Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  She felt him caress her face, which made her flinch. He didn’t speak, just kept running his hands across her cheeks, her lips, her forehead. He bent down and ran his tongue around her lips before trailing the tip along her cheekbones. She was cold. Her whole body was chattering like marbles being shaken inside a velvet bag.

  “Who are you?” she asked again.

  He didn’t respond, instead slapping tape against her mouth and violating her all over again. This time, she didn’t cry, didn’t try to fight but just went limp. She slid out of her body and crawled across what she presumed was a dirty wooden floor and balled herself into a corner.

  • • •

  She smelled . . . chicken. Greasy fried chicken. Someone grunted—a man. A male voice grunted as he sat down beside her. He held a slippery piece of skin against her mouth. She leapt at it, her tongue darting out to catch the sizzling, crispy tail of the fatty meat. One by one, he placed strips of chicken into her mouth before abruptly stopping and tracing the outline of her mouth with the tip of his greasy finger, trailing salt crystals across her lips.

  “You want some more?” he whispered. “Huh? You want more?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “Suck my finger, Natalie,” he whispered.

  She shook her head until he slapped her. “No more chicken for you until you do.”

  She burst into tears as he poked his finger into her mouth. Trembling, she slowly closed her mouth around his dirty finger and gave it a quick lash with her tongue. She wanted to clamp her teeth down like a rabid dog, bite it until she drew blood, hit bone, except she was too scared of what he might do.

  “Good girl.”

  He kept whispering. Why? Why was he whispering? “You can have some more,” he said, this time holding a salty wedge of potato to her lips. She flinched as warm, mealy potato jumped out of her mouth and tumbled down her chin. He continued to feed her maddeningly small bites of food with dribbles of water in between. Finally, the meal was done and Natalie felt sick, the oily meat and potatoes sloshing around in her stomach. It wasn’t going to stay put.

  “Bathroom,” she panted. “Please, I need—”

  The chicken and potatoes streamed out of her mouth and down the front of her bare chest and stomach in a chunky waterfall. She coughed and convulsed again, another torrent spilling out, some splashing against her legs.

  He seized her up and began to hustle her out of the room. Her bare feet swept against carpet as he shoved her into what felt like a smaller room. Bathroom.

  She could hear him turn on the faucet, feel him slap mounds of wet toilet paper against her chest, sopping up the mess from her face and legs. She could only stand there, trembling yet again at the continued violations.

  He shut off the water and dragged her back into the room where he’d been keeping her and dropped her on the mattress right back into the wet spot of chicken and potatoes.

  • • •

  She was sleeping.

  And dreaming.

  Jason. Standing in her kitchen on a Saturday morning, sprinkling cheese, mushrooms, and spinach into the omelet he was cooking for them, she clad in his rumpled dress shirt and nothing else. Jason. Dropping kisses across her neck and down her breasts. Jason. Saying, “I love you.”

  Natalie stretched out and rolled over to burrow against the warm, muscular curve of his back then frowned at the empty space next to her. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Why did her head hurt so much? Why was she so tired? Natalie forced her eyes open.

  His room was dark.

  No . . . wait.

  She blinked several times as she tried to eke out the shapes and patterns of this foreign space. Natalie propped herself up, looking around.

  Light. There had to be a light switch. She let one leg ease over the edge of the bed followed by the other as she dipped her feet near the floor. Her toes grazed carpet bristles and she flinched. Jason had hardwood floors, not carpet. She continued to slide out of bed, waving her arm out in front of her to make contact with something, anything. What was that smell? Was that her? God, it was foul.

  Her hand continued to waft around in empty, infinite space as she began to edge to her right, knowing she would have to eventually hit a wall. She continued to take tiny, stuttering steps before finally feeling wall beneath her fingertips. She embraced it, running her palms across the weird, glossy wallpaper and continuing to slide toward what she hoped was a door. She stubbed her finger on a sharp corner that she assumed had to be a faceplate and scrambled to find the switch. She flipped it and winced when the light came on. She opened her eyes and gasped.

  Chapter 34

  SHE

  It was her.

  Every inch of the four walls were covered in pictures of her.

  The images varied in scope and pose. From enormous blown-up pictures to tiny snapshots, a garish mix of black and white and color. Sprawled on the couch of her old Wrigleyville apartment watching TV, standing in her old kitchen while talking on the phone, sitting on her couch flipping through a magazine, folding laundry, laughing with Brandy and Christine, running down the lakefront in the summer, nursing a cup of tea in the winter, emerging from her office building late at night.

  “My God,” she whispered as she reached a shaky hand out to touch the corner of one of the photos. How did he get all of these? Had he hired someone? As her hand made contact, she yanked it back as though her fingertips were on fire. She scanned the rest of the room, shell-shocked over what she was seeing. There was a dressing table across from the bed neatly arranged with various lotions, paper cups brimming with cotton balls and Q-Tips, a comb, and a hairbrush. The glass had been taken out of the mirror, leaving an empty oval atop the vanity. She noticed the closet next to the dressing table and cringed, suspecting what was inside but still needing to see.

