd think he'd have figured that out by now.