by V. F. Mason
A single bulb shines above with its buzzing adding to her captive experience. I walk to the sink and turn off the water, as the sound starts to grate on even my nerves. I wanted to have her unsettled so all her survival instincts would come into play and I could see how she reacted when danger hit her, but I fucking couldn’t do it.
Leaving for an entire day, although I was just upstairs, didn’t help me ease my hectic emotions regarding her or the fact that what I’m doing doesn’t feel right.
My fists clench at the sight of untouched food and water—fucking stubborn captive.
Her face looks so peaceful as she rests her cheek on her hand, breathing evenly with not a care in the world. She must not have expected me to come back so soon; otherwise, she would have never allowed herself to fall asleep.
Where was her FBI training? I expected more fight from her than this quick surrender.
The search party started the minute I reported her missing, and the team has been crazy ever since but has come to dead ends everywhere they look.
I act like a worried lover, but at the same time hate myself because part of it is true.
I’m a fucking worried lover who is attached to his victim.
Kneeling in front of her, I trace my finger over her face, closing my eyes at the softness of her skin, and breathe in her scent.
I should be using my knives on her to see her break, so she will admit she has nothing to hold on to.
That’s all I want.
But I do none of those things. Instead, I silently watch her, hating her worn-out state.
She flips onto her back, exposing more of herself to me, and suddenly her eyes snap open, our gazes clashing. A smile spreads on her face, as she stretches her arms, confusion crossing her face. “Why are you awake?” she asks sleepily, and then rises slightly to fist my shirt. “Come here, sexy guy.” She pulls me to her and I fall, our chests pressing against each other as she runs her nose along the crook of my neck as she always does in the mornings.
Sexy guy.
That’s what she called me anytime she was in the mood for sex.
Her hands travel up my stomach, lightly grazing the skin under my shirt, but then they slide up to circle my neck. “Relax, Kierian.” She nips on my chin, lifting her hips a little, begging me to thrust.
She doesn’t realize where she is or that I’m no longer just her “sexy guy.” The haze of her sleep consumes her, so she still believes we are back in our apartment, where I made her body crave my touch.
Her mind might reject me, but her body? Her body fucking remembers everything.
A better man would have walked away, but I never claimed to be a saint. Maybe this will help both of us.
I remove my shirt then roll back to her. I smash my mouth on hers and she moans, rather loudly, but a weird emotion slips through me as her hands fumble with my zipper and she seeks my tongue with hers. Her velvety softness sucks on my tongue and my hands grab her hips, bringing my hard-on closer to her pussy, which is probably dripping for me.
Then a stunning thought slams into me like a ton of bricks, halting my movements as I realize I’ve missed this complete acceptance from her.
Where she welcomes me into her arms instead of fighting me.
Palming her face, I hold her stare as she gasps for breath and I freeze, hating the beast that rages for me to hurt and protect her… at the same time.
Why is torturing her not easy?
She laces her fingers in my hair, begging for my mouth as she brings us closer, and my eyes close while I breathe her in.
But then it happens, and I have no time to react.
She bites painfully on my lip, drawing blood as a piercing pain assaults my side. I huff in surprise, looking down to see she’s stabbed me with a knife.
The fucking knife I must have forgotten earlier.
My state allows her to push me to the side as she quickly gets up, the keys for the house dangling in her hands that she must have taken from the loop on my jeans.
Blood coats my hand as I concentrate on a different place so it will help me ignore the pain and move forward.
A field, a green field where I don’t have to do anything.
In seconds, I have control back and stand up, running on adrenaline alone, but then I realize she is nowhere in sight.
And that’s when the door shuts loudly above me.
My little prey threw a challenge my way.
Big mistake.
Ella
My lungs fill with fresh air as I try to study the view in front of me but fail because my vision is still blurry. The massive brick house behind me seems to be located in the middle of a huge field with a forest on the horizon and no other houses or civilization in sight.
Desperation fills me, but I don’t give up. Instead, I hold the hem of my dress up and rush forward, seeking either help or a hiding place from the man who without a doubt will chase after me within minutes.
For a minute, guilt penetrates me for what I’ve done to him, but it quickly disappears the minute the pain in my entire body registers.
He doesn’t deserve my pity. My anything for that matter.
The sweat drips down my back as I inhale the smell of lavender and roses, and my legs take me farther and farther into the field. The only sounds are my feet smacking the ground and my gulps for air while I put all my power, or what is left of it, into running. I ignore my blisters and how hunger almost makes it impossible to move, let alone fight.
I can’t let him get me; it will mean he wins.
