by K J Bell
Logan glared at me, lowering cruelty. “You found the light, I see?”
I didn’t respond, gagging on his smell.
Fresh alcohol on his breath caused my nostrils to burn as he got close to me. “You’ve been a bad girl, Claire. I told you not to try anything, didn’t I?” he questioned with authority. I cowered before him like a scorned dog.
Appeasing him seemed like my best option.
“Yes Logan. I’m sorry.” I was unsure how he would respond in his inebriated state. He seemed to be teetering, unable to stand on both feet.
“Why did you do that? I thought I made it clear that I would not harm Liam as long as you behaved,” he threatened, shaking his head in a show of disapproval.
I hung my head contritely, holding back the urge to kick him.
“I’m sorry. I hate mice. They scare me. I thought I could chase them away,” I lied, praying he would believe it.
He circled me like hawk before it swoops in and snatches what it wants with its claws.
“Hmmmm…a useful bit of information,” he said smiling wolfishly, claiming pack leader. “Thank you for that.” He accepted that tidbit sinisterly, storing it away for later.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” I asked calmly, attempting to keep the peace. I took a step back, positioning myself against the shelves, so he was forced to stop circling me.
“Well, I haven’t quite decided yet,” he admitted sliding his index finger back and forth across his chin.
With a flare of bravely, I said, “Brent and Reese will be looking for me.”
He chuckled devilishly, his laughter echoing off the steel walls.
“Ha! That’s sweet, so much faith in your friends. They won’t, Claire. I managed to ditch my Adherent. Any thoughts on who’s entertaining it now?” he asked, grabbing my wrists, and turning my hands so my palms faced up. I wished I didn’t know the answer. But I did. Noticing the smudge of charcoal coloring on my right palm, I remembered that I shook hands with only one person.
“Reese’s father,” I guessed.
He continued his barb. “Ding…Ding…Ding…give the girl a prize,” Logan cheered. “Yes, Mr. Phillips has your two boyfriends. I’m sure that Kace will be along soon. He’ll take care of them for me, having no use for all three of them if they can’t provide him with your whereabouts.”
Logically, it shouldn’t be possible for the Adherent to adhere to Mr. Phillips.
“I don’t understand. Brent said that once adhered to, the Anchor had to be angry at the person it intended to harm. Reese’s father isn’t mad at him, or at Brent,” I stated, assuming Logan must be wrong.
He smiled wickedly, sending my hopes to the floor. “Yes, that’s true. But the Adherent can play on someone’s subconscious feelings. Poor Dave Phillips. All these years of suspicion, and then in walks Reese, confirming everything. It worked out perfectly.”
“But, Mr. Phillips said he’s always known Reese wasn’t his,” I defended, still confused as to how it was possible, or clinging to hope that it wasn’t.
Logan responded to my mounting pile of questions, explaining how Adherents are master manipulators, charming those who are so willing to comply.
“Reese wanted to know his father still accepted him as his own. The Adherent gave him exactly what he needed. Without time to process the information, anger dominated his father’s thoughts, conceding complete control to the Adherent. Now anchored, the Adherent separated the three of you at my request and summoned Kace. It was really very simple.”
“At your request? I thought the Adherents come from Kace?”
“They do, Claire. They are a part of Kace. Given Mr. Phillips could be valuable to Kace, the Adherent followed my instructions.”
Logan was free from his Adherent? It didn’t make sense. It should be easier to convince him to let me go.
“If you’re no longer anchored, then why don’t you let me go? You have no reason to keep me here. Please, Logan?” I begged.
Logan slapped his head in annoyance. “Didn’t we cover this already?”
Remembering what Logan said earlier about Brent and Reese, always taking second place to the two of them, it dawned on me. He envied them, wanting to hurt them because he thought they always got more than he did. I stared at him in disbelief.
“Ego? You’re keeping me here to satisfy your pathetic ego?” I shouted, my voice trembling with anger and fear.
“Careful how you speak to me, sweetheart. I don’t want to be angry with you. You should try a little harder to get along with me since we’ll be spending so much time together.” Logan alluded to the fact he would not be letting me go anytime soon, swiping his tongue across my cheek. The combination of smells caused bile to rise in my throat.
He put his hands on both sides of my jaw, placing his lips on mine, attempting to force his way inside. His lips were chapped and his tongue felt like sandpaper. I latched my jaw firmly shut, denying him access. The stench of booze hit my stomach and I started to gag. I was dry heaving into his mouth, suddenly grateful I had not eaten, imagining chucks of food spewing out between our mouths. Logan used the opportunity to sweep his tongue across mine, tasting of alcohol and vomit, causing me to heave again at the disgusting behavior. I thrust my hands into his chest. He had plenty to drink, was off balance, and stumbled back, releasing my mouth. His beastly eyes searched mine as he laughed dark and loudly, from deep within.
“I really don’t see what the fuss is all about,” Logan said, wiping his lips on his soiled sleeve. “I’ve tasted much better.”
My stomach flip-flopped at the sight of him.
“Gross!” I muttered under my breath, glaring at him with contempt.
