Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

  “Stop! I have a—” His chest pushed my fist into my solar plexus. I gasped out, “A disease. A sexual disease. You’ll get sick if you—”

  He tore my pan ties off. I started to buck wildly. He smiled.

  Almost out of breath, I stopped struggling and gulped at the air. I had to think, had to focus, had to find a way—

  His smile began to fade.

  Then I got it. The more I reacted, the more he liked it. I forced my body to stop shaking. I stopped crying. I stopped moving. I thought about planes. It didn’t take him long to notice.

  He pressed down so hard with his elbow I thought my arm would break, but I didn’t make a sound. He spread my legs wider and tried to force himself into me but he was soft. I noticed there was a mole on his shoulder with a lone hair sticking out.

  He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw, and grunted out, “Say my name.” I didn’t. There was no way I was going to call this freak by my father’s name. He could control my body, but I wasn’t going to let him control my words.

  “Tell me what you feel.”

  I continued to stare at him.

  He turned my face to the side. “Don’t look at me.”

  He tried to force himself inside me again. I thought of that one mole hair. Everything on his body was shaved clean except that one mole. I passed by terror, arrived at hysteria, and started to giggle. He was going to kill me, but I couldn’t stop. Giggles became laughter.

  His body froze on top of me. I was still looking away, facing the opposite wall. His free hand shot out and clamped over my mouth. He turned my face back so I was looking at him, my lips mashed into my teeth. He ground his hand down harder. I tasted salt.

  “Bitch!” he screamed, spraying me with spit. Then his face changed again. All life was gone. He leapt off the bed, blew out all the candles, and stalked into the bathroom. Soon I heard the shower.

  I ran to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. The shower shut off, my heart started to pound again, and I raced back to the bed. With my face turned to the wall, I sucked on my bleeding lip and cried. Tears and blood mingled. The bed sagged as he lay down beside me.

  He sighed. “God, I love this place. It’s so quiet—I put in extra insulation. You can’t even hear the crickets.”

  “Please take me home. I won’t tell anyone. I swear. Please.”

  “I have the best dreams here.”

  He snuggled up to my side, folded his leg over mine, and held my hands until he fell asleep. I lay there with this naked freak cuddling me and wished the bed would open up and swallow me whole. My arm hurt, my face hurt, my heart hurt. I cried myself to sleep.

  We still have some time left, but I’m finished. And, yes, I remember we’re missing next week’s session because of Christmas. Just as well—I need a break from this crap. To tell you about it, I have to go back there. Denial is a whole lot easier. Well, at least I can fool myself into thinking it is…for about half a second. Avoiding this shit is like closing a door on a raging river. Little trickles of water start coming through the cracks, and next thing you know, the door blows off. Now that I’m letting some of the water through, will the door come crashing in? If I unleash everything that’s inside me, will I go floating down the river with it? Well, for now I think I’m going to go home and have a hot shower. And after that, I’ll probably have another one.

  SESSION FOUR

  How was your Christmas, Doc? Hope Santa brought you something good. Dealing with a head case like me every week should’ve guaranteed you a spot on his “nice” list. Me? Well, despite my best intentions to avoid any form of holiday merriment or good cheer, it came knocking on my door. Literally. Some Boy Scouts came by selling Christmas trees, and maybe I was inspired by your wreath—or hell, maybe just by their being brave enough to knock on the only door with no Christmas lights—but somehow I ended up buying one. Always was a sucker for guys in uniform.

  Problem was Mom had gotten rid of all my decorations, and every time I thought about going into a store…well, even if people didn’t still stare at me like I have an elf growing out of my ass, I’d pretty much rather dance barefoot on broken ornaments than go into a store this time of year. Got so tired of looking at the damn tree sitting sad and naked in the corner that I dragged it down to the shelter in town. Figured someone might as well enjoy it.

  Hell, there wasn’t anything to put under it anyway. I told my friends and family I didn’t want any presents, and I didn’t go to any Christmas parties. I consider that my gift to the general public. No need to bring everyone else down. Compared to last year, this holiday’s a raging success.

  The morning after The Freak tried to rape me he made me shower with him. He washed me off like a child and didn’t miss an inch. Then he made me wash him—all of him.

  I had to stand facing the wall with my back to him when he shaved his body. I lusted after the razor. I wanted to slice his dick off. This time he didn’t shave me. “Shaving is for bath time,” he said. After we got out, he brought me some clothes.

  “What did you do with my suit?”

  “Don’t worry, you never have to go into the office again.”

  He smiled. Today’s choice was sexy underwear again, in bridal white, and a shift dress in a country pattern with little pink hearts on a cream-colored background. Something I never would have picked out—way too sweet and cute for me. After he gave me some flimsy slippers to wear, he sat me down on the stool while he made breakfast—porridge with dried blueberries. While I ate, he sat across from me and explained all my new rules. Actually, first he explained how truly screwed I was.

  “We’re miles away from any human being, so even if you did escape you’d never last outside longer than a couple of days. And if you’re worried about how we’ll survive, there’s no need. I’ve taken care of everything. We’ll live off the land, and the only time you have to be alone is when I go hunting or into town for supplies.” I perked up—into town meant a vehicle.

