by M. S. Parker
Screaming could attract someone to come rescue me, but it also could bring the kidnapper – Christophe, my mind insisted – and it could result in violence that could've been otherwise prevented. I wasn't going to give in to whatever this guy – Christophe – wanted, but I was going to save my strength and fight when it was time. So I kept my mouth shut and tried to gather as much information as I could.
Which turned out to be not very much at all. I was on a bed, but I didn't see a bed frame. Other shapes could've been a dresser and some boxes, but I couldn't really tell more than that. Something, however, felt very familiar about the room. I looked up but couldn't make out the ceiling. There weren't any windows and I didn't seen anything that made me think windows had been boarded up. Probably a basement then. I'd spent enough time in one to know the feel.
A figure stirred in the shadows and I heard a creaking sound. Stairs, I thought. I strained to see more than a faint outline, anything that would either confirm or disprove my suspicions. The figure was tall and lean, but it didn't move with any real grace. In fact, there was a familiar slouching way he walked. Because it was a he, and a he I knew.
He reached up and pulled a cord, turning on a light with a click. The dim bulb didn't flood the room with light, but it did offer enough for me to see the jet-black hair and dark chocolate brown eyes that I'd once considered pleasantly attractive. Now, they just sent my heart racing. I'd known Christophe had been the one who'd taken me, but knowing it and seeing him again were two totally different things.
He smiled at me, a tender, soft smile that frightened me more than his anger would have. He was looking at me the same way he'd looked at me before, like I was going to be his prom date or something.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice quiet.
I'd been so busy staring at him that I hadn't even noticed anything else about the room.
Like the fact that it was my room. My old basement room from back when I'd lived with my mom. It wasn't the same room. I knew that. My old room was in Florida, if the house hadn't been torn down by now. And I knew I wasn't in Florida. For one thing, I hadn't been gone long enough. For another, it wasn't hot and humid, and even in March, it wouldn't be this cool in Florida.
It wasn't my room, but someone had gone to a lot of work to make it look that way. I looked back at Christophe. I couldn't believe he'd gone to all this trouble to recreate an entire room from old videos.
And then it hit me.
In Florida, there'd been a camera on a tripod against the wall directly across from the bed. We hadn't used handhelds or anything like that. Just one camera, and its position had never changed.
So how the hell did Christophe know that there'd been a bookshelf behind the camera? A bookshelf where I'd kept dried flowers like the ones that were there now.
“You've gotten old.”
Every muscle in my body froze and it even felt like my heart had stopped as a second figure stepped out of the shadows.
Once dark hair that was mostly gray now. Ice blue eyes. An average build that had softened and sagged since I'd last seen her. Her face was more wrinkled, her skin leathery. But I recognized her. I would know her anywhere.
“Mom.” My voice cracked on the word, horror trying to choke me.
“Hey, there, baby girl. It's been a long time.” She walked over to my side and looked down at me. Her eyes were as hard as I remembered.
I was struck by the strangest sense that I'd been here before. It was more than deja vu. No, this was more like an eerie sense of doubling. Like I was both a child and an adult. The mother I saw and the one I remembered. Like two pictures laying, one over the other, both transparent enough to see the one beneath.
I shook my head and the sensation disappeared. I was me again. Jenna Lang. Not that girl.
“Your friend here tells me you've built quite the life for yourself since I've been gone.” She fingered a lock of my hair, frowning, causing the lines between her eyes to grow thick. “Though he said you had, I believe, blue hair.” She shot an unfriendly look at Christophe.
“She did,” he insisted, his voice as grumpy as a child. “She changed it.”
“Back to your real color.” She turned back to me. “No matter how many airs you put on, baby girl, you're still nothing but a little whore, aren't you?”
My temper began to burn away my fear. “I was never a whore.” I didn't struggle against the restraints – not yet – but I wasn't going to listen to her without saying something. “I was a child.”
Her eyes narrowed. “An ungrateful little brat. I put food on the table. Clothes on your back. All I expect from you was to do what you were told.”
I laughed, a sharp bark of sound. I couldn't help it. The fact that she sincerely didn't understand how completely fucked up her statement was made it even more ludicrous. And then something that I'd never even considered before hit me and the laugh died in my throat. I looked up at her and, for the first time in my life, felt something other than hate and anger towards her. It wasn't sympathy or even pity, but an understanding that if I was right, there was a reason for her behavior. Not an excuse, but at least an explanation.
“How old were you?” I asked softly. I saw something flash across her eyes. “How old were you when you were molested for the first time?”
I'd known she'd been fourteen when she'd started working as a prostitute to pay for drugs. At least, that's how old she'd been when she'd been arrested the first time and had my half-brother. I'd never stopped to think about who she'd been before that.
“Eight,” she said. Her voice was flat. “You come by being a whore naturally.”
“That wasn't your fault,” I said, trying to get through to her. I could feel a bit of desperation trying to creep in. “You were just a kid. And with me, it was what you knew. I forgive you for it.” I wasn't sure that was entirely true, but I knew it might be the only way to get through to her. “You can still make it right. Let me go.”
