She was unable to be certain, and that frightened her as much as anything. She closed her eyes, praying silently that just this once she could open them and find herself back in her own room, surrounded by her own things. She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to remember her bedroom. She thought of the pictures that lined her bureau top: her parents, her grandparents, her drowned brother, the family’s old sheep dog. She had a small box, an antique wooden hand-carved jewelry box, in the center between the photographs, where she kept earrings and rings and necklaces that were all worth considerably less than the box itself. She tried to picture the Christmas morning when she had unwrapped it and the hug and kiss she had bestowed on her parents in return. She tried to remember the smooth, satisfying texture of the polished wood. The scroll-like carving on the lid was especially fine and subtle, and she struggled to form the memory of the sensation in her fingertips when she ran her hand across the top.
But it seemed distant, as if something recollected from a wayward dream, and for the first time she wondered if anything that had existed so few hours earlier had ever been real.
She shivered, but not from the cold.
Where is he? she wondered.
She could not hear his breathing, but that told her nothing; she knew he was close by. She lifted her head to take in her surroundings in the same wan light that insinuated itself into the room. She did not see the man, but what she did see pitched her mind wildly and crashed into her heart with terror.
She slammed her head back down on the pillow and let sobs thunder through her body. It was then, for the first time, that she knew real violation.
He had dressed her.
She was wearing underpants, pants, a new bra and a tee-shirt.
She thought: I am a child.
And she cried out of control.
It was not for several minutes that she realized that the man was sitting in a chair just behind her head. As her tears slowed, he touched her lips again with a dampened washcloth. Then he carefully, gently, started to wash her face for her. He kept this up as she gained a grip on her fears; she concentrated on the sensation of the cloth against her skin, trying to be aware of any hesitation or pain that might signal his handiwork with the razor blade. There was none, and she allowed herself an inward sigh. She felt her muscles relax, and fought to maintain a rigidity, thinking that she must be prepared for anything. She became aware then that the discipline of her mind over her body had surrendered, that she no longer could order her limbs to perform, that somehow in the past hours, in the fear and tension, she had given up a part of her self-control. He started to speak then, softly, smoothly. She hated the sound of his voice but was unable to oppose its effect.
“Right,” he said. “Relax. Breath in and out slowly.”
He was quiet.
“Close your eyes and find your strength.”
She thought: He does not mean that. He means for me to lose it.
“Listen to your own heartbeat,” he said. “You are still alive. You’ve made it this far. You’ve made progress.”
She thought of a hundred questions and bit each back.
“Just be quiet,” he said.
She felt her breathing had stilled and that her heart had slowed. She hid behind her closed eyes, aware that he had stepped away from her side. She could hear him shuffling about a few feet away, then, just as quickly, he returned to her side.
“That’s right. Keep your eyes closed,” he said. His voice had a gentle lilt to it.
He stroked her forehead gently.
“Do you think I would hurt you?” he asked softly.
“No,” she replied slowly. Her eyes remained shut.
“But you’re wrong,” he said, in his mild voice.
Light seemed to explode behind her closed eyes as he struck her. The sound of his hand on her cheek was sharp and awful, and she gasped back in mixed surprise and pain. Her eyes flashed open and she saw his hand drawn back for another blow, the only steady thing amidst a wildly spinning room.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shrink into the pillow. “No, no, no, no, not again, please,” she said.
And there was a silence.
In the darkness behind her closed eyes, Anne Hampton’s mind spun wildly. For the first time she could think of nothing but pain, hating it, fearing it, longing to be free of it.
After a moment he spoke.
“I owe you another blow,” he said. “Consider that.”
And she heard him step away from the side of the bed, somewhere into what she was beginning to understand as the vast darkness of the little room. She remained behind her closed eyes, feeling abandoned completely, save for constant hurt.
She was no longer completely cognizant whether she was asleep or awake. The distinctions between fantasy and reality, between dream and alertness, had evaporated. She wondered momentarily whether the same barrier between life and death was becoming equally blurred.
The thought frightened her and she tried to encourage herself, thinking: But I am still alive. If he means to kill me, he would have already. He would have done it right at the start. He wouldn’t keep me alive, keep up the pain, just to kill me in the end. No, he needs me. That need spells life.