  “You’ll never be able to find the van and even if you did, I’ve ensured you won’t be able to start it.”

  “How long do you plan on keeping me here? You’re going to run out of money eventually.”

  His smile grew.

  “I don’t deserve this, my family doesn’t deserve this. Just tell me what I have to do so you’ll let me go. I’ll do it—I swear—whatever it is.”

  “I’ve tried to play women’s games before, with some unfortunate results, but I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “The perfume smell in the back of the van, on the blanket…is there another woman? Did you—”

  “Don’t you understand what a fantastic gift this is? This is your redemption, Annie.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. None of it makes sense. Why are you doing this to me?”

  He shrugged. “An opportunity arose and there you were. Sometimes good things happen to good people.”

  “This isn’t a good thing. This is wrong.” I glared at him. “You can’t just take me away from every—”

  “What exactly did I take you away from? Your boyfriend? We’ve already discussed him. Your mother? In general I find people rather tedious, but watching you two have lunch? People reveal so much through their body language. Your only real relationship is with your dog.”

  “I have a life.”

  “No, you merely existed. But I’m giving you a second chance and I suggest you pay attention—there won’t be a third. Every morning after breakfast we’ll have exercise time, then a shower. We had one before breakfast today, but there’ll be no deviations from the schedule in the future.”

  He walked over to the wardrobe and unlocked it.

  “I’ll be choosing your clothes for the day.” He held up a couple of dresses cut like the one I was wearing, one with navy hearts on a powder-blue background and the other just solid pale pink. My hatred for pink was escalating. Stacks of what was probably the same dress in various colors filled the top shelf. He reached back in and p
ulled out a lavender wool cardigan. “Winters can be cold up here.”

  Several sets of the same outfit he was wearing, beige shirt and pants, lined the lower shelf. And to the side I spotted a couple of beige sweaters. He noticed the direction of my gaze, smiled, then said, “You’re the only color I need,” and rolled right on.

  “After you’re dressed, I’ll go outside and do my chores—yours are inside. You’ll wash the dishes, make the bed, and do the laundry.” He took a plate out of the cupboard and slammed it against the counter. “Incredible, isn’t it? Made by the same company as the glass.” Next he pulled out a pot and swung it through the air like a baseball bat. “Light as a feather, and in one piece too. I don’t know how they do it.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll spray down all the surfaces myself.” He unlocked the cupboard under the sink and brought out a bottle of house hold cleaner. I noticed it was biodegradable but didn’t recognize the brand.

  “The cleaning fluid will be locked up at all times and you’ll never be allowed to handle hot water or any utensils I feel are unsafe. After you’re done with your cleaning duties, I expect you to finish your personal grooming. Your fingernails, which are a mess, must be perfect, and I’ll file them for you. Your feet should be soft and your toenails painted. Women should have long hair, so I’ll rub conditioner in yours to help it grow faster. You won’t be wearing any makeup.

  “Our day will start at seven a.m., lunch is at twelve sharp, and afternoons will be spent studying any books I require you to learn. I’ll inspect your chores at five, dinner will be at seven, and after dinner you’ll clean up again and then read to me. After reading hour, I’ll bathe you, then it’s lights out at ten o’clock.”

  He showed me a small pocket watch with a timer on it, like a stopwatch, that he kept on a key chain in his front pocket. No other clocks were in the cabin, so I never knew what time it was unless he told me.

  “You’ll be allowed to relieve yourself four times a day. These breaks will be supervised, and the bathroom door will be left open. In fact…” He glanced at the watch. “It’s your first bathroom break now.” I took the long way around the kitchen, putting as much space between him and me as possible. “Annie. Don’t forget to leave the door open.”

  After I’d been there a couple of days he was outside when I decided to sneak in a pee. He came back in just after I’d flushed the toilet, so it was still running. I stood by the bed, trying to look like I was straightening it up. I thought maybe he wouldn’t hear the toilet, but just as he started to turn on the kitchen tap and fill up a cup he paused, cocked his head, then went into the bathroom. Within seconds he stomped toward me, his face red and lips twisted into a snarl. I cringed in the corner, then tried to dart past him, but he grabbed my hair.

  He dragged me to the bathroom and made me kneel in front of the toilet. Then he lifted the lid and shoved my head down, smashing my forehead into the toilet seat. He yanked my head back up by my hair while he reached around with his free arm and filled the cup with toilet water. He crouched behind me, forced my head to tilt back, then brought the cup to my mouth.

  I struggled to move my face away, but he pressed the cup so hard against my lips I thought he’d break it. Some of the water went into my mouth and some up my nose. Before I could spit it out, he clamped his hand over my mouth, and I had to swallow it.

  Afterward he made me brush my teeth twenty times—he counted out loud—then forced my mouth open wide so he could inspect my teeth. Next I had to rinse my mouth out with salt and warm water ten times. For the finale, he took some soap and water and scrubbed around my lips until I thought at least two layers of skin had been rubbed off. I never tried that again.