Not noticing the slippery spot in front of me, I fall down on my ass, causing pain to burst through my body. Biting down on my lip, I allow the metallic taste of blood to enter my dry mouth that hasn’t had water or anything else to drink for ten or more hours straight now.
Maybe I shouldn't have been that stubborn. But I just couldn’t give him the satisfaction of me eating food after he used my body as his personal toy. It responded to him, and I hated myself for it. He knew this would break me, but he did it nevertheless.
And I knew me not eating would alter his plan, so I used it. No matter how much he claims I mean nothing, I don’t believe it.
No, I’m not a lovesick fool to think he does it out of love.
He just cannot bear someone or something else bringing me pain besides him; that’s how his twisted mind works.
He certainly didn’t expect me to take the stand I did, and silent laughter escapes me along with a little whimper.
Did he really think I would accept him and beg him to touch me? I might love him, but no fucking way will I develop Stockholm Syndrome.
He can go fuck himself!
Placing my hand on the grass, I glance down to study the bloody fingers and stubby fingernails I’d bitten off with worry.
I wonder if this escape and whatever the future holds are worth it.
But despite what everyone might think, despite being alone in this world, my life does matter.
And I will fight for it till my last dying breath.
Slowly, black leather boots come into view right under my nose as Kierian’s sadistic chuckle echoes over the field. “Little spitfire, aren't you? Quite the fight for your life you gave me.” He kneels and grabs my chin while I struggle away from his hold, but it’s useless.
My strength is nothing against his.
That’s when I notice the blood oozing from his wound, but he doesn’t even flinch in pain. In fact, he has a hollow expression, as if he’s a different man.
He created a sub-reality in his mind to distract from the pain, smart fucker.
Raising my chin up, our gazes clash, and I can’t help but whimper in despair as his unmasked face reminds me once again of the fool I have been.
Because all these weeks chasing the psychopath, I never once anticipated it was him.
And now he has come to collect the most valuable thing I have to offer.
My life.
What I did back in the basement is probably unforg
ivable in his mind, but I don’t care.
I’d rather die trying to escape than because I gave up in a dingy, dark basement.
“You are mine now, Ella. The hunter has won his prey,” he mutters, as he leans down and licks the blood from my lips.
His blood.
He throws me over his shoulder, marching in the direction of his sanctuary.
I can’t move my muscles, and no matter how much I kick, he doesn’t budge under my assault. All my training was shit, because, apparently, I can’t take down one single guy.
Part of me feels sorry for everything he’s had to endure in his life that led him to this.
Not that it matters.
The end will be the same.
Either I kill him, or he’ll kill me.
Till death do us part after all.
Psychopath
Entering the house, my ears are almost deafened by her screaming, but I ignore it, focusing my entire attention on the brown door down the hallway. I use all my strength to continue to my bath as she shivers on my shoulder. She asks, “What are you doing?” Her head shifts slightly as she grabs my waist to look beyond me.
I don’t give her much though, as I drop her on the floor. She sways a little and I steady her, but she immediately steps back, fury crossing her face. “What? You brought me here to inflict more damage?”
“Quite a stupid statement for a professional like you.” Before she can say anything else, I point at the shower. “Take one and dress in the set of clothes on the counter.” Her brows furrow as her eyes widen in surprise. “And then come back to the fucking living room.” I close the door behind me, grab the first aid kit on the way, and drop onto the couch with an exhausted huff.
Only then do I allow myself to come back, and the pain follows, hitting me from every corner. I notice she didn’t touch any important parts, and I can handle patching myself up.
In other words, the wound isn’t dangerous enough to kill me, but it hurts like a motherfucker, alerting my other senses.
The man in me is proud of the skill she possesses, but the serial killer?
The serial killer wants to wrap his hands around her pretty throat and choke her until she regrets her decision.
Clearly my first tactic didn’t work.
But I’m nothing if not adaptable.
Chapter Sixteen
Psychopath, 10 years old
Hopping from the bus onto the street, I wince at the slight pain in my arm, and a second later, my bag lands next to me as the kids laugh behind me.
“Loser,” one of the bigger ones shouts, but I ignore it, adjusting my glasses on my nose better before scooting all the books back in my bag while the teacher yells at them to behave.
Maybe she should have paid more attention inside the bus, and then I wouldn't have pain in my stomach from their hits. Adding that to all the other injuries that Dad likes to inflict, I can barely walk most days. But no one asks and no one cares; they even ignore my holey shoes.
Turns out that at some point, popularity becomes more important than friendship, because Gideon and Alp joined the forces who make fun of nerds, and I’m always on the receiving end of their cruelty. Destroyed schoolbooks that we can barely afford, finding soap in my bag, stumbling in the halls and painful landings. I try to fight back, but it only earns me more blows.
