“I’ll be back.” He’s callous. “Eat your food, that’ll be it for a while.”
Stomping to the door, he yells over his shoulder. “That water better be gone when I get back.”
I stare at the listless girl.
Bridget and I are alone.
Her purse still rests across her lifeless body.
I wonder about the contents.
The camera’s blinking, so I wobble over to her and pretend to check her pulse. Leaning in to hear her breathe, I flip the lid of her purse open. Her items are scattered at the bottom. There’s the usual – breath mints, a tampon, pink lipstick, and loose change.
She has two cards – one debit, one credit.
Taking the credit card, I leave the other.
She’s got seventy-six dollars in cash and her ID.
Bridget Masterson, eighteen, St. Louis, Missouri.
Will The Mole notice if I take this too?
I slide the cash, credit card, and ID into my stocking, pretending to adjust them as I keep my back to the blinking light.
Hurriedly I sink back onto the floor, eating the dry sandwich, tasting the water he brought. It’s off, there’s an odor that’s out of place.
I sniff again. Is it the pregnancy hormones?
No, it’s not from a heightened sense of smell.
She’s your replacement, and he’s either poisoning or drugging you.
Turning the clear bottle around, it has a sheen to it, like oil mixed with water. It’s not crystal clear but sits on top, separate.
The tub? Can I toss it down the drain?
No, he’ll see it on the camera.
Pretending to drink it, I turn my back, sitting on the pail. Peeing at the same time, I dump the water between my legs into the plastic. I pray he doesn’t have time to watch the video or that he’s preoccupied with another task right now.
When he comes back a few minutes later, his jerky movements signal his agitation. “We have a real problem.” He drums his fingers on the small table, his shoulders hunched.
“What’s that?” I mumble, my mouth full.
“I think you’ll find my solution reasonable.”
“I’m unsure what problem you mean...if it’s about the chair, I can just sit on the floor until the baby’s born.”
His fist hits the table, bread and lettuce scatter to the floor. “This is what I’m talking about. You’ll never learn to respect me. I’ve given you so much and you just take, take, take, and lie, lie, lie.” He squats beside me on the floor, mimicking me. “You’re unsure what the ‘problem’ is?” Spittle flies from his mouth. “Is that so?”
My eyes widen in fear, my back against the wall.
He grips my wrists, holding them tighter than the bungee cords, pushing my head down.
“Try again.”
Silence.
He shoves a hand in my face, his finger thrusting in my sore mouth as he jabs his finger where my tooth was.
Instinctively, I bite him.
He roars, his hand pulling back, striking my cheek.
“You bitch.” His face turns from red to a weird purplish color. Striking the other cheek, he claws at me. I’m no match as he holds me down, cupping my mouth as I struggle to breathe.
There’s a loud moan as Bridget stirs.
He releases me, his attention on her, a sick smile lighting up his face. “Did you ever think I’d bring you a pet?”
A punch to the gut, I can only shake my head no.
“I’ve gotta get to work.” He walks to Bridget, tapping her with the tip of his shoes. “Make her feel welcome. Teach her the rules.”
“Yes sir.”
He gives her a sharp kick to the ribs. She doesn’t groan or move. Turning to me, he shrugs. “Maybe I used too much this time?” I watch him turn and walk out the door, whistling a tune today instead of humming.
My heart beats in my chest, a flicker of hope. Two of us have to be able to outsmart and overpower The Mole.
Removing the blanket off my bed, I tuck it around Bridget’s shoulders, lifting her head to place the pillow underneath it on the floor.
Sleeping on my back, I drift off until I hear a tiny voice, confused, say, “Where am I?”
I don’t bother to move, staring at the ceiling, I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re in a room.”
“What room?” She jerks her body forward, her eyes darting around the small space. “This isn’t our room.”
“One we can’t get out of.”
“Excuse me,” she asks, “who’re you?”
“One that’s been missing for a long time.” I sit up, “I’m Bristol. Bristol Bellamy.”
My name must not ring a bell. “Bridget,” she says in a whisper.
Rising to stand, she smooths a crease out of her ripped black dress. “I feel awful. Sick. So hungover.”
She doesn’t realize yet what’s going on, her new reality hasn’t sunk in.
Stumbling to the door, she tries first to find a handle, then a pull, her fingers running along the smooth metal, trying to rattle the door off its hinges. She can’t locate anything other than bolts.
When that doesn’t work, she pounds on it, frustrated, yelling until she’s hoarse. Hollering cuss words, she kicks the door with her bare foot, a useless task, injuring her toe on her second try.
Wobbling over to where I lay, she sits on the edge of the bed, carefully watching me.
“Why aren’t you helping?”
“I don’t think you understand…”
“Understand?” She’s pissed. “Are you part of this whole thing?”
I ignore her question. “You’ve been drugged and kidnapped.”
“But…no…no, this can’t be happening.” She rests her head in her hands. “I was here for a fun trip. This is what happens to runaways.”
“I wasn’t a runaway,” I say. “I was also on vacation, spring break.”
