Pieces of Autumn

by Mara Black

  "Here," he said, stepping aside from a large, rolled-out piece of dough. "Cut these out."

  I took the biscuit-cutter from him and followed the pattern he'd set, quickly losing myself in thought.

  This whole scene reminded me of the time he'd been making breakfast, just before he laid out the rules for my conduct. Including the rule I'd broken. And the rule he'd broken.

  Why?

  Because he wants to control you.

  Why?

  Because he felt guilty.

  Why?

  Because...

  None of the answers were satisfying. I knew I couldn't ask, even though I gritted my teeth at the unfairness of it all. This wasn't some normal, healthy relationship where we could talk as equals and respect each other. This wasn't a relationship at all. It was practically a hostage situation.

  As a kid, I remembered reading those articles about the sick fucks who would kidnap women and keep them as sex slaves for months - years. How eventually, they'd be sending them into town on errands, and they wouldn't even try to run. It had always been a mystery to me, until now.

  But that was unfair. Tate hadn't kidnapped me. He wasn't trying to keep me here.

  Except he did. Remember what he said, that first night? He made you think you wouldn't be able to survive without him.

  Well, it was true. But if he really wanted me gone, why did he point it out?

  An uneasy feeling was growing in my chest. I wondered how I ever managed to feel anything but uneasy, and thought again of the kidnapped girls in the news. I was adjusting to my situation. Human beings were very good at that. Resilient. Elastic. It was how we survived.

  It was also how we could lose our minds. Become someone completely different from who we thought we were.

  My fever dreams were still bothering me. Why on earth had my brain concocted some fantasy of him being so sweet and caring, when it was so far from reality? Obviously, after so long fending for myself, I craved it. But applying that desire to Tate was borderline delusional.

  Now I remembered the song from my dream. "Circle Game," it was called. It was one of my mother's favorite lullabies, and though I'd lost some of the words over the years, I still remembered most of it. As I went about my work, I started humming it, softly.

  There was a gentle clattering noise from the other end of the kitchen, and Tate spat out a curse.

  Turning to look, I saw him staring at me. He bent down to snatch up the knife he'd dropped on the floor, but he didn't even glance at the blade to see if it was damaged.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Should I...is it distracting?"

  His lips were bloodless as he spoke. "It's fine," he said, with an effort, turning back to his cutting board. "Where did you learn that song?"

  I shrugged. "It kept running around in my head when I had that fever. I guess because my mom used to sing it to me when I was sick."

  I sure wasn't going to tell him that I'd imagined he was singing it to me. Honestly, I didn't know which one of us would be more embarrassed in that conversation.

  Something was bothering me, a nagging thought in the back of my mind. I'd been ignoring it, because it didn't seem useful. There was no part of me that wanted to further examine what happened that night. The desperation, the thrumming fear, the way my heart actually swelled with relief when Tate carried me back into the house. I couldn't allow myself to feel any feelings about any of this. Positive or negative. I just had to get through it. I just had to survive until...

  Until what?

  I didn't know. And that terrified me.

  One day at a time, one foot in front of the other. Being Tate's good little slave, his good little whore when he demanded it. Or ignoring him, as he ignored me. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. If Stoker kept their claws in me for much longer, it could have been so much worse.

  But the nagging thought wouldn't leave.

  You knew were having a fever dream, while you were having a fever dream?

  That doesn't happen, Autumn.

  I threw a ball of dough down on the counter, a little too hard, but Tate didn't even look up. He was lost in whatever thoughts consumed his mind in the quiet moments, and I was pretty sure I didn't want any part of that.

  I had to silence my mind. This line of questioning wasn't going anywhere good.

  You weren't dreaming. And you know it.

  It had been in my brain all along, but the realization still hit me like a bucket of cold water. Tate holding me tenderly, kissing my forehead, singing me to sleep. It couldn't be real, except it was.