He spoke slowly in my ear. “I think you need to be nicer, Claire,” he reprimanded, blowing in my ear and licking the lobe, laughing lecherously.
Using my sleeve, I wiped his saliva from my ear.
“I think you’re disgusting, Logan,” I uttered, moving away from him.
He grasped the metal shelving and shook it forcibly, snorting when the mice scurried out from under the shelves. I shrieked, backing into the corner.
“Why don’t you take some time to reconsider? Spending the night in the dark, alone with the mice, might make you change your mind,” he slurred, before slamming the freezer door shut. I heard the latch suctioning the door into place, sealing me away.
Pounding on the door repeatedly, I screamed. “Let me out…Please Logan, don’t do this…Please!”
Finally giving up, I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, trying to figure a way out.
Logan was someone’s baby boy. That is what I chose to think, not how much I hated him and how despicable he was. At some point, he came into the world bringing joy to the woman who waited nine long months to hold him.
I had a vision. Logan’s mother held an infant in her arms, bundled in a blue hospital blanket. She placed her finger in Logan’s tiny palm, a single tear trickling down her cheek as he squeezed her finger. Blessedness sheathed in a tiny package. She was wrapped around his little finger from that moment on. The vision ended and I sobbed.
Logan must have brought his mother more wonderful memories. She must have boasted proudly over his first haircut, first tooth, and first steps. Was she proud of him now? What went wrong in his life that he could be so troubled? Was his father abusive? Did his mother resent him? What could make one go from bundle of joy to bundle of rage, in such a short life?
Logan was incredibly insecure, wanting to be loved so badly, and yet, rejected so often. Could I help him? Probably not, but I could use his needs against him.
With no way of knowing how much time had passed, I guessed it must be dark outside. I had arrived here around two in the afternoon and now the lantern had just died. It was the same one my family used when I was growing up. We could usually run it straight for six hours before it went out. Quickly figuring the math, I estimated it was around eight o’clock.
Logan had not returned.
I wondered if he cleaned up, before going home for the night, interacting with his family as though it were any other day. Maybe he was doing homework, or eating supper, ignoring the fact he was keeping a neighborhood girl prisoner down by the river.
Shivering, I listened to mice squeaking and clawing at the shelves behind me. Swimming in a sea of despair, I wanted to drown in my depression. Clutching my chest, trying to calm the panic, I felt the cold metal beneath my fingers, my gift from Brent. Releasing every horrific thought from my mind, I felt a new resolve. I would not give up.
“My happy place,” I said aloud, strumming my fingers across my stomach playing air guitar, imagining the strings beneath my fingers, singing a Charlie Parker tune that my dad and I sung together many times.
You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song
You are the angel glow that lights a star
The dearest things I know what you are
Someday my happy arms will hold you
And someday I’ll know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine
You are the angel glow that lights a star
The dearest things I know are what you are
Someday my happy arms will hold you
And someday I’ll know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine
Those simple lyrics, and the memory accompanying them, made me smile, Happiness filled my heart. Logan may have me but he would not have my spirit.
CHAPTER 15
“The most wonderful of all things in life, I believe, is the discovery of another human being with whom one’s relationship has a glowing depth, beauty, and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between two human beings is a most marvelous thing, it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of Divine accident.” – Sir Hugh Walpole
At some point between singing and thinking, I fell asleep. Opening my eyes, the room was still pitch black. The harsh threads of the burlap sack I used to sleep on pressed into my face. I sat up and felt the imprints in my skin left from the tweed fabric, surprised from the sting the separation caused. Feeling rested, I assumed I must have slept through the night, although I had no way to know for sure. I took a deep breath as memories from the day before flooded my thoughts.
My mind was spinning in circles.
Are the boys looking for me? When will Logan be back? Are there still mice in the walls?
I reflected back to my last encounter with Brent.
“Claire, you need to understand that it causes me physical pain to be away from you. It makes me weak. I need you close to me. Don’t ever leave me again.”
I didn’t understand when Brent spoke them, chalking his words up to theatrics designed to prove a point by dramatizing how much I hurt him. I realized he hadn’t exaggerated as I attempted to stand. I felt like I had the flu, and I shivered with chills. My limbs were shaky and nausea swirled in my stomach. My head spun, making me dizzy, and I collapsed back to the floor feeling like I might throw up again.
What the hell!
Could his absence make me physically ill? These feelings were not helped by that fact that I had nothing to eat or drink since the day before yesterday.
The suctioning sound of the door opening startled me. There was a brief flare of hope that Brent had found me. Instead, Logan returned, and my hopes collapsed around me like building blocks. He was clean, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, appearing to be sober. Smiling weakly, he held out a paper bag and a bottle of water. I grabbed them from his hand, and twisted the lid off the bottle, guzzling covetously until it was gone. The moisture slid down my throat, quenching my thirst. I finished it quickly wishing I had more. Logan was watching me closely, but didn’t say anything. Opening the bag and pulling out a chocolate chip muffin, I recognized it was from Dunkin’ Donuts by the sugar-coated top without even looking at the bag. It was my favorite. My stomach rumbled from the smell and I devoured it hastily using my teeth to scrape every last crumb from the wrapper, thirsting for more water to wash it down.
