by Costa, Bella
"This actually, has nothing at all to do with you, Acacia."
"Funny, seen as how I'm the one hand cuffed to a bath tub, against my will.” I sneer. Easy girl. Keep calm.
"Yes well, I had hoped to hand cuff you to several choice items of furniture before I ended our marriage, but I didn't think you would be satisfying enough to bother with the effort." Amazingly, his jibe bounces right off me, and I ignore it easily, watching as he puffs himself out again. Strike two!
"No Acacia, this is about your little boyfriend. Your poor little boyfriend, who I might add, at this moment thinks you've abandoned him. It's quite a sight really." He laughs in amusement and my anger creeps up a few levels. I hold my tongue.
"You see, C.J. has been interfering in certain business dealings, and talking to certain people, and well; it's making life very challenging for me. Aside from that, I've always wanted to knock that arrogant, obnoxious arsehole down a few rungs." He leans against the sink, and studies me, like I am a freak of nature in a circus cage.
"Besides, you could do with coming down from your perch as well. I have been watching you, Acacia. Grant is very forth coming with information he drip feeds me. But then again, he has always been very quick to jump when I ask him."
I pale. Not Grant surely? Despite Chayton's warning, I trusted him!
"Ah, a little upset are we? Not to worry. Grant, it appears, has become a little attached to you." He gazes up at the ceiling as if in thought. "Either that or he's developing a conscience in his old age. He's being quite a pest about your safety and comfort." He gazes back down at me.
"So what exactly are you planning to do?" I ask. My voice is low, and my anger is only just under control. Robert is so caught up in his little act, he doesn't notice.
"Well, my little canary, the plans are fairly fluid at the moment." He waves his fingers in the air, as if dismissing a servant.
"For the time being, C.J. is writhing in acute discomfort at the thought of losing you, which I am enjoying immensely, as are the general public. Heaven knows why. I mean, it doesn't take a brain surgeon, to see what a useless piece of trash you are.
"Soon however, he will get over you, and his interfering will become annoying again. Perhaps then, I will have a little discussion with him, about his role in your future. If that doesn't work, then maybe the Public Prosecutor will help redefine C.J.'s reputation, when they find your body in his nasty little cabin up in the mountains."
What the fuck! He is mad!
"You could say, that your fate is now in his hands." Robert pins me with an eerie smile. It's chilling and my blood congeals, as I watch him walk out the door.
Shit! I collapse in a heap on the mattress, and put my head between my knees. Dealing with a common criminal is one thing. But Robert? His madness has taken on a whole new level fucked up. I straighten up. Well I know what I'm dealing with now. I have to formulate a plan. I already have a weapon of sorts. It will be dangerous, and John will have to trust me enough to let his guard down. The timing has to be perfect, as there will only be one chance to get this right. I still don't know what lays outside my prison door, so that bit I'll have to make up on the go.
~.~
A good work out and some relaxation exercises have me feeling better, and back in control. It is going to be a long night and I'll need some rest. Shortly after John has brought my evening meal, and I've eaten, I make up my bed in the bath tub, swallow two Advil with some water to ease the bruises and the tension headache I've developed, and climb into my bed. I mentally tune out the TV and the lights, and fall asleep dreaming of Chayton gazing into my eyes, telling me everything will be alright.
~.~
15th July
I wake in the morning and check the television screen. It's a few minutes after seven am. In a couple of hours, John will be bringing me breakfast. I watch the news headlines scroll along the bottom of the screen. There is nothing interesting, so I get to work on my exercise routine. I have had to be inventive, as there is only so much I can achieve, with one hand cuffed to the bath. I manage most of my usual stretches, several sets of fairly intensive sit-ups and loads of squats. The push-ups get a bit creative. I do several sets with my feet on the floor and hands on the edge of the bath, tucking my elbows close to my body. I then do some more balanced over the bath, hands spread wide on either side, and feet hooked on the end. A few more stretches to cool down and unwind, and I'm ready for a quick sponge bath, before breakfast.
Today sets the tone and routine for the next few days.
I wake up early and work out, then have a sponge bath.
John brings me breakfast, and I try and strike up casual conversation.
I watch the news.
I practice my relaxation exercises.