  My heart clenched in my chest. I'd once thought otherwise, but now I realized the truth: I didn't want it to be. I wanted our arrangement to stay like this, cool and uncomplicated, keeping each other at arm's length. I didn't want his tenderness.

  How could I accept it? How could I possibly wrap my head around this man wanting to care for me, when half of him wanted to rip me apart?

  Have you conveniently forgotten that he saved your life?

  I wanted to believe he did it out of pure instinct. Like anyone should. But there were precious few ordinary heroes left in the world, and they'd all either joined the Syndicate or learned to think the better of their actions.

  And Tate was no hero. If he saved me, there was a reason.

  A horrible thought crept in, like ice-water through my veins. He has a reason.

  What if, as Tate feared, Birdy had found me?

  What if he'd followed Joshua's car? What if he'd struck a deal with Tate? What if all of this was just some elaborate, sadistic game for Birdy's amusement? Paranoia sank its teeth in, and I stared at the dough on the counter, not really seeing it, not really seeing anything.

  "Autumn."

  Tate's voice brought me back, sharply, to reality. Heart pounding, I stared at him, a fresh fear reflected in my eyes no matter how I tried to hide it.

  "What's wrong?" He frowned, taking a step towards me.

  He's playing with my mind. He's trying to break me. He's...

  "Nothing," I said, quickly pasting on a smile. "Nothing, Sir."

  My heart thundered in my chest. Tate didn't press the issue, turning back to his work, but I felt sick.

  I couldn't stay here anymore.

  I was viciously angry with myself. It had been a mistake - a huge, potentially fatal mistake, to trust Tate.

  Obviously I didn't really trust him. The man was unhinged. But I'd trusted that he was safe and untouchable. I'd trusted him the way I'd never trusted anyone. Even when Nikki and I had been watching each other's backs for years, I was still careful. There was still a knife in my pocket that she didn't know about. Even someone with Birdy's influence struggled to find me in the endless, faceless, teeming masses of the homeless - but if he ever got wind of me, I knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill or bribe anyone he felt he had to. And loyalty didn't matter when you were starving.

  Tate, on the other hand, seemed to have everything a person could want. But there was always more.

  When things first started to go bad - when everyone realized this wasn't just another recession, not even a depression, but something worse - that our whole system was rotten to the core - money stopped meaning much of anything.

  I had a feeling Tate had been rich. He probably still had the money, useless paper though it now was, stored away in a fucking vault in his basement. Most rich people clung to whatever they could keep, telling themselves it would matter again someday.

  The people who had prepared for this eventuality became the new upper class, but not for long. Emergency stockpiles were raided, first by survivalists trying to outgun each other, and then by the government, who could not be outgunned. There was a mandatory redistribution of supplies, provisions, enforced at first by the police, then the military, then martial law. Some people died to protect the things that were supposed to keep them alive longer than the rest of us. It was a matter of principle, I supposed.

  Tate was clearly a man of influence. He had anti-venom, he had
batteries, he had fuel, he had imported spices. There were obviously people who owed him something. People in other countries, ones not affected so deeply by our collapse. What could a man like that possibly want?

  Influence was the only thing that mattered anymore. Money was meaningless. Food could be stolen. But influence, as long as you were alive - as long as your name meant something to someone - as long as you could produce something that somebody wanted...

  Tate had influence. He had enough influence to get the things that he needed. Hell, Stoker gave him a sex slave for free in exchange for his years of loyal service. He might hate them, but they didn't hate him. They must need him, for some reason, or he'd already be dead.

  Tate seemed untouchable. But that was no reason for me to believe that he was.

  This time, my escape would be more carefully planned. I would be ready. I would leave in daylight, when he least expected it, and when I could see the damn snakes.

  For moment, I wanted nothing more than to forget about all of this. To go back to the kitchen, take my place at Tate's side, even if he didn't want me.