And then, just as swiftly, the darkness of her mood returned, and she imagined that perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he needed her only for what she had provided, a trussed victim. Perhaps he was simply building toward a climax, and, once reached, she would be, what? Dispensable? She tried to sweep the thought into a pile and deposit it in some closed container of the mind, but once envisioned, it grew until it came to dominate her imagination. She saw scenes as if from the evening news on television: a gaggle of cameramen, a squad of detectives, a milling mass of curiosity seekers all gathered around her naked form. In this vision she was trying to scream out to the crowd that she was alive, that she breathed and cried and thought, but she was ignored. To the mass of people, she was dead, despite her loud insistence to the contrary, and in this waking nightmare she saw herself loaded, frozen with fear, onto a gurney to be taken to a morgue. It was as if her screams of life were silent, soundless, disappearing unheard into the sky.
The man moved into the reverie and she saw that he was holding a revolver.
“I have other weapons,” he said in his even tone.
For a moment she had difficulty determining whether it was the vision or reality. Then, slowly, she became aware of the dim light, the beige walls, the straps that held her, and she returned from the demimonde into the motel room.
“Pick up your hips,” he said.
She did as she was told.
He put the gun down and as she held herself up, he pulled down the pants and panties that he had put on her, exposing her.
“A gun is an extremely cold thing,” he said.
He placed the gun on her flat stomach. She could feel the weight and the chill of the metal. He let it remain there for a moment.
He picked up the gun. She watched him look at her, then at the weapon.
“If you wanted to destroy your identity, wouldn’t you start by shooting yourself in the crotch?” he said.
He pointed the weapon between her legs.
“Oh, God, no!” she cried.
She heard the hammer click as he drew it back. She watched as he sighted down the barrel. She twisted on the bed wildly, fighting against the bonds as the man slowly took aim. She started to make small animal-like whimpers of protest, staring up at the black round hole of the revolver. It seemed to be gigantic, about to swallow her whole. She pulled hard one last time against the bond holding her, then slumped back in defeated acquiescence on the bed. She did not close her eyes; they remained fixed on the barrel of the gun. For a moment she thought she could envision the bullet coming out.
The man looked down at her,
hesitated one moment, then pulled the trigger.
The hammer came down with a click.
“Empty,” said the man. He pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked on another empty cylinder.
The breath fled suddenly from her body and she felt as if she had been pounded on the back. She gasped for air.
He watched her intently. Then he pulled from his pocket a handful of live cartridges and slowly began feeding them into the pistol chamber.
She felt a wave of nausea overcome her.
“Please,” she said, “I’m going to be sick . . .”
He moved swiftly to her head. The gun was tossed aside and she felt his hand beneath her neck, supporting her. He was holding a small plastic waste container. She gagged, but nothing came up. He put her head back slowly and quickly began to stroke her lips with the moist washcloth. She licked at the dampness and sobbed again.
“Pick up your hips.”
Again she did as she was told.
He swiftly hiked the pants and underpants back up, fastening them deftly. He picked up the gun and showed it to her. “I am an expert at this, as well,” he said. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“In fact,” he continued, “in modes and styles of death I am extremely well versed. Experienced. But again, I didn’t have to tell you that for you to know it, did I?”
She shook her head.
“You are learning.”
He looked down at her, pausing before continuing.
“You’ve read your Dostoyevsky, haven’t you?”
She nodded. “Some . . .”
“Crime and Punishment? The Brothers? Notes?”
“Yes. And The Idiot as well.”
“When?”
“Last year, in junior-year seminar.”
“Good. Well, you remember what happened to the celebrated author before he was shipped off to the work camp in Siberia?”
She shook her head.
“He and the other condemned men were lined up against a wall before the Tsar’s firing squad. Ready, yelled the captain, as the men stood trembling. Aim, he continued, as the men swiftly said their last prayers and stared out helplessly at their executioners. The captain’s sword was raised, but before he could slice it down and yell the command to fire, a horseman thundered up, wildly waving a paper. It was the Tsar’s pardon. Men fell to their knees in gratitude. Some babbled in instantaneous madness, their minds lost in that quick moment where they saw death. Several died anyway, their hearts too weak. And they were all shipped off to the camps. How did you survive in the camps?”
It took her a second to realize she’d been asked a question. Her mind fled back to the small room where she and nine other students had gathered to talk over the Russian’s novels. In her memory she could see the sunshine reflecting off the flat green of the blackboard.
“By obedience,” she replied.
“Good. Do you think the same is true here?”
She nodded.
He hesitated, looking carefully at her.
“Tell me, of all that has happened to you, what is the worst? What frightens you the most? What is giving you the greatest pain?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her answer.
