Page 215 of Heart So Hollow

“Bowen, you’re hurting me,” I rasp, trying in vain to calm a situation that’s already gone off the fucking rails.

“Of course I am,” he snarls as his other hand flies to my throat, squeezing it with disregard, “I know how much you love it. I know how wet you get when you think you’re about to die, which is why I have a surprise tonight, just for you baby girl. Jay got really excited when I told him you like getting dicked by two guys.” Bowen lowers his voice to a whisper, “He doesn’t want to watch anymore…”

I squeeze my eyes close in dread, tamping down more sobs as I struggle against his grip.

“Maybe he’ll even bring his brother, finally introduce you,” he continues, “Wells has always been jealous of my toys…”

Wells? Oh my god…

Bowen looks me up and down, “Who’s going to miss you?”

And then the realization sets in—no one is coming.

I’m here with Bowen in this house, with nothing but his rage, and no one is coming.

He hovers for a few more seconds and then finally releases me, taking a step back. Without a word, he turns and strolls out of the bathroom. I force my feet to move, peering out of the bathroom as he heads for the hallway. I don’t know where he’s going, but something tells me I don’t want to know.

I step into the middle of the room, watching him walk further down the hall toward the light of the living room, until he inexplicably slows. He turns over his shoulder and looks at me. I glance at the bedroom door knob, and when he sees the subtle movement of my eyes, his muscles tense and his body spins on a dime. I lunge for the door, heart pounding, and grab the edge as he closes the distance in an instant. But I slam it and punch the lock just before he crashes into the wood.

I stumble back with a gasp, half expecting Bowen to come right through the door. He could easily bust it down, even give it a good shove with his shoulder and that would be that. But he doesn’t. Instead, I listen with shaky breaths as he jerks the handle a couple times and then exhales in exasperation. Without a word, he finally turns around and his heavy footsteps fade away.

My eyes still trained on the door, I stagger backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed and I sink down to the floor. I try to smother my sobs and screams with one of the pillows tossed off the bed in the melee, but it’s no use. They come like a rogue wave, nearly knocking me flat on the floor, and I don’t care if Bowen hears it. Overcome with terror and hopelessness, I claw at my chest and arms, uncontrollably convulsing and flapping my hands, like I’m trying to wipe the last 20 minutes from my body.

For the next few hours, I wait in pure terror, sitting against the bed nearly catatonic with my stomach in knots, listening for the sound of Jay’s tires—anyone’s tires—on the gravel. I know this happens. I know how brutal and savage humans can be to one another. I know people endure torture and plead for death at the hands of people they love. I just never thought it would be me. But who does?

I don’t know how long I wait in silence, with nothing but the sound of my own haggard breaths to keep me company. The digital clock is somewhere under the bed, knocked loose from the outlet, and my phone is in my bag by the front door—out there with him. So, I can only wait for the sound of tires grinding outside the window.

But it never comes.

What do I do now?

A million thoughts run through my mind.

Why was Bowen sending me creepy texts from an unknown number? What did Bowen mean when he said he knows where I go, who I talk to, and what I do? How does he know…Why did he say he wasn’t home? Why was he waiting here? Why did he even do this? Oh, fuck, I forgot to go to the pharmacy! How am I going to get out of here? What’s Bowen going to do to me when I leave this room?

At some point, I finally fall asleep, unable to stay awake for my impending demise. When I wake the next morning, I’m still curled up on the floor next to the bed. The house is silent and the bedroom door still securely locked.

Sore from passing out on the carpet instead of the bed, I creep over to the window and peek out the curtains, rubbing my puffy and swollen eyes. I have a clear view of the driveway. My Tahoe is still sitting in front of the garage, but Bowen’s truck is gone. Not that it means anything, it wasn’t there when I arrived home last night, either. I still don’t know what time it is, but it’s brighter than it usually is when we both leave for work.

I don’t know if Bowen’s really gone, but I can’t stay in this bedroom all day. At some point, I’ll have to open the door. I quietly make my way to the door and put my ear to the wood. The house is completely silent. I don’t even hear Waylon. If things go sideways, I’ll just have to try to make it to the front door.

Gathering my nerves, I grip the brushed nickel handle and twist the lock. Taking a deep breath, I push down on the handle and slowly nudge the door.

Nothing happens.

I nudge the door again, this time harder. But it doesn’t even jiggle in the frame like it does when it’s locked. It’s as though the door is frozen shut. I push harder, finally leaning back and slamming my shoulder into it with no effect. I take a step back, staring at the door for a few moments with a renewed sense of foreboding.

What the hell did he do, nail the door shut? I didn’t hear anything…

I made sure he couldn’t get in. And now, he’s made sure I can’t get out.

Suddenly, I’m alert and focused. A cold feeling seeps over my skin as I remember the events of last night. There’s no time to debate or analyze, only act. With a renewed sense of urgency, I grab my duffel bag from next to the door and empty my work clothes from the previous day onto the floor. Then I fly into the closet and start grabbing new clothes, stuffing them into the bag along with anything else that seems vaguely important, changing into a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt as I go. I make a sweep through the bathroom before zipping up the bag and dropping it next to the bedroom window.

If I can’t open the door, I’ll go out the window. I can open the garage from the keypad, get the extra key hidden in Bowen’s tool chest, and go inside to grab my work bag with my phone and my keys. Throwing the curtains open, I twist the lock open, grab underneath the lip of the window, and pull.

Again, nothing happens.

Tugging frantically, it feels like the window is frozen shut, too. I try the other one next to the bed with the same result. My breaths become shakier and more erratic, the panic rising with every second. The voice guiding my actions suddenly becomes louder and louder.

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