  God, what the hell was wrong with me? I was a mess of contradictions, almost as bad as the man himself. His tenderness frightened me to the point of panic, but so did the thought of never having it again.

  In five years, never, not once, had I felt at home.

  Of course I was, on a very technical level, homeless. But if I cast my mind back to the early days, before Birdy came, it wasn't much different. I was comfortable, I had enough food, I had a place to sleep. I had my parents, who cared for me in their own way. But that emptiness, that sense of longing, had always been there.

  Was there something wrong with me? A defective model of a human being, not even good enough for a psychopath?

  You know that's not true. He's not a psychopath.

  He hurts, as much as you.

  This was a new one. My inner monologue had taken a turn for the sympathetic. Perfect - just what I needed before I ran away again.

  Well, it was true. Tate probably felt the same, if he had any room left for emotions that didn't have to do with sex and death. In some way, he, too, was probably chasing some ideal of home that had never existed and never would. There was no denying a connection between us, something that ran deeper than lust.

  Or maybe that was just what he wanted me to think, while he groomed me for Birdy.

  I couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it, but the rising tide of panic wouldn't let me think of any other possibility. I had to get out. Before it was too late, I had to leave.

  Now that Tate was ignoring me most of the time, it was easy. Mid-morning, after cleaning up the kitchen, I gathered some food and bottled water, only as much as I could easily carry with me. I made a little parcel out of the wrapping from the last package Tate had given me, but the underwear stayed behind. I told myself I simply had no practical use for one more thing to carry.

  I waited until he was sequestered in his room, and then I went to the door. There was still a pair of boots, in my size, just like his. Waiting for me.

  Tears were blurring in my eyes as I tied the laces.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Waiting for a Train

  The further I got from that house, the more I felt like I was pulling myself from sucking quicksand. As I reached the edge of the property, heading towards a thick woods that would shield me from any searching eyes, there was a strange sense of elation, tinged with bitterness. See. I'm still whole, after all. You didn't break me.

  You'll never break me.

  I hiked over sticks and dead leaves, dodging rocks and never stopping to look back. Thank God I still had the presence of mind, the sanity, to run away. Why had I ever felt like I couldn't?

  I wanted to laugh angrily, shake my fist at the sky, find some way to let Tate know he was wrong. So, so wrong. I was no one's property. I was a survivor. He thought he was so much better than the rest of us, locking himself away and tending to his little victory garden while the world burned. But there was nothing special about him. He wasn't a survivor - he was still living the horror of his past, quietly, day after day.

  Stop it. Don't feel bad for him. He made his choice.

  But so had I.

  If I judged him for what he'd done, I was no better than he was. Telling me I deserved what happened, because I was so desperate.

  It was tempting to believe there was something inherently bad about him, that he'd been born with a sadistic streak - after all, how else could someone end up twisted like that? From what Joshua told me, I knew I had only seen the barest hint of what Tate was truly capable of. He himself seemed to believe that he was a monster, far beyond empathy. When I tried to reach out to him, he snarled like a wounded animal. Deep down inside, I knew. He wasn't born this way.

  Any person in the world, pushed far enough, was capable of unthinkable cruelty. I knew that - had known it for a long time, but seeing it in action was something different.

  By dusk, I'd walked far enough that I'd reached the outskirts of a town. It wasn't one I knew, but I thought it must be close to the city.

  Of course, I had no way of knowing. I could be miles and miles away from where I'd started. In fact, I had no way of knowing I hadn't been deposited on a plane when I was unconscious. I just assumed that I'd been driven here, that Tate lived within a reasonable distance of Stoker. But why would he, if he hated them so much?

  Where the hell was I?

  The town became slightly more crowded, more dirty. I managed to catch a much-needed drink of water running off an old rain pipe. It tasted rusty, but fresh enough. I couldn't afford to use any of the bottled stuff before I absolutely had to. Dodging through the alleyways and shadows, I kept my head down, hoping no one here was a spy for Stoker. Or Birdy.