  Trembling, she walked over to it and yanked open the louvered doors, her heart ping-ponging across her chest.

  The closet was crammed with rows of pants (mostly jeans), sweaters, some blouses, a few t-shirts, and shapeless dresses in an array of bright rainbow colors and noisy prints. She sniffed them. They smelled new—and cheap.

  But no shoes. Why were there no shoes?

  Because they don’t want you to be able to run away.

  She racked her brain trying to remember how she got here. Why couldn’t she remember?

  What had happened?

  Stunned, she continued to amble around the large, though rather unremarkable, room. There were two windows with stiff, white crinoline curtains on either side of the king-sized bed, which was draped in a comforter bursting with massive multicolored flowers. The pink carpet looked, smelled, and felt new. She assumed the walls were white, although it was hard to tell given the wallpaper of herself covering them. There was another door next to the closet, which she figured was the bathroom. Holding her breath, Natalie slowly turned the knob and peered inside.

  It was a two-room bathroom; the walls of the outer room were white and there was a black marble countertop, a huge sink, and, again, no mirror. She walked into the other room, her heart pounding. There was a sunken bathtub and separate shower. These two rooms combined were about as big as her bedroom . . . at home.

  Home.

  For the first time, she looked down and gasped, now realizing her blouse was ripped open, revealing her bra. She sniffed her underarms, alarmed by the spines of hair sprouting from the pits. Why was she so filthy?

  Her wrists felt raw and weak. Cramped. Had her hands been tied?

  And her watch . . . her ring . . . her engagement ring? She wrenched her hand around her empty wrist and finger. What happened?

  She rubbed her fist against her temple, both to try and quell the throbbing and shake something—anything—out of the tree.

  The door.

  She ran for it, yelping when she realized there was no doorknob. She ran her hands across the blank slate of metal, looking for cracks of light a
nd air.

  Sealed tight.

  How was she supposed to rig an electronic door to open? She started banging on it. “Help!” she yelled. “Let me out of here, please!”

  Silence, of course. She wanted to laugh at herself. Did she really think whoever had her here would obey her command and release her?

  The windows.

  Natalie ran over and flung the white crinoline back to reveal a blacked-out square of plastic. She banged it in frustration before checking the other window, only to discover the same thing.

  She paced the room for a few minutes before she ran her hands across every surface, looking for anything, any stray implement she might be able to use as a weapon: a loose nail or screw, a stray bobby pin, anything. The curtains were stapled to the wall in lieu of a rod to hold them in place. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. Even the light bulb was encased inside a sturdy plastic light fixture that had been welded shut with metal bands. There was no way she could crack that plastic to get to the bulb. There were no handles on the cabinets or drawers that could be unscrewed.

  She sank down onto the edge of the bathtub, defeated, wincing yet again at how greasy and smelly she was. Unable to take it anymore, Natalie turned on the shower. She unpeeled the stiff, putrid, pink print blouse and black pencil skirt from her body, pretty clothes no more, and stuffed them in the wastebasket. She’d never be able to look at them again. She stepped into the steamy shower and grabbed the loofah, working a bit of soap into it before scrubbing her bare arms, soapy spider webs cascading down her breasts. She worked down her legs, running the loofah across her skin several times, rinsing off and starting the process over again. She frowned at the pinpricks of black hair on her legs, wishing she had a razor to excise it. Natalie moaned as she scrubbed her hair clean, feeling the dirt cake under her fingernails as she raked them across her scalp.

  She stood under the shower for several more minutes with her eyes closed, terrified of what would happen once she stepped back into that bedroom. As her skin started to wrinkle and goosebumps dotted her arms, she reluctantly turned off the water. She patted herself dry, rubbed lotion across her arms and legs, and swiped on some deodorant. She chose a pair of baggy jeans and a voluminous black t-shirt from the closet.

  And waited.

  Chapter 35

  HE

  She was here. Just on the other side of the door, his beautiful, beautiful Natalie was here with him. Finally. After all these years and all his planning. He pressed his ear against the door, listening as she showered. The water beating against her, the soap sliding across her skin. The scrubbing of every crack and crevice.

  He shivered.

  The rushed lovemaking wasn’t at all what he wanted or the way he’d seen it in his fantasies all these years. He wanted to bring her here to their new home and prepare her a romantic dinner over flickering candlelight before making long, lingering love to her in their own bed.

  But he couldn’t help himself. Seeing her lying there, the glint of her bare leg beneath that skirt, the curve of her breasts against her blouse had been too much. He couldn’t wait; he had to have her.

  The sensation of being inside of her, of no longer having to fantasize or improvise had overwhelmed him. He could barely move. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout. He wanted to jump.

  But he’d been too excited; it was embarrassing how fast he wanted to come once he was inside her. He didn’t want her to think less of him. He had to put her to sleep so he could take a minute. Almost as soon as she passed out, he exploded.

  And he’d wept like a baby, sucking his thumb as he collapsed on top of her and held her close, slowing his breathing to match hers.

  Once the lid was off, he couldn’t wait. Every night, he had to make love to her.

  Her body called to him now.

