Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  He picked up Ricky and Laura’s wedding photo, all smiles after saying ‘I do’ and vowing to spend the rest of their lives together. He gripped the photo in both hands and tore a tiny slit across the top, the slow rip like a zipper. He kept splitting the photo until it was only shards. He dropped one in the middle of her bed.

  He picked up the box, took a final look around the room, and smiled.

  Chapter 48

  SHE

  Natalie had always been a tall, lanky girl. Flat as a board. All legs. All those ridiculous clichés and metaphors assigned to girls whose chests forgot to sprout and whose hips stayed firm and concave. “Staying in shape” had never been of concern to her, and exercise was something she was forced to pretend she was doing for thirty seven and a half minutes every day in gym class. She was intrigued when she got to college and saw stringy girls like herself confidently dashing around campus in their neon sports bras and muted biker shorts. Dennis always rhapsodized about his runner’s high, so she decided to try it. That first afternoon, the freedom of the wind gushing past her ears and long, empty road stretching out in front of her was like someone turning the key on her cage.

  Then came the throbbing aches spreading across her body like the slow wax of a candle. Pinpricks of pain flared up her shins. Her feet swelled and burned inside her shoes, necessitating two days of limping. Every time she rolled over in bed, her organs squirmed like blobs of drooping lava inside a lamp. Her lungs continued to blaze with each inhale.

  Natalie turned over on her side, her head pounding, her body as limp and raw as that first day she’d run three miles.

  Everything hurt.

  Joey had finally slipped out of the bed after demanding more performances from her and violating her more times than she could count. He seemed wound up, shunning sleep in favor of endless one-sided conversations. He prattled on for hours about life in the hospital, especially his friend, Flynn, and how good he got at checkers, how his doctor, an uptight German from what she was able to suss out, stunk of tuna fish and Diet Coke. He finally yawned, stretched, and said he’d see her in a few hours for breakfast. She plunged into sleep before he was out the door.

  Plan. She needed a new plan for escape. She was disintegrating, whole chunks of her were falling away and landing on the floor in a pile of gritty sediment. If she didn’t do something, there wouldn’t even be a carcass left for Joey to pick at.

  What was her plan?

  She stared at the ceiling as she tried to push through the spaghetti of her brain. Thoughts had become like slippery fish, squirming away from her in flopping fits no matter how hard she tried to clutch them in her butterfingers.

  Nightly assaults aside, she was exhausted. She wanted to sleep all the time and often did, which helped her escape the incessant clawing of the hunger and boredom. At times, it was like she was carrying a stone around her neck, the only relief to be found beneath the sheets of that cavernous bed. The sheets. A grimy Petri dish of his sweat, sperm, drops of his blood, minute flakes of his skin. Would he come in and change the sheets? Give her some sheets and let her do it herself? Of course, maybe while he was smoothing the rounded edges of the fitted sheet around the mattress, she could hook the top sheet around his neck and squeeze until his windpipe snapped. She’d gotten that comb into his side, which had to count for something.

  But was she strong enough to strangle him?

  No. No, no, no.

  But, what if. . .

  What if she gained his trust?

  She sat up, surprised this germ of a viable idea hadn’t poked its way to the surface until now.

  Of course.

  Gain his trust.

  Make a real effort. Make conversation. Apologize for being so difficult. Most importantly, get him to let her out of this room so she could get a snapshot of the rest of the house, scope out the exits, form a strategy.

  The phone. That phone he was always carrying around was the nerve center, turning the lights off and on, controlling entry and exit into the room. . .

  And car keys. He must have brought her here in a car or a truck—something. He’d never come into this room with keys, so the keys had to be somewhere out in that mysterious hinterland of the rest of the house.

  A car key.

  The phone.

  One or the other, it almost didn’t matter. Each one represented some measure of freedom.

  Rescue.

  Escape.

  If she couldn’t get the car keys, she’d get the phone and call 911. They could trace the call, bust down the door in a hail of bullets with Joey caught in the crossfire. They would save her.

  The keys to freedom.

  All she had to do . . . was gain his trust.

  “Just the fragments of a faded photo.”

  He’d struck her where he knew it would hurt the most.

  The box . . . the plain brown cardboard box lovingly curated by her grandmothers. The box with the flimsy, fluttering flaps that she kept hidden from Zach, Cheryl and her cousins in a forgotten hall closet under two old coats while she was growing up. The dusty old cardboard box that was the only thing precious to her, the only thing she had left of her parents.

  Gone.

  • • •

  The fourth scrap of their wedding photo arrived the same way as the previous three; orphaned inside a plain white envelope. No note. Not taped to a piece of paper or cardboard to protect it from any further damage. No return address—just her name in Joey’s familiar spindly blue ballpoint letters. It was delivered to the front desk of her dorm by a delivery service was all anyone could tell her.

