Page 22 of Pose for Me
The panic attack takes hold of me, and I can do nothing about it but lie on the bed and curl into a ball, clutching my knees close to my chest. I shove two fingers into my mouth, hoping the sucking will soothe me.
I work a dangerous job, and I’m used to compartmentalizing any strong emotions like panic and fear, but I’ve never been in a situation like this. Never been so close to death but not knowing when it’ll come.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my breathing under control, so I just lie there, suck my fingers, and allow myself to unravel. My mind swirls, but I can’t grasp any thoughts for more than a second, bad scenarios of what could happen to me replaced with ones even worse. My breath hitches every time a new horror assails me, and even though I attempt to push themaway, they come harder and faster, battering against the fragile hold I have on my emotions.
I hold myself as I come apart, hoping this panic attack ends soon. When it’s done, I can try to pull myself together, but right now, nothing is working.
I’m not sure how long I spiral, but it’s long enough for me to have to use the bathroom.
Pulling myself off the cot, I shuffle to the toilet and relieve myself. I wash my hands, smiling briefly at the normalcy of the act, even though I’m not in a normal situation. That helps to calm me some.
When I get back to the cot, I’ve calmed down a little, and my thoughts aren’t as erratic.
Okay, I can figure a way out of here. I have to.
But how? How do I go forward every day, knowing I gave myself to a killer? What happens when I’m free and Ryell tells authorities he got me to his home because I was thinking with my dick?
“God,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my middle. At least my panic attack has run its course. My heart rate quickens but not excessively. I can still think through this fear.
What can I do?
I can use my instincts.
Instincts tell me that Ryell likes to be in control. After our initial meeting, he was in charge the entire time.
So I let him take control. But what does that mean? How will I let him be in charge but not lose who I am in the process?
Maybe I can’t give up too much control too fast? If I hold on, keep his interest, he’ll want to keep me around long enough for me to figure out an escape plan.
Iwillget out of here. No matter what he said, I won’t die here.
I’ll fucking take him down with me if he manages to take me out.
Nine
Ryell
During the bilateralsagittal split osteotomy procedure, my brain wanders. I’ve done this procedure more times than I can count, my hands moving on muscle memory at this point.
“Fifteen blade,” I say to Candice, waiting for the instrument. She places it firmly in my hand, and my mind flashes back to how I cut Janet’s carotid artery with an instrument just like this.
Tipping my patient’s head back and prying their mouth open, I cut an incision inside the lower edge of his mouth along the gumline so I can access the mandible, getting a clear view of the bright white bone before the site fills with blood.
As I make the cut in the ramus bone of the jaw, I think about Lane in his cell. It’s been a week, and he’s still hesitant to pose for me. I’ve drawn how he was positioned on my bed before I got naked, how he looked with tears leaking down his face as I stuffed his mouth full of my dick, how stretched and edible his hole looked with my cock splitting him open. I want to see that again. Him posing, my dick in his mouth, and fucking his ass until he forgets his name.
But he’s reluctant. Every day after work, I’ve gone to his cell with food and my sketch pad, wanting new material from a live model. But Lane never sits still, always on the move or notallowing me to get a good angle of his face to draw him. The stubble on his jaw is growing in, making him look more rugged and handsome.
After I cut through the ramus, I reposition the jaw, correcting an underbite that affects the quality of life for the patient. Not that I really care if it’s affected or not, but it’s a surgery I love because of its precision and need for perfection.Allmy work is perfect.
I align the jaw until it’s to my liking and fits the patient’s face, then start adding screws and plates.
The peace of the procedure has my thoughts drifting to yesterday before I brought Lane his dinner. He hasn’t noticed the small camera mounted to the corner of his cell, thinking anything he does when I’m not there is a secret.
He was sitting on the bed, staring off into space. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself. Even with the volume turned all the way up, I couldn’t make out the words. When he stopped talking, he shoved two fingers into his mouth, sucking them as if they were a pacifier.
Lane looked fucking wrecked on the screen, like he was barely holding it together. But when I went down with a tray of food, baby wipes, and my sketch pad, he yelled and ranted and spat at me, threatening the full might of the FBI as soon as he got out of that cell.
Like he was ever fucking getting out.