John brings me lunch, and I try to strike up conversation, requesting a magazine or newspaper to break the boredom.
I read for a while.
I work out again.
John brings me dinner, and I strike up conversation, then, ask him to return in an hour, so I can change and bath.
John returns at seven and undoes my cuffs.
I have half an hour, to bath and change.
John redoes my cuffs.
I tidy up my space.
Watch the evening news until I have seen all of it twice, including the celebrity news.
Then I tune out and sleep.
~.~
17th July
Wednesday is the first break in my routine. John has just left my lunch and a magazine. He is getting more chatty and relaxed with me. I have also discovered that he has an evil sense of humour. Monday's reading material was the 'Hustler'. Pages and pages, of porn. Yesterday was 'Barely Legal'. Great porn featuring - as it says on the tin - teenagers. Today - to my absolute delight- not - is 'Taboo'.
Maybe he's realised I played him, with my 'allergies' shopping list, and this is his revenge. I'm flipping through pages of BDSM photos, noting that this magazine is at least a little more imaginative, than the other two. I pause when a picture of an attractive woman, trussed to a huge cross standing up in the middle of a room, catches my eye. She isn't dressed in the ridiculous and totally useless PVC gear, I've seen in the other pictures. Just her naked body all trussed up and vulnerable. I wonder idly if I could enjoy anything like that. With Chayton maybe? I imagine him teasing me, teasing my body and me being totally powerless to stop him. Totally out of control. That thought should scare the crap out of me-but oddly, it doesn't. Jeez! I squirm as my body responds to the thought. Damn, the man has me hot and turned on - and he is not even here! On cue, my companionable newsreader mentions his name and my head jerks up.
"C.J. Donavan has posted a reward for information, regarding the disappearance of Ms. Acacia Ward. Ms. Ward disappeared from Central Tacoma on Friday, after a lunch meeting in the city centre. Viewers might remember that Ms. Ward was formally Mrs. Acacia Jones, wife of Seattle Businessman and Philanthropist, Robert Jones. A case against Ms. Ward for fraud is still ongoing.
"When questioned by our reporter earlier today, Robert Jones alleged that, and we quote: 'As you know, my ex-wife has been charged with fraud, and is no doubt on the run, trying to escape from her responsibilities. This only serves to prove her guilt,' end quote.
"When asked why she would run now, when the on-going case is into its third year, he refused to comment.
"Police and the public prosecutor, have both refused to comment on Robert Jones allegations, but have however, requested that members of the public come forward with any information available about her whereabouts."
BASTARD! It is comforting to know that a search is on. I am hopeful, the celebrity news, will mention the story tonight. Painful or not, I long for another glimpse of Chayton. I return to my routine, looking forward, for the first time in my life, to the celebrity news.
~.~
John returns in the evening with my meal. Bangers and Mash.
"That boyfriend of yours is well off then?" he enquires, as he bal
ances the tray on the sink. He’s seen the news.
"By that if you mean, will he pay you more than Robert? Then yes,” I return, slightly hopeful.
"He might pay me more, but he'll also make sure I end up doing serious time," he smirks. "I'm not stupid."
"It's Robert who needs to do the time here. I am sure I can get Chayton to work a deal. I mean, you have been treating me well." There is a definite opportunity here.
"Yeah, well I'm not so sure. But you carry on behaving an’ all, an’ I'll carry on treating you good."
"Do you have any idea how much the reward is? The news didn't say."
"The paper, says it's dependant on the quality of the information. Up to eight hundred thousand, I think."
"Wow!" That is a lot of money.
"I'll see you in an hour then, to do your handcuffs." He grumbles and leaves me pondering this new information, and more importantly this potential opportunity, to negotiate my own release.
~.~
I hear the jingle that announces the start of the celebrity news. There is the usual monologue of misbehaving celebs, and I'm starting to wonder if they are going to mention Chayton at all. Finally! A still of Chayton looking pale and gaunt but still heart stoppingly beautiful, fills the screen. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, and his mouth is drawn in a tight line. I am captivated by the image, and almost forget to listen to the presenter's report.