  When the first one showed up a few days ago, it fluttered out of her hand and blew across the lobby. She ran after it, equal swells of panic and elation rising in her chest. She clamped the old photo paper under her palm against her heart and scurried to her room, afraid to let it out of her sight. It wasn’t even that significant a piece: the shiny black dome of her father’s shoe. She laid on her bed, staring at it for hours until Dina got home and forced her to put it in a new envelope and tape it to the inside of her desk drawer.

  Over the next few weeks, one by agonizing one, the jagged shards appeared: her mother’s smile, a wisp of red lipstick slashed across the top of one tooth, her father’s hand, the small gold wedding ring dwarfed against his massive quarterback hand. And now this one. Laura’s bouquet, white carnations and red roses swathed in baby’s breath.

  There’d been no more phone calls begging for another chance. There’d been no long and rambling e-mails drowning in run-on sentences, misspellings, and mangled syntax.

  Just the fragments of a faded photo.

  She laid all the pieces out on the desk, moving them around, trying to make them fit. There still wasn’t enough to tape the picture back together. She leaned back against the chair, staring at the patchy mess.

  All she could do now was wait and wonder what would come once she had all the pieces.

  Chapter 49

  SHE

  Natalie chewed on her nail, flakes of residual polish from her last manicure dotting her bottom lip and sticking to her tongue. She repeatedly pushed the tip of her tongue against the tight “O” of her mouth to dislodge the bitter pearl-pink chips. She kept watching the door, waiting for Joey to make his grand entrance, having spent the morning going over her grand plan to get him talking and escape from this room for the start of Operation Get The Hell Out of This Nightmare.

  The door beeped and Joey slithered in, that perpetual leering, shit-eating grin smeared across his face.

  “Well, look who’s up. You look real nice this morning. You’re not usually showered and dressed when I come in.”

  Natalie looked down at the garish calico sundress from the back of the closet and shrugged, its cheap polyester smell finding her nose. “The dress is so pretty, I thought it might be nice to wear it. It was nice of you to buy it for me.”

  He set the breakfast tray down, a plastic bowl of oatmeal pitching forward slightly. “To
ok me a long time to buy all those clothes. You like ’em? Better than those other clothes you used to wear.”

  “Of course, Joey. You’re absolutely right.”

  He frowned, clearly taken aback by her new docile stance. The hint of a smile crept over his lips. “You agreein’ with me?”

  She allowed him to spoon a scoop of oatmeal into her mouth and nodded. “I’ve had some time to think things over,” she swallowed. “And I wanted to apologize for being so difficult, for the comb, the pictures, and well . . . everything. I just didn’t understand or . . . appreciate, everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry, Joey. Can you forgive me?”

  She almost choked on the words right along with that slimy oatmeal.

  Gain his trust.

  He looked down into the bowl of oatmeal, stirring it as though doing so would keep the smile off his face. He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. “Damn, Nat. You don’t know what it means to hear you say that. Of course I forgive you, girl.”

  “I was also wondering, Joey, you know the sheets are getting a little dirty. Would you be able to give me a new set?”

  “Oh, sure, sure, of course. Yeah, I got another set out there, I’ll bring ’em in.”

  “And the bathroom? It’s starting to get a little . . . grimy in there. I can clean it if you just give me the stuff.”

  “Uh uh. That’s okay, I’ll do that. It’s no trouble.”

  Natalie shifted a bit in the bed. Of course he wouldn’t want her having access to any kind of cleaning products. The first chance she got, she’d throw them in his face, grab that phone, and bolt. She took a deep breath, trying not to tip her hand. “You know, Joey, I was also thinking maybe you could show me the rest of the house. I mean since I’ll be living here now. I should know where everything is, right?”

  He smiled as he sidled over to her and held up a heaping spoonful of oatmeal to her lips. “We could do that.”

  The oatmeal rumbled in her stomach and hot, sticky nausea began its rush to the surface. Natalie took a few deep breaths to try and clamp it down.

  “Well . . . how about now?”

  “Sure, sure, we could do that. Actually, I had something else I wanted us to do today.”

  “Oh? What is that?”

  “We need to put your pictures back up. Yeah. You know I heard you say once it was weird when people don’t have pictures up in their house, you know of like friends and family? That’s why I put all those pictures up. Make you feel at home.”

  She cringed inside. How did he know that? When had he heard her say that? She bit her lip and smiled. She couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t think about anything except getting him to let his guard down. “That was very thoughtful of you, Joey. You really do think of everything.”

  He mixed the oatmeal again. “I do, don’t I?”

  “So, how about the house tour, huh? I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I’m really eager to see it.”

  “Well, all right,” he said as he dropped the bowl onto the plastic tray and grabbed her arm. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  He pulled at her like a little boy showing his mother all of his A+ schoolwork plastered on the walls of the classroom. He punched some numbers into the phone to open the door, and she tried to edge her eyes in that direction to see what they were, but the angle was bad and all she caught was glare.

  She winced once they passed through the metal door. Much like the bedroom, the living room was a shrine to her. Everywhere she looked there were pictures of her. Some were duplicates of the ones in the bedroom, others were new. Natalie gulped, wanting to run away from this, from him.

  Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.