“My parents will find us.” She’s overconfident. “My dad’s a powerful man, he knows a ton of people and has lots of money.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Ransom money? They’ll gladly pay up.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “At least they can offer to do that.”
“He doesn’t want your money.”
“He has to.” She notices my belly for the first time. Her mouth drops in horror. “Wait, he kidnapped a pregnant girl?”
The look on my face tells her all she needs to know.
Gasping, she releases a shrill scream. Her moment of realization has arrived.
32
Bristol
“How long have you been here?” She hesitates, unsure if she wants to know the answer.
I lie, telling her twelve months, not wanting her to feel as hopeless as I have for a majority of my twenties.
For a couple days she screams and cries, throwing her body uselessly at the walls, the metal door, acting like she’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown.
I’ve been in this dark place, the adjustment period of the walls closing in on you, the reality that you have no control over your life, you’re merely The Mole’s pawn.
Bridget at first is standoffish, unsure if she can trust me. She spends her time pacing the room incessantly at all hours of the day.
She tells me the year and I have to be careful what to ask so I don’t give myself away.
I want to know what’s happened in the real world – fashion, music, politics, people. I’m so removed from what’s hip and new in pop culture that I sound ignorant. Passing the time, she tells me stories about high school. It’s relevant since I was about her age when I went missing, that time period all I have to remember.
The Mole’s gone for a few days before he returns.
“Is he always like this?” she moans, the door creaking open.
I shudder. “He’s unreliable.”
I’m hesitant how to act around Bridget in front of him. I don’t want to make our plight worse. Does he want us to get along or act like bitter enem
ies vying for his attention? What will be the least upsetting to him and with two of us, will he drop his guard faster? Will he forget the rules and punishments or will we both pay if one screws up?
“Bridget,” he claps his hands, “I see you’ve met Bristol. I’ve left you both to get acquainted, you can be sisters for now.” Unloading a bag of supplies on the table, he starts on a tangent about his expectations. I tune out.
“You can shadow her.” He points to me. “See what I like, how to act. Bristol will be your mentor while she’s here.”
Bridget’s suspicious. “Where’s she going?”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” He taps his nose three times. “You can’t ask questions. Let me give you a quick lesson.” He slaps her across the face, her startled expression turning into one of hate.
“Better?”
Silence as she rubs her cheek in surprise.
“When I ask a question, you will answer me.” He snaps his fingers. “Immediately.”
Her eyes drift down to her lap.
“As if your life depends on it.” Standing in front of her, he touches her neck lightly, starting at her throat and working his way down, his pointer finger barely making contact with her skin. “If you find this too difficult, we can try another arrangement. Do I make myself clear?”
“What’s the other arrangement?”
She’s not getting the hang of it. I sigh.
The Mole turns to me, exasperated. “Am I not making myself clear?”
“Since you’re new here, I won’t start out with punishment. I’ll give you until next time to get your act together.” He shrugs. “Consider this the transition period.”
“Little girl, let’s take a bath,” he says to me. Turning to Bridget, he points his finger at her. “You can sit in the corner and watch.”
Bridget’s eyes go wide, unsure what she’s about to be privy to. She visibly relaxes when she sees it’s a bath, settling herself in a corner, her eyes wide with disgust and fear as she watches the bedtime routine. He ignores her the rest of the night, pretending she doesn’t exist. After he tucks me into bed, he whispers something in her ear before leaving.
She pauses a moment, listening for noise in case he comes back, then crawls over to the bed.
“Bristol,” she moans, “he’s a psycho. What’re we going to do?” She starts to sob, her shoulders shaking. “I can’t stay here.”
“Come and lay beside me.” I pat the narrow space next to me.
“Can I be near the wall?” I nod, understanding that with me between the door and her, she feels a layer of protection from him.
Scooting over, she slides underneath the covers.
“Tell me about yourself.” She touches my arm. I almost don’t know what to say, speaking more to her in a couple days than I have in almost a decade.
Choosing my words carefully, I tell her about my family in Nebraska, the pets I have, my cheerleading squad, and my boyfriend.
Before long, I hear even breathing next to me, her back to mine as she sleeps.
A hand closes around my heart, a kick from the baby in my belly. I’m reminded of the way Blair and I would sleep, backs touching, each lost in our own dreams but still connected.
Silently, I let myself cry.
Over the next few weeks, Bridget goes between hysterically crying and sitting catatonic in the corner. I try to be strong for her, letting her know she’ll adjust, that our bodies adapt to horrendous events in mysterious ways.
I tell her about The Mole, his rules and punishments, the routines he insists upon, the best way to stay under the radar.
She chooses instead to get under his skin, test him, just like I did at the beginning.
The final trimester has resulted in sluggishness and combined with the lack of consistent meals, I’m tired constantly, and impatient. Bridget notices how quick I am to snap at the smallest infractions. I apologize to her for my shortness, reminding myself this is all new to her.
I’m napping one afternoon, hunger pains and spasms in my leg making it impossible for me to fall asleep. Bridget eagerly offers to rub my feet and I let her.
