Page 17 of Don't Say A Word

I search for the patch of red on the floor.

He grabs my jaw, forcing the direction of my gaze.

I close my eyes.

And then his mouth is on mine. Rough. Demanding.

I force myself not to respond. I don’t react. And I certainly don’t move my lips against his.

He cups the sides of my face painfully as his mouth devours me, insisting obedience. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth. I let my body fall slack against the wall and he digs his knee between my legs, forming a resistance to my intention of crumbling to the ground. His teeth graze my lip but garner nothing. Not a wince. Not an intake of breath. And then he bites before releasing, his forehead pressed against mine and his heavy breaths hitting my face.

“Please.” His voice is torn and broken. Nothing like it was before. Nothing like I expected. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

My eyes move to his but they are blurred with closeness.

“Please,” he begs again.

And then, after taking a deep breath, he lets me go and I allow my body to slide to the ground, pulling my knees to my chest and hiding my face in the crevice.

My backside is tender against the concrete but the coldness lessens the sting. A breath of air washes over me as the door opens and closes and I am left alone.

I suck my bottom lip and taste blood.

A spark of triumph blazes in my chest.

I won this round and in doing so realized something about my captor. He could have demanded my obedience with violence, but he didn’t.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MIA

I don’t move from my place huddled in the corner. The patch of blue sky visible through the small window is comforting. I allow my mind to wander back to my life, the one I knew before. There must be some clue, some hint as to who has requested me, and I am determined to figure it out. If nothing else, it gives me something to think about other than where I am, and why I’m here.

I think of the men in my life but I can’t even consider any of them to be guilty. It’s simply not possible. The men I know are good men, kind men. Sometimes stupid men, but stupidity doesn’t equate with evil, often stupidity indicates a lack of it.

My life was one of routine. I rose each morning at 6am and biked to the pool. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of slicing into uncut waters. It’s where I feel I can breathe the easiest even though my chest is compressed underwater. There’s something hypnotizing about it. It’s the one time I truly feel alone without feeling lonely. A place where I can block out the world and concentrate on nothing but the gasp and exhale of my breath and the burn of my muscles. But as soon as I stop, when my head breaches the water and my feet find the ground, the serenity is lost. There are swimmers in other lanes. Lifeguards at their stations. Children splashing. Parents watching. And as much as I relish the sharp gasps for air and the elongated exhales that create bubbles underwater, I still need to stop every now and then. My lungs demand it.

And that is where I usually find him. The only person that springs to mind as someone who makes me uncomfortable, though the thought of him capable of something as evil as imprisoning a person, still doesn’t sit right with me. It’s hard enough for me to comprehend that it has happened, let alone the possibility of it being someone I know.

He is a regular at the pool, like me. We started off smiling and nodding, but over the few months we’ve been swimming at the same time, a sort of friendship developed.

Sort of, because I didn’t know what to make of him at first. I still don’t. He is around my age but seems older because of the way he speaks. So soft, so gentle. He has dark hair splattered across his chest and sitting as a heavy mop on his head. He wears a bathing suit that is too small and too tight. He seems friendly enough but there is something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel uncomfortable. I feel bad for even thinking that, as he has been nothing but sweet, often commenting on my stroke and the way I cut through the water like a swan. I pointed out to him once that swans don’t swim, but he still insisted on calling me one.

Can you accuse someone of evil merely because of the way you feel around them? There is no evidence that he could be my requestor. I know nothing about the man. Not even his name. Yet there were times that he looked at me and my skin crawled.

And then there is the man at the coffee shop. Man or boy. I’m not sure. He has blond hair which hangs in his eyes and a hesitant smile. Each day when I stop for my afternoon coffee, he is there. The first time I saw him he offered to buy my drink. I politely declined. The next day when I arrived, he was already waiting, my long black with cream ready in his hands. He asked me on a date. I said no. But he is a persistent man-boy and every day since, he has bought my coffee, even when I’ve asked him to stop.

Is this his way of getting what he wants? Was his small stature and hesitant smile hiding an evil lurking underneath?

And are they really the only two men I can think of that could be my requestor? Maybe I don’t know them at all. Maybe he knows me without me knowing him. Maybe he has stalked me for months, watching my movements from afar, waiting for that perfect time to pounce. Even so, if that were the case, why isn’t he here now? Why is there someone else who enters my room and commands me with his voice?

A memory flashes into my mind. One that was dulled with the slight buzz of alcohol.

There are two places to go for a drink in the town I call home, but only one which people under the age of thirty show their faces. And it was that bar that Roxy and I headed to that night. She had travelled down from the city with her brother and boyfriend for a night out in our small town.

It was through her brother that I had met Roxy. They were twins. Roxy and Remy. Roxy was sure her parents were high when they named them. Her brother and I had somehow been setup on a blind date. It was a disaster. He was too quiet and sullen to be much company, but I did end up with a new best friend when his sister inadvertently crashed our date. Roxy and I had always meant to be together. She was everything sarcastic and rude but everything sweet and kind. We were lifelong childhood friends who just never met until they had grown up.

Since then, she has moved to my small town, renting a modest house and working at the local travel agents, much to her parents’ disgust. They are city people through and through. They told Roxy they wanted more for her. But more to Roxy meant more rules, more boredom. She wanted to live her own life.

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