The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

  As the wind beat my face, a powerful force struck the back of my head, and I fell. It took me a moment to realize that I was not dead. The man captured me and dragged me all the way back to the car, through the cactus and rocks, by my hair.

  Back at the car, he pulled me to my feet. The gun was in his hand.

  “Shoot me. Just kill me, you moron.”

  He grabbed my head and shoved the gun into my mouth. I squinted. The anticipation of death conquered my fears. He pushed the gun deeper inside my mouth. It made me blink and tense up more than I already was. He was toying with me. More than once, I imagined the back of my head blowing off. While I prepared for certain death, he decided to change the plan. He pulled the gun out of my mouth, pistol-whipped me, and began to fight me toward the trunk.

  With no hands to assist me, I teetered on the back of the trunk. My legs would be my only tool to fight him. As I raised my legs to kick him, he pulled them up, and I fell into the trunk onto my back. I noticed a large angry raven on top of a telephone pole. As the trunk closed, the bird let out a loud, ferocious squawk. Then my world went black.

  Me at age nineteen

  Me at age nineteen

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lit

  These were the days cars had no trunk releases.

  Car manufacturers installed trunk release mechanisms in 1997,

  seven years after my abduction. The slogan “Stranger Danger”

  came out in the sixties, but I ignored it due to the irony

  of my childhood existence.

  The air reeked of pure evil. The horror of the moment snatched the soul from my body. My fate was now sealed in the trunk of the devil’s car. On death’s doorstep, I lay with my hands cinched behind my back. I couldn’t even grope the pitch-black space around me, much less do anything other than entertain the paralyzing thoughts that rammed through my mind. Aroused by trepidation, I prepared for my imminent butcher.

  Asphyxiation was a death I had already suffered. Now I would be decapitated, and rabid coyotes would devour my mangled body. As my friends and family rested cozy in their beds, I would be mutilated. These were the speculations I was forced to endure.

  Motivated by fear, I thrashed inside my aluminum coffin. Panic set in, followed by hyperventilation. When I tried to cry, I couldn’t. Instead, I let out crippled howls. Then, in a loud whisper, I began to interrogate myself.

  “What do I do? What do I do?” My eyes zoomed all around the lightless trunk.

  “What do I know about this?” I battled my impulse to panic, as a sense of urgency provoked the secretion of massive amounts of adrenaline.

  I screamed. “What do I know?” With my teeth tightly clenched, I rolled my face into the trunk’s bottom.

  “Help, help, help, help, help,” I whispered in a multitude of breathy voices.

  With darkness all around me, I remembered something my grandma had told me when I was a child. She said, “Jenny, if you are ever in danger, pray. In Jesus’s name, you should pray.”

  My eyes widened with this realization, and I grew spastic. My yelps developed a tone of hope. How do I pray? I wondered. Just put your hands together, that’s all.

  Suddenly, I felt as though I had a secret weapon. My fingers interlaced with fragile strength behind my back, and I summoned God. With every pause in my plea, I searched for his presence, my voice like an instrument not sure of its tune.

  “God, I know you are there. Please, help me. I don’t want to die. God? God, if there is a God, show yourself. Show yourself! Help me now or kill me. Kill me then … I don’t want to be chopped up, God. Please help. If you exist, if you truly exist, help me. God! In Jesus’s name …”

  When tears would not flow, I tried to fake cry out of frustration, occasionally sounding like a wounded animal. My legs were restless, but I held them still. It was difficult to stifle my squirminess.

  “God, please save me. I will tell everyone you saved me. Please, Lord. Please.”

  My energy was lost. Either I was depleted or I had lost all hope.

  Suddenly, I felt adrenaline flood my body. My strength was hysterical. My confidence was at one hundred percent. To my astonishment, I heard the tension of the twine as it prepared to break. It popped three times, and my hands were set free.

  The entire trunk ordeal lasted about fifteen minutes. At minute seven, I had regained the use of my hands and arms. Within another minute, I started to panic again. The twine no longer restricted the movement of my arms, but I was still sealed inside the trunk.

