FALL (The Senses)

by Paterson, Cindy

  Water. Just a drop. One drop to ease the agony, soothe the torture of taking a single breath.

  “Tell me you’re still alive.”

  The familiar voice mixed with the constant sound of water dripping down the inside of his cage, a torture in itself, had become her comfort in this hell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “God, I’m sorry. I just can’t . . .”

  It took too much energy to move, but she managed to open her eyes and peer at him. Her neighboring prisoner gripped the bars, knuckles white, body tense like a spring wound up so tightly that it was ready to fracture. His mangled leg hung useless, but somehow he still managed to stand.

  “Don’t give up,” he said. “Others know we’re here. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of here alive. Here . . . try to reach my hands, I’ll give you water.”

  Water. The thought of it made her throat open with anticipation to ease the suffering. She stank like vomit. She wanted to peel away her skin and throw it in the garbage; it wasn’t even good enough for recycling. To drink water, wash out the taste in her mouth, quench her thirst; such a simple everyday action had become an obsessive need.

  “Reach out your hands,” he urged.

  She hesitated only because she wanted to die. How long before you died without water? A slow death to be sure, but . . . she was actually contemplating death. Never in her life had she thought of giving up on living. She lived by the moment, enjoying each day no matter what it brought with it. The female thing about holding on to a grudge for weeks on end—yeah, not her thing.

  “I won’t let you die,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Put your hands through the bars.”

  The thought of liquid sliding down her throat was irresistible, even worth the pain of moving limbs that hung like overcooked spaghetti. Survival. She had it lingering inside her still. The tiny hope that she’d see the sky again, feel the wind against her skin and hear her cat purr.

  Danielle put one hand then the other through the bars. She cupped them together and closed her eyes, afraid to watch. Afraid that he wouldn’t be able to reach her and the relief would die.

  The saturation on her skin caused tears to pool in her eyes. Water dripped through the crevices between her fingers and she quickly jolted back, afraid to lose a single drop of what he was offering. She licked her palms, the wetness adhering to her throat. Velvet. Sweet heaven.

  She reached out again and this time opened her eyes. His large hands collected the water from the shower head attached to the top of his cage. It dripped slowly and it took agonizing minutes just to gather a small handful.

  They repeated the process five times, until her arms resisted rising any longer. “Thanks,” she whispered as she collapsed back onto the cold metal floor, legs curled beneath and arms wrapping over her breasts, trying to provide herself with some sort of warmth and dignity, although the latter was improbable after all that had happened.

  She thought she heard him growl, but she wasn’t certain. So many sounds blended with others—screams, chains clanking, water dripping.

  She drifted in and out of sleep, pain mixed with the terror of hearing the clanking of her cage being lowered. Numerous times, she jolted awake to hear the cries of another being tortured.

  “Little one.”

  She woke to the deep male voice that had become her savoir. Her teeth began chattering again and she wrapped her arms around her shivering body. She heard him curse and knew her reprieve had ended.

  The chains rattled and her cage lowered. God, no. How long had it been? Days, minutes, hours? No concept of time, just the realization that the monster would drink from her again.

  “Little one,” he repeated.

  She shuddered, unable to think of anything except what was to come. Her stomach curdled, but she had nothing left to vomit.

  “Listen to me. You will survive this. Don’t give up on me. I promise you, I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Don’t let . . . not again . . . no God . . . please,” she muttered in a haze of shock.

  He cursed again, his fist pounding on the cage bars next to hers. His words were like an assortment of colors mixing together to form muddled sounds. She had no clue what he was talking about. How could he get her out of here? How could anyone help her? Was he losing his mind too? Because she sure as hell felt like she was losing hers, almost welcomed it.

  The cage lowered until it settled on the floor. The door jerked open and cold hands gripped her forearms, dragging her across the dirt floor to the cold steel table. Clanging sounded and then the harsh cold metal clasped around her ankles and wrists. She sucked in air as her abrasions rubbed up against the restraints. Her body lay shivering on the harsh surface as her silent screams bellowed inside her head.