  I just had to get out of this place. I had to get far away, walking day and night until I was past the reach of everyone who wanted me dead.

  And Tate.

  I still wasn't sure if he belonged in that category or not, and I wasn't going to find out.

  The giddiness had started to fade. A sick sense of doubt was tugging at the back of my mind, fueled by misplaced empathy and feverish memories.

  Even if he was capable of tender feelings, that didn't mean he was a good man. It didn't mean I should risk my safety, my life, out of a sense of obligation.

  I had no reason to fear Stoker. I'd eluded Birdy for this long, and I could keep doing it for as long as I wanted.

  I just had to keep walking.

  There were eyes on me. I could feel them, watching, wondering. Hopefully not recognizing. Hopefully just idle curiosity, or trying to evaluate me, see if I was worth trying to rob. I silently cursed myself for not changing into something more tattered. In one of the dresses Tate had given me, navy blue and stopping just at the knee, I stood out like a sore thumb. It was dirty and slightly worn from my hike, but not enough to avoid drawing attention.

  I would have been better off wearing that stupid sheet.

  Compelled to keep moving, keep walking, I kept my eyes on the pavement in front of me and refused to look up. Until I saw a pair of boots there.

  My heart stopped. But they weren't that kind of boots. They were older, worn, and...not moving out of the way.

  I looked up, to see a big brute of a man in a tattered coat and absurd winter hat that was nearly fraying off of his head. It was far too warm for any of that, but I knew he was wearing it so it wouldn't be stolen.

  He favored me with a mostly-toothless grin.

  "In a hurry to get somewhere?"

  I tried to sidestep, ignoring him, but he moved his body back into my pathway. Heart pounding, I stepped back and looked up at him again.

  "Yes," I said. "So I'd appreciate it if you let me pass."

  The road was narrow at this point, almost no more than an alley. There was no one else around us - not that it would have mattered. Who would bother to help me?

  I had my letter opener in my hand, clu
tched tight. His eyes immediately went to my closed fist.

  "What's that you've got, there?" He lashed out and grabbed my wrist, twisting my arm so violently that I cried out. I had no choice but to drop the letter opener, or risk a broken arm.

  "Can't have that," he wheezed, shaking me slightly. "You got any other weapons you plan to stab me with, before we get to the romance?"

  God, please, no. Not like this.

  He was dragging me towards an overflowing dumpster, something to partially shield his actions from any passersby. As if it would matter. Producing a knife, much longer than my makeshift weapon, he grinned again, pressing at to my throat.

  "You another one of Stoker's runaways? You got that look." With filthy fingers, he grabbed the strap of my dress and pulled it down, just enough to expose the brand. "Ah, just like I thought. Well, then, you'll enjoy this."

  "Fuck you." I spat in his face, to which he simply laughed.

  "Come on, pretty baby," he sneered. "Give me what you got, and maybe that's all I'll take from you."

  Cold fear gripped my heart, and I longed for Tate.

  Stop it.

  He would never let this happen. I had a vision of Tate's boot stomping this scumbag's head into the curb, and I couldn't hold back a vicious grin.

  "Good," the man said, leaning in close. He smelled foul, even to someone who'd grown accustomed to the odors of street life. "I see we're finally on the same page."

  Suddenly, before I had a chance to react, his eyes went wide, and he stumbled backwards. Body flailing, he fell over to the side, a sudden rush of blood darkening his many layers of clothing.

  There was a man standing behind him, with sandy-blond hair and a tight smile. He was holding my discarded letter opener.

  "Thank you," I said, quietly.

  "Don't need to thank me," he said, wiping the letter opener clean on a pile of rags near the dumpster. "I provide a valuable service around here, and I'm happy to do it pro bono. You need a place to stay the night?"

  Warning bells went off in my head, but he'd already seen me. He could overpower me at any moment, if he wanted to.

  "Maybe," I said. "But how do I know I can trust you?"