"Following last Fridays display of gorgeously drunk and disorderly, Seattle's once reformed bad boy, C.J. Donavan, has posted a reward for the missing ex-wife of Robert Jones. Could this be the woman who has captured C.J.'s heart, and is her disappearance, the reason for Friday and Saturday's public outburst? We'll be watching this story closely."
~.~
My mind has crept to a dark place. A dangerous place of self-analysis, where doubt and low self-esteem twist and strangle me; choking my will. For a long agonising hour, I have rationalised the irrational. Chayton will get hurt when he realises how inadequate I am. I don't want him to get hurt.
Maybe it has nothing to do with my fear of hurting Chayton. Perhaps I feel I do not deserve to be loved. Straight away, I am shaking my head, and tut-tutting to myself. The therapist in me knows all too well, that have no reason to believe this. But after years of being told by Robert that I am not deserving- and some deep-seated part of me, has come to believe it.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this. I'm stressed, out of my comfort zone, and not accustomed the attention. I sigh. It's probably a bit of 'all of the above' but this is my psychoanalysis, so my rules, and for the time being I'll stick to that last one - it's easier to deal with.
SHIT! I'm doing exactly what Robert wants. This is why Robert insisted, I watch the news twenty-four-seven. He wants me to obsess. He knows it will wear me down. He's shelling me with constant artillery, hoping to flush me out. Well fuck it! The only obsessing I'm going to do-is getting the fuck out of here!
~.~
18th July
Thursday, I mentally block out the TV all day. I don't need the distraction of seeing Chayton or myself on the screen. I pay extra attention to three things.
My work out is extra intense. I need to whittle away at the nervous energy, causing tension and spasms throughout my body. I spend an entire three hours, focusing on relaxation exercises. I need to settle my mind, calm my emotions and free my body from the grip, tension is holding it in, so it responds better to my instruction.
Last-but not least, I pay close attention to my jailer. What leg does he favour, hand does he favour? How good is his eyesight? How quick are his reactions when I drop something? How much does he trust me? Which direction does he walk in when he leaves the room?
Bedtime, I fall into a restless sleep. I'm hopeful this will be my last night in my stark white prison.
~.~
19th July
I wake to the same unchanging light, the same unchanging jingles on the TV. D-Day. I quickly wash and prepare my weapons. I had originally planned to make my escape attempt tonight, when he removed my cuff for me to change, but I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve.
I hear his footsteps and sit casually on the edge of the bath. A quick glance around the room tells me that it looks the same as every other morning. I glance down at my wrist, where I've been picking at a scab and rubbing the area furiously to make it raw and red under the cuff. The door handle turns.
"Good morning, John," I mumble blandly, worried that my voice will betray my plans.
"Good morning, sleep well?" he replies, chirpier than usual.
"Actually no. I must have been struggling in my sleep." I lift the cuff and display the broken skin underneath. "Can we swap wrists for the day?"
"I suppose." He starts to fish the key out of his pocket, and my heart starts bellowing loudly in my chest. One chance. I try to control my breathing, but fail horribly, and silently pray that he won't notice. The small key is in his hand. He puts the key in the lock and turns it. I hear the small barely audible click as the mechanism turns, and my hand is free.
He holds the open cuff ready for my other wrist, and looks at me questioningly. I stare at him for a long painful moment. It might be easier just to offer it to him. The tension and fear are almost too much to bear. Outside that door, is the unknown, and a world of potential, and unbearable failures-all out of my control. I cannot hear anything past the harsh sound of my own breathing and the pounding freight train in my chest.
He rattles the cuff, urging me to hurry up. I bring my good hand out from behind my back, and swing it up, pushing my flat palm into his face. I twist my hand, spreading the crème, over his mouth, his nostrils and his eyes. I know his nose and throat will be burning with the strong fumes, and his eyes will be on fire as the thick pasty chemicals, strong enough to dissolve hair, get to work on the sensitive, thin membranes. It will not keep him distracted for long. I grab the thick coffee mug on my breakfast tray, ignoring the handle, and mash the mug as hard as I can against a spot behind his ear, spilling most of the scalding liquid down his side. The mug cracks and crumbles under my fingers, and I watch almost frozen, as John starts to sink to his knees, his hands still covering his face.