My eyes close as I try to drift off. She seems calm and less fidgety, so I don’t sense the storm about to come.
I hear a thud and at first, I assume it’s The Mole entering the room. Not bothering to open my eyes, a loud crash follows, then a splintering sound.
I’m fully awake.
Sitting up abruptly, Bridget’s flailing her arms, picking up and breaking everything in sight, flipping the small wooden table over, pulling books off the shelves in droves.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I warn her.
“I don’t care,” she screams.
“He’ll come back…” I tilt my head towards the camera. “It’s not worth it. Plus, he won’t replace the items you break.”
“I don’t care,” she hollers, “I don’t care what he does. Stop making this easy for him.”
Within a few minutes, the room reminds me of the aftermath of a stadium after a concert or baseball game, the leftover ticket stubs, bottles of water, trash, and paper littered on the ground.
I try to calm her, patting the bed next to me, begging her to read me a story.
She ignores my request, choosing to slam a broken leg from the table into the metal drum.
The door flies open so fast I think the police are breaking in, a moment of false hope as I watch instead The Mole’s angry stride. Incensed, her rebellion of ripping pages out of books and breaking furniture comes to an end when he picks her up so fast, she doesn’t have time to spin around.
I watch in horror as he carries her over his shoulder to the tub, dropping her like a wrestler does to his opponent, a body slam to the bottom.
She lays there, startled, hands grasping the edges. The Mole turns the hose on in the tub, his mouth a grimace as he watches it fill with cold water. He beats her with his fists, pushing her face down into the water, using one of the busted table legs as his implement.
Bridget screams, her body writhing in pain, trying to helplessly kick her legs up at him.
Internally, I’m helping her restrain The Mole, taking away his power, but outwardly I know if I come to her defense, it will only enrage him to hurt her more.
And the baby.
Covering my ears with my hands, I try to drown out her horrified screams and the noise of his abuse.
After he’s done punching her, he kneels by the tub, forcing her head beneath the surface, waterboarding her. He repeats this over and over, shoving her face roughly down, holding her there for ten to fifteen seconds, her arms struggling for leverage. I notice her body becoming lifeless, a rag doll, as he pushes her under and then pulls her up.
I have to calm him down before he kills her, whether accidental or on purpose.
Silent, I tip-toe behind him. “I’d like to read you a story,” I whisper.
“I’m busy.” His hands are dripping wet, eyes narrowed as he looks over his shoulder at me.
“How about a bath?” I reach out to touch his back, knowing he will either press pause on his anger or lash out at me.
“Stop.” Disgusted, he shakes his head at me. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Naïvely, I say, “What?”
“Keep me from killing your new pet.”
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s not go too far with her yet, sir.”
Resigned, he grabs her by the hair, mouth sputtering as she coughs up liquid puke. Terror looms in her bright green eyes as she waits for the next round.
Lucky for her, it doesn’t come.
“I’m done.” He rises to stand. “This place better be cleaned up by the time I’m back.”
Trying to trick him into letting us know when that is, I ask, “When should we have it done, sir?”
“No idea, so do it now.” He glares at the ripped and shredded pages scattered haphazardly around the room. “You can thank her because I’m not replacing anything. I guess you’ll have to stare at the wall
now for entertainment.”
He stalks out, not bothering to turn back around. I heave, knowing it’ll be weeks before he comes back.
Before we’re fed again.
33
Bristol
I rush to her side, helping her stand, her body shriveled like a prune. She shivers uncontrollably, covered in bruises and contusions. A nasty cut’s jagged on her forehead from the metal drum.. “Shh…” I whisper. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Tears swim in her eyes, her bottom lip cut and swollen. She’s got a rug burn on her cheek, the skin red and bumpy. A depth of pity I haven’t seen yet overtakes her contorted face.
“You have to learn to behave for him,” I say, “It takes time but if you don’t, he’ll kill you.”
Before she can rebut that, I add, “See, this is where you do have the power. You have to decide how long you want to live before you die.”
She’s puzzled for a moment until a flash of understanding registers in her sage green eyes.
After this, we settle into a steady routine, both helping each other come to terms with our own predicaments – me bringing new life and her adapting to this room.
We make our own fun, and for once since being kidnapped, I’m not so alone. Writing our own plays, we act them out based on what the popular shows on television and movies are. Bridget fills in the details and we ad-lib scripts and scenes. The cast and locations are real or imagined, diving into our own memories for examples to base our characters on.
I share stories with her about my life until I turned seventeen, never telling her the exact age or time I’ve been in the room. It’s more painful for her to tell me about her life, the wound raw and gaping open. She struggles to maintain a sense of composure as she talks, biting her lip to hold back tears. When I speak about mine, it’s so far removed that I feel like I’m talking about another girl.
Listening to her recount her childhood, I learn she’s an only child, the apple of her parents’ eyes. She was their miracle baby, her mother struggled for years to conceive her. She grew up in Overland Park, Kansas, an affluent suburb, her sixteenth birthday present a cherry red Ford Mustang.
Into the Night Page 23