  Footsteps. She tensed. That same step, a slow, precise, casual stride. Then the smell of black licorice penetrated her nostrils. If she survived, she swore she’d never touch the wretched stuff again.

  Her throat constricted, reflexes making her gag.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed to wake from the nightmare as his filthy nails ran across her shoulder to her neck.

  “God, you’re magnificent. Skin so delicate and soft . . . like a dove. Soon you’ll become my Underling. Eager to do as I please, begging me for my blood.” His fingers pressed on the punctures in her skin.

  She jerked against the shackles. Not again. Please God, let him walk away. No more. Please. Please.

  “No. God no,” she cried.

  He chuckled. “I wondered if I’d driven away that fierce spirit. You look rather . . . accepting now. Drink from me and this will end.” He ran a nail across his own wrist and blood rose to the surface. He held it inches away from her mouth. “Drink, Danielle.”

  She turned her head away from the nauseating sight.

  “Soon, my sweet. I am very patient.” He gripped her chin and tilted her head to the side.

  She heard the familiar hiss and her entire body revolted. Her legs and wrists fought the restraints as the scream that tore from her throat screeched like a tortured animal caught in a trap. Rebellion took hold, a fight for her life, for her spirit, which was being sucked from her insides like a vacuum.

  He laughed at her screams, his grip tightening on her chin.

  It was then she heard his voice from above. That deep strong voice that lived in hell with her.

  “Stop. Damn it. Stop. I’ll do what you want.” His voice came hurtling down from his cage in a deep haggard tone. “For Christ’s sake, just let her go.”

  The icy hands left her body.

  She lay shaking, unable to decipher what was going on around her. The man’s words in her mind were familiar and soothing.

  “You will not suffer any longer. Never again, my little one. I swear to you. Never again.”

  Chapter 1

  Two years later

  “Danielle, for the love of God, you have to stop doing this,” Anstice said. “It’s not . . . it’s just not healthy.”

  Danielle stared at the portrait of the man—eyes green like a leaf that had consumed an abundance of rain. His chin sharp and angular, lips thick and a nose with a slight notch on the bridge. Arrogant, confident and definitely proud. She’d painted his dark umber hair wet, drops of water clinging to the ends of the strands that hung an inch below his ears; one drop rested on his cheek as if he were crying.

  It was her best one so far, truly capturing his pain with the corners of his eyes drooping, sadness penetrating as he stared directly at you from every direction. Alone and haunted as if something horrific had happened to him—a tormented soul.

  “This is it,” Danielle said, eyes transfixed on her painting. She rubbed her arms, easing the familiar goose bumps that rose whenever she looked at him. “He’s the one in my dreams.”

  Her best friend sighed. “You said that the last time and the time before and the time before that. You’ve painted what . . . twenty, thirty of this guy?”

  Danielle shrugged.
Yeah, so what. She’d lost count. He lived in her dreams every night, haunting, driving her to paint him again and again. He was like a mosquito buzzing in her ear and no matter what, she couldn’t swat it away. The ruse of it was that the damn mosquito had become a familiar friend.

  She ran her finger across the canvas, touching his slightly parted lips. He was real. In her heart she knew that at one time she’d known him, spoken to him. She knew his voice, a deep baritone with a hint of huskiness like the soft roar of a beautifully tuned Ferrari.

  “I know he was there. And don’t start with me, Anstice.” Danielle pointed at the painting. “I’m telling you, this guy had something to do with my abduction.” It was in his eyes staring into her soul, telling her he felt her pain, knew what she’d been through. In her dreams this beautiful man spoke to her, reached out with his hands and tried to save her from the black shadow who had tortured her. She’d know if he’d been responsible, wouldn’t she? She was drawn to him, not revolted by his face. Even if her memory was washed away, her body knew.

  “Danielle—” Anstice placed her hand on her shoulder, “—you have to stop this. Please. It’s making it worse.”