  My momentary salvation was replaced with fright as I realized that I could not escape the trunk. Fantasies of what was to come began to control my uncertain emotions. My breathing was rapid and fast, and I faced the darkness in sheer distress.

  At minute nine, logical visions of what would happen when the trunk opened horrified me so much that I decided to take my own life. With options exhausted and twine as my noose, I repented.

  “God, if you exist, you know why I am doing this. Please forgive me.”

  My fingers gripped the ends of the twine, and I wrapped it around my neck. My hands pulled with what little energy remained in my body. Undamaged by my efforts, I spoke to God.

  “Take me, Lord,” I begged at minute ten as I strained my once-useless arms. All of my strength was used to no avail. No options were left; I would be murdered.

  Finally, I succumbed to my circumstances. At minute eleven, I considered myself dead.

  “Please, Lord, don’t let me feel any of it,” I whispered, while I held my hands folded in front of my eyes.

  Suddenly, all was calm. Through the trunk, I saw a hand. A larger-than-life vision that instantly piqued my curiosity. It was not of this world. As I watched intently, the hand exposed a key. The key was placed into the lock on the outside of the trunk and was turned. The trunk was illuminated by either God or my imagination, and I saw how the lock operated. The mechanism that unlocked the trunk was on the inside with me. The latch of liberation was hidden between God’s hand and the carpeted siding in the trunk. All the answers were given to me. After I reached my arms out to find the sides of the trunk, I met them in the center. My left hand was a marker, and my right hand tore the carpet at the corner. I peeled it from the metal, until my active hand could slide beneath. My fingers felt circular cutouts in the trunk’s frame, and I pushed my hand into one near the middle. I found the latch and turned it. Light flooded the trunk. Deliverance was at my fingertips. All my fear escaped out the cracks that led to my freedom.

  The man drove fast. If I raise the trunk, he will pull over, I thought as I thrust the lid open. He noticed immediately but seemed confused.

  “Wha— Wha— I’ll shoot the backseat out!” He made an aggressive swerve off the road and came to a stop.

  As I listened, I held the lid down to pretend it was shut. Suddenly, the trunk lid rose, and a gun was in my face. With my fingers pinching the lid, I pulled it hard. The slam of the trunk on his arm forced the man to retreat. During our brief struggle, the trunk was locked. My right hand stayed within the outer wall of the trunk, but I no longer felt the latch. The man bounced the car with his weight on the trunk, then tried to lift it to ensure the lid was closed completely.

  In the darkness, I followed his sounds with my eyes. My destiny was about to change because I knew I would get out. I imagined the love I’d receive post-escape. My thoughts were fast.

  Everyone will love me now. They will all cry and hug me. They will nurture and protect me. The media will interview me and commend my bravery and ask for my advice on how to escape from evil monsters. My life will change for the better, which will make this death-defying experience worth it. I will be a hero!

  As I felt for the latch to reopen the trunk, I saw all of the beauty that awaited my arrival. My spirit was lit, pure, like the white light I previously witnessed. Determination and purpose now filled my veins. I was focused. The car was still. The back wheels began to spin. Purposely, I bounced the car so the bac
k tires would dig deeper. As I bounced, I listened. The man pushed on the gas and muttered underneath his breath. He was panicked. He was stuck in the soft sand with a bloody, half-naked woman in his trunk and a bag of blades in the backseat.

  He must have thought, What if someone notices I’m stuck and pulls over to help me? What do I do then?

  When I put myself in his head now, I know he must have been terrified, and that thought makes me happy. Like any warrior does, I play the experience in my head, over and over, and fantasize different outcomes. Sometimes I imagine scenarios that make me cringe, while others make me laugh until I nearly pee myself. As a survivor, these cognitive illusions are essential to preserve your sanity. They also bear a gift—power.