This time, it was my mom who laughed. “You might've fallen for all that psychobabble bullshit, but not me. I know exactly what I'm doing.”
“Helen, come on, this is a waste of time,” Christophe spoke up.
I'd almost forgotten about him, but now he came back in focus and the full reality of my situation crashed into me. My mom hadn't done this to me alone. She'd had help.
“How did the two of you...?” I let the question trail off.
“Someone dumped quite a bit of nasty evidence about me and Christophe onto the internet.” Mom's lips twisted into a half-smile. “I had to leave the nice life I'd built behind and run or go to jail. Just as I was getting ready to go, there's a knock at my door and who should be there but Mr. Constantine, another victim of this nasty snitch.”
“I have to thank you,” Christophe said, looking from my eyes to my lips and then lower. “If you hadn't revealed all of that personal information, I never would've found Helen.”
My stomach flipped and I could feel what was left of my most recent meal churning. I had done this. I'd brought them together. It was my fault.
No. I could almost hear Lily's voice in my head. None of this was my fault. I didn't deserve this, no matter what my mother had gone through in her own childhood.
“I know what he wants.” I jerked my head towards Christophe, but kept my eyes on my mother. “But what's in it for you? You said yourself that I'd gotten old. The men you know don't want someone like me.”
“Oh, I know that. But you're going to give me a whole new market. Christophe is going to get to live out his fantasies with you, and then you're going to start paying me back for everything you did. The two of you are going to recreate those same scenes with this cute little girl I found in the supermarket yesterday.”
“Over my dead body.” I yanked at my restraints, barely feeling the bite of the cloth.
Mom looked at me for a minute and I held her gaze. I could see her trying to figure me out, wondering how much of that scared little girl was left. I
was wondering the same thing when she finally spoke.
“We'll see.”
Chapter 24
I knew I couldn't let either Christophe or my mother see how much the thought of him touching me freaked me out. I knew that look on my mother's face, the one she wore when she was going to punish me for doing something bad. Refusing to do what she said when I was six was what had earned me the six-inch scar on my side. Now, I could only imagine what she was going to do to me, but I wasn't entirely sure it could be worse than what Christophe wanted to do.
“I see you took out some of your piercings.” Her finger touched my eyebrow. “That's good. We want you looking as pure as possible.” She frowned as she touched the tattoo on my right wrist. “We're going to have to cover those up.”
“She has one on her back too,” Christophe said. “Angel wings.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You think you're some sort of saint or something?”
“Or something.” I gave her a tight smile and twisted my arms, trying to pull free. “I wouldn't bother trying to break me. It won't work.”
Both her eyebrows went up at that, the side of her mouth lifting in a slight smile. “Everyone has a breaking point.” Her voice was emotionless. Void. Completely vacant.
I didn't bother to answer. I wasn't going to give in and help her hurt some innocent child, but I knew that what was coming would be bad.
“Let's get her out of those clothes,” she said to Christophe. “We won't put her dress on her just yet though. Don't want to ruin it.”
Christophe pulled out a knife and came towards me. It took everything I had to not try to pull away, and even then I couldn't keep from flinching when his fingers brushed against my stomach. He smiled as he slid the blade under my shirt, letting the dull side touch my skin. I swallowed hard, determined not to let him see how badly I was shaking inside. The material gave way with a soft ripping sound and goosebumps broke out across my skin as it was exposed to the air.
Once my shirt was in pieces, he moved on to the pants. The thought flashed into my head that I should've taken jeans with me to the gym. I doubted he could've gotten through that with his little knife. Not that it would've stopped him, I had to admit. He would've just found another way to get me out of my clothes.
It took only a few minutes for me to be reduced to just my bra and panties. Plain gray cotton, nothing special, but it was enough to spark some lust in Christophe's eyes.
“Step back.”
I thought he was going to tell my mother to go to hell and do whatever he wanted to me. Instead, he listened and moved away from the mattress.
“Give me the knife.” She held out her hand.
Shit.
I felt the cold metal and a slight pressure against my side, but no pain. The scar tissue she was poking with the knife didn't have much in the way of working nerves. It had gone deep enough that she'd really have to start getting through layers of muscle if she wanted it to hurt.
“What's this?” She poked my hip with the knife and I caught my breath.
I didn't even have to look to know what she meant. The one side of my panties had fallen down on my hip. “A lily,” I said.
“Since we're going to cover up the tattoos anyway, might as well be smart about this.”
I clenched my teeth as pain lanced through me. I didn't look, but I could feel the blade cutting through the center of the flower. I didn't make a sound though. I wasn't going to give either of them the satisfaction.
“How long do you think you can stay quiet?” she asked, her face coming closer to mine. “You must've already figured out that no one's close enough to hear you, but there is someone I want to hear you scream.”
The girl.
“Who is she?” I asked, proud of myself for my steady voice. My hip hurt and I could feel blood, hot and sticky, but it was easily pushed aside. “The girl. Who is she?”