  Danielle was well aware that Anstice hated the portraits. When her friend had seen the first one two years ago, she’d looked sick to her stomach, her complexion fading to a translucent white and her eyes widening with horror. Ever since then she avoided the paintings altogether. Her excuse was that the man looked haunted and it freaked her out to look at him.

  He was rather formidable looking with those piercing eyes. But he also emitted a strength that in some sense gave her determination to conquer another day. Then again, he reminded her of the frustration of living with a black hole in her mind. She’d never been one to sit quietly and take whatever life threw at her; instead she fought for what she desired. And she needed this. No, it was stronger than that. She had to have this like her lungs needed the next breath.

  Danielle shrugged off Anstice’s hand and strode to the front door. “I have to remember, damn it.” She flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the door to her art gallery, which she’d aptly named Danielle’s. “You have no clue what it’s like waking up in the night freezing cold, feeling like clammy ice-cold hands are on my body, hearing a stupid tap dripping, but lo and behold there’s no water running anywhere in my place. Fuckin’ hell, Anstice, I was tortured by some psycho.” She kicked an unopened box of supplies. “I can’t even go on a date anymore without being afraid it’s the guy coming to abduct me again. I hate it.”

  “It’ll take time.” Anstice’s voice was soft, and tears surfaced in her eyes.

  “Time? Are you joshing me? It’s been two bloody years. I live like a hermit. Me. The free spirit with a tattoo on her butt. I don’t like men touching me. Black licorice makes me vomit, but before the abduction, I ate it by the truckload. I hate any sort of confinement and . . .” Shit, she even peed with the bathroom door open. Danielle stormed over to the portrait. “And I hate you,” she shouted and then punched her fist through the middle of the canvas.

  Anstice gasped, hand flying to her mouth, a tear escaping and sliding down her cheek. “Danielle, please.”

  Danielle threw the ruined painting across the room. It landed face up on the floor, vivid green eyes piercing and watching her with an all-knowing look as though the bastard knew she was all screwed up.

  She gave a loud, frustrated grunt and stomped over to her cans of paint and picked one up. She carried it over to the canvas, opened the lid, tilted her hand and let the bright red paint slip over the lip to land on top of the green eyes. “There,” she said. “Now stay the fuck out of my head.”

  The back door creaked open and then slammed shut.

  Anstice sighed as Keir appeared. He approached his wife with long confident strides then put his arm around her waist, drawing her close.

  Danielle ignored them as she carried the red paint over to the closet. She threw open the doors and began pulling out every painting she’d ever done of the green-eyed man. She kicked her foot through the center of each one and then proceeded to pour paint over the haunting eyes. Keir and Anstice were watching, but neither interrupted. Besides, she had no intention of stopping until every last one was destroyed.

  She had to get this guy out of her head before he ruined her life. All she did was think about him, dream about him, wonder if he existed. Yeah, she needed all the W questions answered. Shit, she’d even done hypnosis to try to eradicate him from her mind, but all it managed to do was amplify her awareness of him.

  She dribbled the last of the bright red paint on the final painting and then let the jar slip from her hand. It bounced off the walnut hardwood floor and rolled on its side to settle beneath an easel. She looked around at the red paint puddled on the floor, damaged canvases ripped and thrown in every direction. Hours of work ruined in minutes; her gallery floor ruined in seconds.

  A giggle escaped and then another and another until she was laughing hysterically. She laughed until her shoulders and stomach ached. It felt good to laugh again, even though it wasn’t because she found this funny; rather it was just the opposite. God, she was losing it. She’d end up like her father after all, sitting alone in the darkness, unable to decipher what was real.

  “You will stay at our place tonight,” Keir said.

  Anstice nodded. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Danielle stopped laughing. God, what was she doing? What had she done? She’d turned every single portrait into what looked like a bloodbath of insanity. She tapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I . . . guys thanks, but it looks like I have a little cleaning up to do before I open tomorrow. Wouldn’t want clients to think I’ve lost it or anything.” Maybe she had killed the pesky mosquito. Time to stand on her own two feet without those piercing eyes. Forget the past and live in the present. Yeah, like that was going to happen any time soon.