She was suffused with a wave of emotions and memories, thrown into despair by the question. She thought of the pistol he’d pointed at her crotch and fought against the bitter taste of bile in her mouth; of the electric savagery of the stun-gun; of the razor poised above her face; the drowning sensation that overcame her when he’d forced the towel down over her mouth and nose; or the arbitrary and capricious beatings he’d administered. Everything hurt, she screamed to herself. Everything terrifies me. And then she asked herself: Why does he want to know? Out of kindness—what kindness is that? She could not force herself to think carefully and rationally; the idea that she somehow held some power, some ability to affect the situation, dismayed her. And then she was swept with a new terror: Perhaps he wants to know because he will eliminate the others, leaving only the worst. Oh, God, she thought, how can I tell?
“Come on,” he said with a small note of impatience. “What’s the worst?”
She hesitated. Please, she prayed to herself.
“Well?”
“The razor.” She started to cry. Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.
“The razor?” he replied. He stood up as she continued sobbing. He went out of her sight momentarily, then returned, holding the razor blade in his hand. “This razor?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, yes, please, God, please.”
He held it closer to her face.
“This is what gets to you the most?”
“Please, please, please . . .”
He put the razor inches above her nose.
“Can’t handle it, huh?”
She simply sobbed, her mind wasted with fear.
“Okay,” he said simply.
She looked at him through the tears.
“Okay. I won’t use the razor anymore.” He paused. “Except to shave myself.” He laughed. He looked at her and said, “You can smile. That was a joke.”
She cried on. He said nothing as she sobbed minute after minute. Finally, when she started to regain some control over herself, he looked at her carefully and said, “Would you like to go to the bathroom?”
She was stunned again at the simplicity of the offer.
She nodded.
“All right,” he said. He swiftly loosened her bonds. Before untying her wrists, however, he looked at her closely. “Do I need to explain the rules or do you think you already understand them?”
She was confused again. She did not know what he was talking about.
“No,” he said. “I think you know how to behave. The bathroom is right there, around the corner. There is, of course, a small window, which will present you with a choice. To some, an open window might signify freedom. But let me assure you the opposite is true. There is only one way you will find freedom from me, and that is when I say you may have it. You should understand that by now. Still, the window is there. So the choice is yours.”
He untied her wrists. She swung her legs to the side of the bed and tried to stand, but the blood rushed from her head and she was suddenly overcome with dizziness. She gripped hard on the bedstand, steadying herself.
“Take your time. Don’t fall.”
He had remained seated, not moving.
She stood slowly and felt the muscles throughout her body contract in pain. She took a small step, followed by another.
“Baby steps,” he said. “Good.”
She steadied herself against the wall with one hand, then the other. Using the wall as her guide, she stepped into the small corridor, then maneuvered into the bathroom. The light hurt her eyes and she shaded them. Her first thought was the mirror, and she forced her eyes open, the pain of it merely joining all the others that coursed through her body. She thrust her face up to the mirror and searched for wreckage. The lip is swollen, she thought, but that I expected. There was a bruise on her forehead which she could not recall receiving. Her jaw, too, was red and blemished from where he had hit her. But otherwise she was intact. She let out a sob of gratitude. Her hands shook as she ran water into the sink and splashed it on her face, washing some of the hurt away. She was suddenly aware of a huge thirst and she began to paw water into her mouth until she started to feel ill. She felt a wave of nausea, and she bent over the toilet and was violently sick. When she had finished, she reached back up and steadied herself on the sink. Again, she cleaned herself.
Then she looked up and saw the window.
It was open, as he had said it would be.
She allowed herself one brief fantasy of flight, then realized that he would be wait
ing on the other side. She knew this with absolute certainty. Still, she went to the window and placed her hand on it, as if hoping some of the slight cool in the summer night air would comfort her. She looked out at the blackness. He’s there, she thought. She saw his shape moving, just on the periphery of her vision. She saw tree branches bend in the wind, but knew he was there, waiting. He would kill me, she thought, though the word kill did not form in her mind as much as a blackness of pain and hurt.
She suddenly thought: I’m taking too long! He’ll be angry! She moved back swiftly to the sink, and, as quickly as she could, splashed another handful of water onto her face, then another into her mouth. Hurry! Just do what he wants!
She grabbed the wall again and staggered out into the motel room.
“I’m waiting,” she heard him say.
She spun through the room to the bed. Without being bidden she slid back onto it, stretching her hands up to where he could bind them easily. She did the same with her legs, feeling the ropes tighten.
“Better now?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you want to sleep or would you like me to answer questions?”
She felt suddenly suffused with exhaustion, as if the trip to the bathroom had been some impossibly difficult peak to climb.
“Sleep, then,” she heard him say.
She felt her eyes roll back.
He was sitting at the foot of the bed when she awoke. “How long was I . . .” she started to ask, but he interrupted her.
The Traveler Page 12
