Page 26 of Searching for Hope

I can’t help the tears. “Please,” I say. “Please don’t tie me back up. I promise I’ll behave. I promise I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” I reach out, resting my hand on his wrist, my eyes fixed on the dangled piece of rope. “Don’t tie me up.”

His eyes snap to my touch. He shakes his hand, ridding himself of me as though I’m nothing more than a gnat. “Hands behind your back,” he repeats.

I can’t help it. I start to cry. I let my tears fall as he roughly jerks my hands behind my back, bringing back every ounce of stiffness and tenderness I’ve been feeling for the past few days. He ties the rope tightly, not caring that it cuts into my skin. And then he pulls a strip of material out of his pocket, winding it around my head and covering my eyes. A small amount of light makes its way through at the bottom of the blindfold, but not enough to see anything.

He leaves.

I sit in silence, in darkness, my heart pounding. I thought there wasn’t anything more that I could experience that would frighten me, but this man, my captor, holds the monopoly on the unknown. And it is a worse torment than anything I’ve experienced before.

What if the visitor is to be my new owner?

What if he is cruel?

What if he is kind?

What if he is my savior?

What if he is the devil?

All the ‘what ifs’ float through my mind, swelling the panic in my throat until it makes it hard to breathe. And then I hear voices. Male voices. One I recognize as my captor’s and the other ringing warning bells of familiarity, but it’s hard to place a voice without a face.

“He’s going to be so surprised when he sees her,” a man is saying to my captor. “He thinks she’s dead.”

Are they talking about me? Am I the one someone thinks is dead?

“I still don’t know when he’s coming home,” my captor replies. “And it’s becoming harder and harder to keep her a secret.”

“You’re doing well. He will be so proud of you once he realizes.”

Footsteps echo off the wall as the men climb down the stairs.

“I put this up to make things a little more secure.” I hear the rattle of the fence.

“Good thinking,” comes the reply. It’s almost as though the voice is placating him, soothing him as one might a child. “Has she been any trouble?”

“Not really. A little stubborn at times but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

I swallow and the sound is loud inside my head. Footsteps come toward me. They are the visitors. Clipped steps. Fancy shoes. A finger connects with my chin, tilting my head upward.

“And you’re sure this is her?” the visitor says. I feel the warmth of his breath wash over me.

“Yes. Positive. I remember her clearly.”

His answer pricks my ears. He remembers me clearly. He knows me?

“She’s not as pretty as I remembered.”

So the visitor knows me too.

“Time does that to women.”

The visitor chuckles. “Indeed, that it does.”

“Why does he think she’s dead?”

“Because that’s what I told him.”

“Why?”

---