  Keir lowered his voice an octave. “I must insist. I cannot allow you to remain here alone.”

  “Oh, pull that insisting crap on someone else, Keir. It doesn’t work with me.” Danielle rolled her eyes at her friend and Anstice bit her lower lip, looking rather sheepish at her husband’s behavior.

  Danielle liked Keir a hell of a lot, but the man was demanding. Honestly, if she were Anstice, she’d punch him in the jaw a few times and threaten to leave him if he continued to insist, demand or order. But, she’d never seen Anstice happier. And she had to admit, Anstice usually got her own way with him. Keir tended to back down when Anstice’s anger surfaced.

  “I just had a freakout, okay? I’m entitled. I’m fine now.”

  “We’ll help you clean up,” Anstice said.

  Danielle shook her head and the pencil slipped from her hair. Her almond locks fell to swirl around her shoulders. “Damn.” She picked up the pencil and twirled her hair around it again. “I need time alone, okay? I just destroyed my favorite paintings and dumped red paint all over my gallery floor.” Keir open his mouth to protest and she shot him a glare. “Don’t say another word, Keir. I like you—most of the time anyway—but I’ll kick your ass if need be.”

  Anstice smiled, no doubt laughing at the preposterous notion. “We’ll leave, but call me tomorrow, okay? And the dinner thing is still happening.” Anstice hesitated, glancing at Keir as if they were mentally communicating. It pissed her off when they did that, so bloody connected together that they knew what the other wanted to say without actual words. Anstice continued, “We want you to meet someone. A good friend.”

  Danielle stopped mid-way from bending down to pick up a destroyed canvas. She straightened and looked at Anstice. “Blind date me, and I call off our friendship.”

  Anstice quickly rectified the misconception. “No, no. It’s not like that. Waleron just might be someone you can . . . talk to.”

  “A head doctor? You want me to see a head doctor again?” Danielle cursed under her breath several times. Doctors had done shit for her father and sure as hell wo
uld do shit for her. Besides, right after the episode she’d seen a therapist in the hospital and that did nothing for her. All she managed to get out of therapy was a “happy place.”

  So her best friend thought she was crazy. Maybe she was. God, she had to get a handle on things.

  “He’s not a psychiatrist,” Anstice said. “He’s someone who might be able to help with what you’re going through.” Anstice straightened her shoulders and raised her chin a notch. “I’m not taking no for an answer this time. You never go out anymore. All you do is work and sit here hibernating. So Saturday night after you close, I expect to see you at our place.”

  Did she have a choice? If she refused, they’d be over here every night until she agreed and that was unacceptable. Space and solitude had become her two best friends.

  “Fine, I’ll come. But tell the boys to take a hike. They pissed me off the last time.”

  “Jedrik’s flirting is harmless,” Anstice said.

  “Yeah well, tell him to take his charming ass out the door or I’ll do it for him.” The last time she’d come for dinner, the thirty-something boys—and she considered her friends’ roommates Galen and Jedrik were boys considering they bantered back and forth like a couple of ten-year-olds—had fought over who could get her to go on a date with them. They had actually made a hundred-dollar bet.

  Keir bowed his head. “I’ll be certain to keep them occupied elsewhere.”

  Danielle watched them leave hand in hand. She had to admit, she was glad that Anstice had found Keir. It was obvious from the way his eyes smoldered every time he looked at her that he was smitten. Okay, smitten was too wuss of a word to describe anything to do with Keir, rather he was utterly, totally besotted.

  Even though she was happy Anstice had found the love of her life, it also brought with it a barrier, this distance between them. They’d grown up together, friends from the first moment they met in grade two in the playground. Anstice was crying over an injured bird and some boys in grade five were teasing her. Danielle remembered walking up to the little instigator, who was doing most of the egging on, and slugging him one in the jaw. He fell flat on his ass and began crying. She and Anstice had been friends ever since.