  Chapter 36

  SHE

  She jumped up, gasping and sweating.

  She grabbed her forehead, grunting as she looked around the dark room.

  “Jason,” she whispered. She’d been dreaming about Jason. When had she fallen asleep?

  After the shower. Yes, that was it. She’d showered and dropped off to sleep.

  She sank back against the pillows, damp from sweat and her wet hair.

  Where was Jason?

  Out of habit, she looked over to the nightstand for her clock before remembering there was no clock. No watch, no phone, no way of knowing about the outside world.

  Natalie swung her legs over the bed, working from memory to find the light switch near the door. She flipped it several times, but nothing happened.

  She edged over to the bathroom to check that light switch, but it, too, was dead. She whimpered and looked around, her heart racing.

  She heard a beep. She gasped as she whipped around.

  “Hello?”

  There was nothing. No footsteps. Not an inhale. Not an exhale.

  She stepped backward, fumbling for the bathroom, wanting to shut herself inside.

  “Who’s there?” she said, louder this time.

  “My sweet Natalie.”

  That whisper. It—where had she heard that before?

  Rough, insistent hands sprang from the darkness to grab her. A swollen, probing tongue forced its way into her mouth. She struggled and screamed, pushing against her assailant, her heart pounding as she fought to untangle herself from his grasp.

  He pushed her in the direction of the bed, burrowing his face and lips into her neck. He dropped onto the bed, pulling her down with him, before flipping her over and pinning her underneath him. He pulled at her clothes and bits and pieces of it started to come back: Jason, captivity.

  Raped.

  She squirmed and yelped as the memories came back like a sledgehammer. Slip-sliding in Jason’s blood. The life draining from his eyes as he held onto her.

  Kidnapped.

  Raped.

  “Please, no, no, not again, please.”

  “Oh, Nat, Nat, oh baby,” he said as he nibbled her ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. Ever since that first day I saw you. I knew we’d be together, that you were the girl I would spend the rest of my life with.”

  Nat.

  Nat?

  She froze, her heart pounding, her senses tingling. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

  Nat.

  The dreaded nickname.

  The dreaded nickname that only one person called her.

  “That first day . . . oh, my God, I fell in love.” He was grinding against her again. That sweaty, fishy stench.

  And then it all came back, pummeling her, its blows crushing her, her insides crumpling.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  Joey.

  Part III:

  Remember the Time. . .

  “He would always watch her and think about how pretty she was.”

  They were eleven years old, both students at Braxton Elementary. She’d just moved to Braxton to live with her Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Zach after her grandmother went into the nursing home. They were in the middle of fractions when Principal Bradshaw knocked on the door, barging in without waiting for an invitation. And there was Natalie. She kept her eyes, which he later learned were large and brown, trained to the floor, as she stood trembling in front of the chalkboard while Mrs. Tucker introduced her as the new student in class. Her sparkly pink t-shirt was tucked so far down into her stiff, dark blue jeans, it was a wonder she could breathe, much less walk across the room to sit at the desk the teacher pointed her to.

  She never talked to anybody, and during lunch she always sat at the far end of the table, always looking down, always alone, slurping down the little carton of milk she bought in the lunch line in between solemn bites of the bologna sandwich on smushed white with a smear of mustard, carefully wrapped in Saran wrap.

  He would always watch her and think about how pretty she was . . . and shy, like him. That whole school year, he never saw her make one friend or talk to one other classmate. During re
cess, while the other girls would jump rope, play hopscotch, or trade flavored lip glosses, Natalie would always climb into a swing, her back to the chaos of the playground, swaying just a bit but never launching herself into the air. She would just sit there, staring out at the road, almost as if she hoped one of those trucks rumbling down the street would come to pick her up and take her away.

  Even though nobody paid her any mind, it didn’t stop her from being the smartest girl in class; week after week, her papers glittered with gold stars and were always tacked up on the bulletin board as Best in Class. He never made the bulletin board. His assignments were handed back to him dripping in red, “See me after class” scrawled across the top.

  The first time he got to talk to her was when they were paired up to do a book report on Charlotte’s Web; she would write the report, and he would do the shadowbox presentation. He’d been so nervous to be near her, to talk to her; his only choice was to speak only when spoken to, which was hard since she didn’t like talking either. Somehow, they were able to communicate enough to get an ‘A’ on the project, his first ever (and, as it turned out, his last). He took that as his chance, running to catch up with her after school and thanking her for being such a good partner. In return, she gave him a shy smile and murmured, “You’re welcome.”

  It was all he needed. She had his heart from that day forward.

  They became friends, of sorts, him seeking her out at lunch to sit next to her, or once in a while he’d join her on the swing set, neither of them saying much but not minding the company. The sixth grade dance when they got to Braxton Middle School presented his first real opportunity to make his feelings known. He asked if she’d like to go with him, and when she said yes he thought he might melt into a puddle right there. They went that Thursday after school and sat in the gym bleachers during the fast songs, sipping sickly sweet purple punch, and holding each other at arm’s length during the slow songs. He had a flash of them in the future, dancing at their wedding, welded together and no longer having to worry about keeping their distance.