  Feels like I’m never going to break free of all his screwy rules, Doc. And man, were they ever screwy. It doesn’t matter that I know they’re total bullshit. They’re locked in and I’m locked down. On top of his rules, my psyche has added a few of its own—any little personality quirk I had before has been blown up twenty times and now I’m some weird hybrid of freakdom.

  I take the same route to get here and stop at the same coffee shop. I hang my coat on the same hook in your office every session and sit in the same spot. You should see my routine before I go to bed—doors locked, all the blinds down, every window locked. Then I have a bath and shave my legs—left leg first, then the right, armpits last.

  Once I’m done with the bath I apply lotion all over, and before finally going to bed I check the doors and windows again, put cans in front of the door, and double-check that the alarm is set—the cans are in case the alarm fails—then finally I make sure the knife is under the bed and the pepper spray on the night table.

  A lot of nights when I try to sleep in my bed, all I do is lie there listening to every little sound, so I get up and crawl into the closet, dragging a blanket—I crawl in case anyone’s peeking through the windows. Then I tuck myself in and arrange the shoes so they’re in front of me.

  Last time, you said my routines were probably providing me with a sense of security—and yes, I’ve noticed the casual something-to-think-about’s and have-you-considered’s you’ve started sliding in there once in a while. As long as you don’t start asking a bunch of questions, we’ll be okay. But I swear to God, if you ever ask how I’m feeling, you’ll be talking to my back as I cruise right out of here for good.

  So, this routines thing? At first I thought you were totally off base, but I’ve been giving it some brain time, and I guess my bedtime ritual does make me feel safe—which is ironic, to say the least. I mean, the whole time I was up there I was never safe. It was like riding a roller coaster through hell with the devil at the control switch, but the routine was the one damn thing I could count on to stay the same.

  Each day I push myself a little further, and some shit has been easier to shake than other shit, but certain things? No way. Last night I drank a gallon of tea and spent almost an hour on the toilet, at least it felt like an hour, trying to force myself to pee at an unscheduled time. Almost got a dribble—had this oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-pee moment—but then my bladder seized up again. All that experiment produced was another sleepless night.

  On that note, I’ve had enough for today. I have to go home and pee, and no, I don’t want to use your bathroom. I’d just be sitting in there, thinking about you in here, wondering if you’re wondering whether I was able to pee or not. No, thanks.

  SESSION FIVE

  On the way over here today I stopped at the coffee shop on the corner of your street. Looks dingy on the outside but has killer java, just about makes the drive into the city worth it. I’m not sure what you have in that mug of yours—for all I know it’s scotch—but I took a chance and got you a tea. There should be some perks to having to end your day with me.

  By the way, I like the chunky silver jewelry you’re always wearing. Matches your hair and kind of gives you a chic grandma feel. The kind who might still have sex and like it. Don’t worry, I’m not hinting for details—I know shrinks don’t like to talk about their lives and I’m way too self-absorbed these days to listen, anyway.

  Maybe I like your jewelry because it reminds me of my real dad, which fits with that whole self-absorbed thing. Not that he wore a bunch of the stuff, but he did have this one claddagh ring of his father’s. My dad’s parents were straight from Ireland, came over and opened a jewelry store. The ring was the only thing he got when they were killed in a fire soon after my parents were married—bank took everything else. I asked Mom for the ring after the accident, she said it was lost.

  I like to think if my dad were alive he’d have tried everything in his power to rescue me, but I don’t really know how he’d have handled it. He was a pretty laid-back guy, and in my mind he’ll always be forty years old, wearing his nice fuzzy sweaters and khakis. Only times I remember him getting excited were when he told me about a new shipment of books at the library where he worked.

  I thought about him sometimes on the mountain, even wondered if h
e was watching over me. Then I’d get pissed off. If he was my guardian angel, like I told myself growing up, why the hell didn’t he make it stop?

  On my second night, The Freak tenderly washed my back in the bath. “Let me know if you want more hot water.” He squeezed the cloth and let the rose-scented water trickle over my shoulders and back.

  “You’re quiet tonight.” He nuzzled the wet hair at the nape of my neck. Then he took a strand into his mouth and sucked on it. I ached to thrust my shoulder up into his face and break his nose. Instead, I stared at the bathtub wall and counted how many seconds it took for a bead of water to fall. “Did you know every woman has a unique flavor to her hair? Yours tastes like nutmeg and cloves.”

  I shuddered.

  “I knew the water wasn’t warm enough.” He ran the hot water for a minute. “I can tell just by looking at a woman how she’ll taste. Some men are fooled by the color. It would be easy to think your mother with her young face and blond hair would taste clean and fresh, but I’ve learned to look deeper for the truth.” He moved in front of me and began to gently wash my leg. I continued to focus on the wall. He was just trying to mess with me—I couldn’t let him see it was working.

  “She is a beautiful woman, though. Makes me wonder how many of your boyfriends wanted to have sex with her. If, when they were making love to you, they thought about her.”

  My stomach flipped. Over the years I got used to my boyfriends ogling my mom. When they weren’t busy shoving in one of her dinners they were staring at her full mouth. One guy actually told me my mom looked like a hotter, grown-up version of Tinker Bell. Even Luke stumbled over his words sometimes when she was around.