  They continued their trip through the house, Joey blathering on about his special decorative touches as she tried to get the lay of the land. For someone who prided himself so much on detail, the house was ugly. There was a blue velour couch and small wooden coffee table. A TV took up almost the entire wall opposite the couch, with multiple rows of multicolored DVDs neatly lined up on the shelves on either side of the monstrous black screen. There was a picture window next to the front door, but it was covered in a heavy blue velvet curtain, blocking out any light. She suspected it, too, was blacked out like the windows in the bedroom.

  He kept his hand locked around hers as he yammered on about how hard he worked to make this their home. She had to tune him out as she let her eyes sweep the room for exits. The front door. Was there a back door? Maybe in the kitchen. The phone. She saw him shove it back into the jeans pocket farthest away from her. She’d have to create some sort of distraction to give her time to dig into his pocket and get it. Then what? How could she keep him subdued long enough to get a call out? Would it be possible to lock him in the bedroom? Natalie’s brain throbbed as he stood her in front of the dining room table, pictures of her scattered across the surface. The pictures were cut. Scissors. Where were the scissors? His hands were digging into her shoulders.

  “You know, Nat, I forgot to ask, you get enough to eat? You want something else?”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine, Joey, thank you. Why don’t we keep going? Show me the rest of the house?”

  “Okay, sure, yeah,” he said, smiling.

  He led her to the doorway of his bedroom, which was on the other side of the kitchen. She had to keep from outwardly cringing at its sad, solitary state. The life-size photos of her were in place, of course, and the only furniture was a twin bed in the center of the room and an oak dresser. She scanned the top for a pile of keys, the scissors, even, but it was bare except for some scattered change. The window next to the bed was draped in the same heavy velvet as the rest of the house. A hulking treadmill rested in one lone corner.

  “Um, so how many rooms are there altogether?” Natalie asked.

  “Three bedrooms, dining, living, kitchen, and two bathrooms, so eight.”

  “Sounds like a nice-sized house. Where’s the other bedroom?”

  Joey shook his head. “Oh, I can’t show you that one. It’s a mess. Just stuff I haven’t gotten around to yet.”

  He let go of her hand, and she had to stop herself from wiping it on the back of her dress. He walked through the room and sat on the bed, which groaned under his weight.

  “You know there isn’t anyone around here for miles and miles. So even if you screamed until you couldn’t scream no more, no one would hear you. Besides, this entire house is soundproofed. Just in case you had any ideas. And, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, the windows are shatterproof. And even if by some miracle you did manage to break a window, there are sheets of steel across all of them.” He stopped and smiled at her. “So, if you haven’t already, you just have to accept that there is nothing you can do to leave.”

  She gulped, unnerved by his calm, casual demeanor. The chill of his words. The finality.

  “I already told you, Joey, I understand. This is where I live now. With you.”

  He smiled as he stood up to come over and caress her cheek. The oatmeal churned in her stomach, the bile refusing to stay dormant. His face softened as he continued to stroke her face. He leaned down to kiss her. Her body wouldn’t allow it; her hand flew to her mouth, and she went running in the direction of his bathroom. She barely made it before breakfast came back up in the toilet bowl.

  “What’s wrong, Nat?”

  She gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, sweat, vomit, and snot clinging to her chin. “I don’t know. . .” she said, dry heaving, feeling another crest poking its way to the surface. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  Joey didn’t say anything, just continued standing behind her. The wave broke and she vomited again, wincing at the droplets of water and bits of oatmeal splashing back on her. She coughed and leaned back on the floor, holding her chest and trying to catch her breath.

  She heard him run out and managed to take a quick glance around. No mirror. No razor resting on the counter. Not even nail clippers.

  “Damn,” she
whispered.

  He came back in with a cup of juice, which she took in measured sips, not wanting to rock the boat. He sat on the edge of the tub watching her.

  “Maybe the flu, huh?”

  “Maybe,” she said as she flushed the toilet, her eyes focused on the volumes of waste swirling down the drain, wishing she could go with it.

  “Whatever it is, you know I’ll take care of you.”

  “So, I noticed there was a huge television in the living room. Maybe we could watch some TV? Whatever you’d like.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I got a lot of movies. You remember how much I like movies?”

  She remembered all too well how much Joey liked movies, the same asinine Freddy-on-Elm-Street-killed-Michael-Meyers movies that her cousins liked to watch. He was always dragging her to the dollar cinema for either those or some shoot-’em-up, martial arts flick heavy on trite one-liners and paper-thin plots, never once asking her if there was something she might like to see.

  “Hey, did you ever see that movie Bodyguard with Whitney Houston?” She snapped back to him talking, trying to feign interest.

  “The Bodyguard?”

  “Yeah, I have it on DVD. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I didn’t realize you liked movies like that,” she said. “Romantic movies, I mean.”

  “Aww, yeah, when I was in the hospital, you know, they don’t let you watch a lot of, like, the stuff you really want to watch, right? So you have to watch what they want you to watch, and, you know, some of them movies ain’t half bad. Besides . . . gave me a lot of ideas.”