  Stuck in the sand, he quickly developed a routine. After he pushed the gas pedal, he would turn his head and yell at me. His words did not matter; I was focused on his patterns. He yelled at me, turned and focused on the traffic, then attempted to accelerate. To my advantage, his wheels continued to rotate hopelessly in the sand.

  After timing his actions, I waited for him to yell toward the trunk. My hand had found the trunk’s release again. As his attention averted back to the traffic, I threw the trunk open and jumped out. Immediately I knew I was in trouble; my hand was stuck within the wall of the trunk. I considered leaving it behind. The opening of his door motivated me enough to dislodge my hand. At minute fifteen, I was free.

  Ravaged, I fled toward oncoming traffic that did not exist. Cars in the distance were too tiny to make out. In my entire life, I had never run this fast. I was one with the wind and far from myself. My legs were no longer felt beneath me. Occasional zigzags were thrown into my flight to ward off any potential bullets.

  Then, to my right, a vehicle began to cruise alongside me. The driver’s side mirror was the nearest thing to grab, as the car never decreased its speed. An elderly couple, reminiscent of my grandparents, suddenly appeared as my saviors. As I peeled my hands off the mirror and grasped for the opened window, the woman in the passenger seat became hysterical.

  As she looked toward the backseat and out the back window, she open-handedly struck her husband. There was a look of horror on her already-pale face.

  “Go! Go!” she yelled.

  The driver sped up as I frantically lunged toward the window. My grip was lost, but my hope was still intact. There was no time for negativity now. Yet the thought of what the woman witnessed discouraged me greatly. The more I told myself not to look back, the more curious I became. With no knowledge of the distance between us, I turned to find the man chasing me down the middle of the road with a machete.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That’s What You Get for Hitchhiking

  “Free”

  Desert birds sang.

  Medical professionals, firefighters, and cops cried.

  Sure, it was unprofessional, but they couldn’t help it.

  They were only human.

  My mom ran to me in a teary-eyed panic.

  She apologized for every awful thing she’d ever done to me.

  She was kind and nurturing.

  She wanted to protect me.

  My horror was worth her love.

  Finally, I was free of danger.

  As I ran, I raised my arms out and chest up like a diver posing atop a board. My head tilted upward a bit. My eyes were invisibly tethered to a delusion so brilliant, only I could see it.

  As I rose off the ground, I began to fly, my feet gently brushing along the asphalt. This was the moment I longed for. The world as I knew it was about to change forever because I would either die or ignite. My fuel, the love and admiration of others. The spark, aspirations I held within. The world was good. The man was bad. These were the feelings I had as I ran.

  A large object began to approach me. My eyes pierced right through it. A dream world had formed to protect me. A truck appeared and startled my daze. The fear of rejection struck me like a dagger, but I ran toward the truck with my eyes closed. I heard a screech. The truck had stopped for me. A rush of adrenaline persuaded me to attack the driver’s window like a destructive wild animal. The passenger jumped out of the truck and rushed toward me.

  “We are marines,” he said as he reached out to help and took in my appearance.

  Like a wild animal, I could not talk; I was only capable of horrendous noises. Concern overtook him, and he huddled me into the backseat of the truck.

  The mistake of trusting a stranger had nearly cost me my life; now, it was saving my life. My disabled mind found no irony in that. No mental or physical strength was left for an outcome that would require it. My fight was gone. I merely existed at this point.

  My eyes zoomed in and through the most random objects, unaware of what they viewed, and led me to a place of confusion. My soul attempted to escape its physical imprisonment through my vision.

  My control center was only responsive when questioned loudly or repeatedly. Touch felt like electricity; it would startle me, even when I saw it coming.

  When I was silent, I was elsewhere, and when I spoke, I was everywhere. Words spewed from my mouth, like water from a defective fountain. My voice radiated through my hollow mind. I felt its vibration but could not make out the words it tried to convey. My face preformed a multitude of expressions, exerting muscles I didn’t know existed.

  Humiliation makes you humble. I had forgotten that I was nearly naked. An oversized sweatshirt hung on my body, but there was no other clothing.