Logan had yet to speak, and I thought I spotted a glimmer of guilt in his dark stare. He walked through the door and closed it muttering something under his breath, sealing me in the darkness once again. The expression on his face before he left was unmistakable. He was having second thoughts.
A short time passed, maybe an hour or so, before the door opened again. An intoxicated Logan stumbled in looking down and grumbling obscenities into his chest. He had obviously used his time away to stifle his guilt with alcohol.
In that moment, I imagined two entirely different Logan’s. One was a child lost to something traumatic, and using his anger to disguise his agony. He protected his heart deciding if he could hurt first, then he didn’t have to feel. The other Logan was kind, with a conscience, the one who knew he was doing something wrong, and brought food to compensate. The one who wanted to be in control but often lost the fight, as anger was stronger than kindness. The Logan before me was not someone I wanted to get to know better. Using his drunken state as my opportunity to escape, I attempted to shoot past him through the door.
He laughed a full belly laugh as he caught me around the waist. “Nice try,” he snickered, tossing me back with enough force that I fell over. I stood up quickly.
My body was still weak with my separation from Brent. I concluded that it would be pointless to try and escape again. Even if I breached the door, I didn’t have the strength to outrun Logan. The room started spinning and my eye lids felt heavy. I saw Logan in a blurry haze in front of me. His traitorous grin told me all I needed to know. He drugged me. I hit the floor with a solid thud, out cold.
When I woke, I had a throbbing headache and strained to open my eyes. I saw immediately that my environment had changed. Windows lined the walls, brightly lighting the large room that appeared to be some sort of loft.
I was unable to move my right leg. My ankle ached as though it was bruised and felt like someone was holding onto it. Making out some rope through my foggy vision, I followed the line of twisted nylon, seeing one end was tied to a huge radiator in the corner and the other knotted to a metal shackle around my right ankle. It was cold against my skin. The length of the rope was enough for me to move about the room, but denied my escape.
Oh, my God! He tied me up.
My entire body trembled reminding me how much I needed Brent. Straining to sit up, I shook, struggling to steady myself. I crawled over to the wall for support and rested against it. Thinking I could work the knot on the shackle, I pulled at it, but my fingers failed me. I had lost all dexterity in my weakened state. We were no longer at the mill. This could be anywhere and the thought frightened me. I had no idea how long I was out or how far we traveled.
Tears wetted my eyes again. Straining to hold them back because I was sick to death of crying, I chose not to be defeated. Feeling this sick, I knew escaping was not an option. I needed a method to diffuse Logan’s anger. My mind recalled that look of regret on Logan’s face earlier. Remembering that Logan was insecure and craved attention, I knew that feeding on those emotions would be my only hope. If I kept him calm somehow, he might make a mistake. I could get away. Or if he stayed sober long enough, his guilt would force him to release me. The mere thought of being kind to Logan made me wince, but I had to give it a shot.
My body continued to feel deflated – every muscle ached, longing for Brent.
“Uh…hum,” Logan coughed, interrupting my planning. I saw he was sitting in a chair across the room watching me. I looked up at him fearfully, measuring his mood. He stood and slowly ambled toward me. Obviously, he sobered up in the time I had been out.
This is your chance.
Logan took a seat next to me on the floor, brushing his finger down my cheek affectionately. My
body revolted in response and I flinched.
Remember Claire, he craves attention.
I fought my instinct to slide away from him. His body went stiff when I sighed and rested my head on his shoulder, but he didn’t move away. We sat there like that for several hushed minutes as I tried to think of just the right thing to say so I didn’t arm his defenses. Words escaped me, so I took his hand in mine and intertwined our fingers. He flinched this time, shifting uncomfortably. He started to release my hand but I squeezed hard.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
“Claire, I…I…”Logan stuttered.
“Shhhh…” was all I said in response, wanting him to think about his actions – absorb his guilt.
After a few more minutes, he unlaced our fingers and sat on his knees in front of me. Our eyes met with uncertainty. Pushing away all feelings of hate, picturing him as the sweet infant wrapped in his mother’s embrace from my vision, I stuck with my plan. He cupped the side of my face with a gentle touch, softness in his eyes surprising me.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. I nodded.
Logan pointed to a door just behind me, informing me that it was a bathroom if I needed to use it or I wanted to wash my hands. He turned and left the room.
It’s working. Keep it up, Claire.
Dragging the rope with me, I crawled into the bathroom because I was too weak to walk. I used the sink to support myself while I pulled myself up to my feet.
I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. My hair was a ratted mess and my face was filthy. There was a small cut above my eye with dried blood around it. I figured I must have hit it on the shelf when I passed out at the mill. My cheek was swollen with a baseball sized bruise where Logan had struck me. I shook away the memory. Turning on the water, I waited for it to heat up. Soaking a towel I found on the shelves behind me, I washed my face, and used my fingers to brush my hair. It didn’t help much, but it made me feel a little better.