My mother shrugged. “Someone whose mother should've been paying more attention to her than the cute cashier.”
“Have you...?” I couldn't bring myself to answer the question.
Mom smiled. “Don't you worry. I'll make sure you're the one holding her down when he pops her cherry.”
I let my anger and revulsion show, masking the relief I felt that the girl hadn't been hurt. At least not as badly as she would be if I didn't get out of here. If it had been only me, I still would've fought, but knowing that there was another girl out there, one who was going to suffer if I didn't manage to get free, it gave me an extra reserve of strength that I might not have been able to get to otherwise.
“We don't want to damage that pretty little face,” Mom said thoughtfully.
She drove her fist into my side, hitting the scar tissue hard enough to make me gasp for air. A second punch got a small pained sound, but I didn't say a word.
“I have a better idea,” Christophe said. “What about her hands?”
My head jerked up at that one. My hands? I needed my hands. To work. To fight back. I struggled against my restraints, but they were as tight as ever.
Mom walked over to the left-hand side of the mattress. I tried clenching my hands into fists. She grabbed my thumb and yanked it back. I made a noise as pain shot through my arm, then screamed as she twisted and I heard the bone crack. Tears welled up in my eyes as she pulled my fingers away from my palm. The knife burned across my palm as she cut. The pain was there, but dull compared to my thumb. I couldn't move it at all and I wondered if she'd managed to dislocate it as well.
“Are you ready to be a good girl and do as you're told?”
Her question cut through the haze of pain and I remembered why she was doing this. Some of it might've been punishment, but most of it was still about the end results.
“Go to hell,” I spoke through gritted teeth.
She didn't say anything, but grabbed my index finger. She jerked it sideways and this time I was prepared. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it along with my scream. Black spots danced in front of my eyes and I focused on the pain, letting it keep me awake. I sagged back against the bed, closing my eyes in the hopes that she'd think I passed out. I felt her step away from the bed and almost breathed a sigh of relief.
“What do you think?” I heard her on the other side now, talking to Christophe.
I didn't bother trying to pay attention to his response. Something had changed. The cut on my palm was bleeding profusely, soaking both my wrist and the fabric around it. And with my thumb broken, my hand was more pliable than it had been. It was going to hurt like hell, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could get one hand free.
I bit my bottom lip as I slowly pulled my hand down. I couldn't pull too hard or too fast and risk my mother or Christophe hearing. It was agonizing and, for a moment, I didn't think it would work. Then I felt a slip and the cloth began to move over my thumb. By the time my hand was free, my arm was shaking and I tasted blood where I'd broken through the skin of my lip, but my hand was free.
I risked opening my eyes and, for what was probably the first time in my life, saw that some stroke of good luck had been bestowed on me. Mom had left the knife on the bed next to me. I grabbed it, wincing as I managed to grasp the hilt.
A thump came from upstairs.
“I'll go check on her,” Mom said. “You stay here. And don't do anything stupid.”
While he was watching her walk up the stairs, I rolled onto my side and managed to cut through the thin strip of cotton holding my right hand. As Christophe turned back towards me, I switched the knife to my right hand, tucking it under my arm at an awkward, but safe angle.
A smile curved his lips as he walked towards me. I was only going to have one shot at this, I knew. I remembered asking my self-defense instructor about using a knife. He'd been surprised, but hadn't asked any questions. There was a kidney shot if I was behind someone...or if they were on top of me. I didn't want to wait for that, plus he could easily have enough time to shout in the few seconds it took for him to
go into shock and die. There was his heart, but it was a difficult one at best, what with the ribcage and all. Plus, again, shouting. The same went for a stomach wound. If I was going to have the time to cut my feet free before my mom realized what I'd done, I needed to take Christophe out as quickly and quietly as possible.
I had to kill him.
I didn't have the luxury of trying to knock him out. Not like this.
That meant his throat was my best bet. I couldn't exactly slit it, but I knew where the main artery was. A stab to the center of his throat to keep him from yelling and then yanking the knife to the side and through the artery would do it. The question was, could I?
A moment later, he was leaning over me and I decided that I could.
I brought my arm up even as he was closing his eyes, preparing to kiss me. They opened instantly when the blade struck home. It was harder than I'd thought to cut through the skin and muscle, but adrenaline was racing through my veins and in just a couple seconds, I was covered with blood as it spurted from his neck. I shoved him back and let him fall to the floor as I quickly cut my feet free.
When this was all over, I had a feeling I was going to go to pieces, but that wasn't right now. I had more important things to do before I could give myself that privilege. I had a little girl to save.
I heard the basement door open and I ducked underneath the stairs. The back of the stairs were open and, as my mother's feet came into view, I made a decision.
The knife flashed out, slicing cleanly through the back of her ankle. She screamed, more in anger than pain I thought, and I shoved at her other foot with my injured hand. The pain cleared my head as she fell and I hurried around to the bottom of the stairs. She was crumpled in a heap, not moving, blood running down her temple from where she must've hit her head.