Run! I wonder if he screamed. I still cannot hear anything beyond the sounds of my own panic. Run! My legs, feel like they are stuck in three feet of thick syrup. Run! I've hurt another human being. What if he dies? Oh no! How could I? He is still on his knees, his face still buried in his hands. Run!
Suddenly, like a slap to the face, the room comes back into perspective. The sounds of his moaning and the television, flood back. My body is loosened from the sticky, binding, grip of fear, and I'm galvanised into moving. RUN! John's forehead is resting on the edge of bath, just inches from the dangling handcuff, his hands still covering the rest of his face protectively. I quickly snap the open cuff around johns nearest wrist. I don't where the key has gone, but finding it will keep him occupied for a while and buy me time.
I bolt for the door and glance up and down the passage. Oh my God! I know where I am! The building has been remodelled a bit. That's why I didn't recognise the bathroom. It used to be the laundry. I'm in the housekeeper's wing of Robert's house, my old home! I head left away from the main house. At the end of the corridor is a door, which leads down to the garage and out of the building. I reach the door. Locked - shit! The only other way out is through the main house. I race to the other end of the short corridor, not stopping to check how John is doing as I fly by the bathroom door. I reach the door to the main house and stop, straining my ears for any sounds from the other side of the door. Hearing nothing but my own laboured breathing, I open the door a crack.
The kitchen area. It looks empty. I open the door and pad through on my bare feet. Wow! Robert really has gone all out, with the remodelling. The finishes are ultra modern and sleek. Not to my personal taste, but still very nicely done. I wonder who he brought in to put this little lot together. Robert doesn't have a creative bone in his entire body.
&nb
sp; I slip through the kitchen and peer into the open plan living space. Devoid of the living and elegantly put together. Oh! I am not sure about that! I stare in disgust at a huge mural, which now completely covers one section of wall, between two structural pillars. It shows a cliff top scene, the ocean spreading out to the horizon. Posing in the middle of the picture, on the edge of the cliff, arms stretched out, is a naked male form poised to dive. The sinews are exaggerated and taut, and the body is toned and lean. The head, turned slightly to one side, allows the viewer a glimpse of the angular face. Robert! I shudder involuntarily, in revulsion.
I pad silently around the furniture and try the French doors. Locked, as well, and no doubt the alarms will be on too. I doubt that the same alarm codes will still work after all this time. I stand looking around the room. There are two more doors to try but if the French doors are locked then there is a good chance that the others are as well. I chew on my lip as I try to think. John will free himself soon. I need to act. The house has no attic or basement. I need to find a place to hide, until the doors are unlocked, and I can slip out unnoticed. But where? They will search the house.
Under the beds? Inside the wardrobes? Far too obvious. I head back to the kitchen and find the door I am looking for. A small box hangs on the wall next to the door, along with a newish and complicated looking keyboard for the alarm. I check inside the box and find a set of car keys. The alarm pad, that used to be here, controlled the external garage doors and gate. I hope it hasn't changed now to include the door in front of me as well. It's a secondary door, leading to the garage.
I grab the set of keys and try the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief when it opens quietly. I slip into the garage and the lights flicker on instantly, as a sensor picks up my movement. Parked in the five-car space, are three vehicles. A tired looking, silver station wagon, which makes my skin prickle with some long forgotten danger, a small hatchback, which I don't recognise, and the low, sleek form of a Bugatti Veyron-one of Roberts many 'penis extensions'. The sports car's main form is a sickening bright lemon, and the side panels are a glowing lime green. Trust Robert to pick a colour combo that will stand out for miles. I snort when I note the signature on the door. It should be the Bugatti signature, but there, in big clear cursive, is 'Robert Jones'. Typical. Even from here, I can see the bright orange interior, completely at odds with the exterior. Mm, the proverbial fruit basket, how appropriate. I fiddle with the fob on the key ring, and Veyron lights up like a Christmas tree. I search inside the sleek car, looking for the mechanism that pops the boot. I half expect to find a Kiwi shaped gear lever, and grape coloured carpets, to finish off the fruit basket effect-but he stopped at citrus. I finally find something and hear a click from the front of the car. Of course, the engine is behind the seats, so the luggage compartment will be in the front. Climbing out I quickly lift the front and almost laugh at the irony.
