Page 24 of Mine

Are they seriously going to leave me like this?

Claustrophobia begins to mix with anger. My chest tightens, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

And who the hell does Astor Stone think he is?

Twelve

Anonymous

Careful to stay behind the tree line, I focus the binoculars, zooming in on the bay window that allows for the widest view of the bedroom.

I watch as she tries to unhinge her gag by hooking the fabric on the corner of the bedside table and yanking upward. Over and over she does this, tears streaming down her face. I can practically hear her screaming.

Next, she attempts to unlock the window with her bare toe, ripping her nail in the process, based on the wail that rips from her throat. Lastly, she tries to sever her binds by frantically rubbing them against the bathroom door frame.

When all efforts have failed, she begins pacing the room, mascara-stained tears rolling down swollen red cheeks.

I study every inch of her. Such an ugly, ugly creature.

While most probably see beauty, I see a foul black aura swirling around her like a cloud of stink. She’s a troubled, weak woman. Pitiful.

Resigned, she walks to the window and stares into the dark night.

For a moment, I think she sees me. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I shift my focus to the pistol tucked in my waistband.

I hold completely still, knowing my black balaclava and matching clothing make me almost invisible in the shadows.

Five seconds pass, six, seven. Finally, she turns away.

I slip deeper into the forest, creeping from tree to tree until I see him.

His pain is palpable, even from this distance. Still in his suit, he paces his bedroom, jabbing his fingers through his hair and clenching his fists. Like an animal, manic and unhinged.

I shift back to the accompanying bedroom. She is now trying to claw her way out of the binds.

So much pain, hate, and anger between them both.

I have to fight the urge to sneak in through the window and hit her. Break her nose, her jaw, blacken her eye, all while she’s restricted and unable to defend herself.

A thrill comes over me, my pulse kicking.

I imagine grabbing her hair and slamming her face into the window, over and over until it shatters, the shards slicing through her cheekbones, into her eyes.

She gives up once again and drops onto the edge of the bed, where she slumps over and stares at the floor.

Such a useless woman. Such a waste.

My hand finds the folded picture that I keep in my pocket. I rub my thumb against the sharp edges.

A face, blurred and glassy, appears in my mind.

I pull the photo from my pocket, lower the binoculars, and stare down at the little girl with blond ringlets.

Licking my lips, I trail my fingertip along the curves of her face, her hair, her little body. The colors are faded from how many times I’ve done exactly this.

I tuck the photo back into my pocket and resume my place behind the binoculars.

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