  “He was going to murder me!” I shouted as I put on a new pair of Levi pants the guys handed me.

  “Who?”

  I pointed my finger. “Him!” The man was now unstuck, barreling down the road far ahead of us.

  “Get him!” I shouted. “He had me in the trunk! Get him!”

  “What truck?” the passenger asked in a panic.

  “The trunk! In the trunk! He kidnapped me!” I screamed.

  “What?” the driver shouted as he slammed the accelerator to the floor.

  He drove fast in an attempt to catch the car. The marines’ anger toward the killer made me feel loved. They wanted to make him pay. Now I was along for the ride.

  The driver’s eyes were focused on the road ahead, and the passenger was bent forward as if he couldn’t catch the man fast enough. He tapped the front window aggressively.

  “That car, there?” He rubbed his fists as if to condition them for a fight.

  “Yes!” I throttled his headrest. “Get him! He bit me!”

  The kidnapper sped through the stop sign.

  “He strangled me!” I yelled.

  We were about two blocks behind him.

  “What’s his build?”

  “He’s small.”

  “Does he have any weapons?”

  “Yes! A gun, a knife! Bag—a bag of knives!” I sounded like a frantic contestant on a game show. “Blades! Blades everywhere.” My hands moved in the air as if I were playing charades. “Blades were sticking out!”

  The men looked at each other repeatedly. They did not speak.

  My hands measured the invisible bag. “A big bag! And a gun! Did I say gun?”

  The truck suddenly lost its momentum. My eyes witnessed a silent communication between the two men.

  Confused, I yelled with all the strength I could muster. “Go!”

  “A gun and knives?” the driver asked. He took one hand off the wheel and adjusted his body toward me.

  “What? Go!” My forehead scrunched into a frozen state. “Yes, but he is small.”

  The car in the distance turned onto a side road.

  “He turned! Go faster!” I screamed as I slapped the passenger’s leather seat.

  He abruptly turned toward me. “We can’t. This is a job for the police,” he said.

  “No!” I pressed my face into the window beside me. “He went that way.” I pointed as we passed his turn.

  “We will stop at a gas station and call the police,” the driver said.

  In d
isbelief, I spun in my seat and stared out the back window with eyes full of tears, until I could no longer see.

  About twelve minutes later, we entered a town I knew well— Morongo Valley, the town I grew up in. We pulled into the gas station, and I saw people I recognized in the parking lot. The drop of my heart reminded me I had one. People in town knew the story of my childhood, that I grew up with no water or electricity. Now they were about to find out that someone tried to murder me.

  We parked near the double glass doors of the entrance. The marines sheltered me into the store. As I walked in, I stared at my dirty bare feet and wondered who noticed me. The driver alerted the attendant of the emergency, and I was guided by him into a small office to use the telephone. As I spoke to the 911 operator, the marines disappeared, never to be seen again.

  Moments later, paramedics appeared. Everyone around me spoke loudly. A gurney was pulled inside the office, and I was secured onto it. Medical professionals began to rapid-fire their questions.

  “What’s your name, hun?”

  “Jen … ni … fer,” I said, as if it hurt to talk. I covered my face with my hands.

  “What’s that?” My hands were removed from my face. “Can you speak up, hun?”

  “Jen … nifer,” I answered again. Embarrassed, I turned away from the lookie-loos that now gathered around the ambulance.

  Before they asked me for my last name, I heard a voice that was comfortingly familiar.

  “Well. She is quite the storyteller,” the voice said.

  My mom leaned against a police car and casually sipped a Pepsi. Frantic, I cried out for her. She strolled toward me with a look of disgust on her face, as if I had done something horribly wrong. When she was close enough to reach, I tried to cling on to her arm.

  “I was kidnapped, Mom!” I yelled, causing the crowd to gasp and murmur.

  My mom had all eyes on her. “Well, that’s what you get for hitchhiking,” she replied as she released herself from my grips. She walked away, and my gurney was lifted into the ambulance. The air held my hand for comfort as my heart shattered.