Everyone constantly laughs at me, pointing their fingers while I do my best to stand up after each encounter. During class, it isn't any better; teachers scold me for not doing my homework or not studying enough. I’m bad at everything but math. Numbers are my only salvation.
I hate school with all my might, but then it’s a safer place than home. Sometimes I look at all those kids in our neighborhood who ride bikes or eat food, enjoying their time, and I wonder what it is like to be so carefree.
To not be afraid. To not constantly apologize for breathing.
I sit in my room and often try to find what’s so wrong with me that no one loves me.
Even Mom. She always protects me, but there is this stare in her eyes as if she regrets I’m even there. Maybe because Dad always screams and hits her when I piss him off, which is almost always.
What do you have to do to be loved?
My stomach growls loudly, the pain inside so bad it halts my movement for a bit, but I blow out a heavy breath. Eating lunch in the school cafeteria once a day isn't enough, but I know nothing waits for me at home. Mom gave up cooking a long time ago when Dad constantly hit her because she messed up something.
Thankfully, he isn't home now; his broker job called him to go out of town, and I wanted to use this opportunity to read books in peace.
Entering the house, I call, “Mom?” She doesn't reply, and I remove my shoes, being careful not to leave any stains, as everything should shine perfectly.
The TV plays loudly in the living room and I frown, surprised she allowed herself to watch the news, since it’s not allowed according to Dad’s rules. And Mom acts as if he’s around even when he’s not.
I despise her for it on most days, but it’s always laced with guilt as she withstands everything for me.
But the question that always haunts me is why does she stay? Why can’t she run away from him?
Is that the love that everyone experiences?
“Mom?” I call again, but still no response. She is turned away from me sitting on the chair; I can see her blonde hair resting against the chair back. I put my bag on the couch and go around in front of her, only to gasp loudly.
A pool of blood surrounds her from where she’s cut both her wrists open. The blood drips down onto the white carpet that soaks it up. Her eyes are closed, and I quickly grab the phone, dialing nine-one-one while shaking her, hoping she’ll wake up.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom’s hurt.” Those are the only words I manage to spill, and immediately she tells me to stay there, but I barely listen to her, the phone slipping through my fingers to the carpet as my eyes focus on Mom’s face.
She smiles, the corners of her mouth lifting for the first time instead of being thin, and she is peaceful. Not one wrinkle mars her face, and I walk closer, touching her cheek softly.
She is not breathing, and I know I should cry and scream for help, but I can’t.
For in death, she’s found peace, and it can’t bring remorse in me. My mom was never more beautiful than in this moment with life gone from her bruised body forever.
It’s like she finally found happiness, far away from this awful place.
I kneel next to her, hugging her knees with my arms, resting my cheek on her lap while I stare into nothing, forever picturing her in this moment. I don't even care that I get dirty with blood, because for me it has brought salvation for my mom.
Why didn't she do it to both of us? Then we’d be free forever. Away from the evil that feeds on our misery.
How can I live without her?
After an hour or just minutes, people barge inside the house, their eyes widening in shock as they mutter, “Dear God,” and pull me away from Mother, while I desperately try to cling to her.
Paramedics check my vitals while murmuring words to me I don't understand, because I don’t even pretend to listen. Instead, I think about the fact that my father will never be able to hurt her again.
But with this realization also comes anger so deep it slices through me as I fist my hands and inhale the putrid air.
Because she has left me alone to live with a monster.
New York, New York
June 2018
Ella
Getting out of the shower, I step on the soft rug, curling my toes into it, and lean toward the mirror, wiping the fog away from it.
I’ve spent around fifteen minutes in there, scrubbing myself with a new container of shower gel, wanting to wash away all the dirt I collected back in the cage.
The humid air envelops me in warmth as I gaze at my reflection and study my body as if seeing it for the firs
t time.
My black hair falls down my spine in wet strands as water drips on the floor. Bruises appear on different parts of my body. They are not large, but enough to be seen.
Dark circles under my eyes, a haunted look, and cracked lips create a picture of a woman who suffered a deep loss, yet at the same time I do not resemble a victim held captive.
More like a woman scorned who has gone through heartbreak. In a way, I have though, right? The man I love has turned out to be a monster.
A monster who for some reason doesn’t kill me or torture me as he should.
Resting my hands on the sink, I breathe in and out, trying to recognize all the emotions swirling through my system, demanding to be felt.
There is rage for him deceiving me and putting me in this situation, luring me into his trap.
There is pain for him turning out to be someone else and placing me in a position where loving someone cost me something precious.
There is love, because how can I turn it off just like that? Even if it feels wrong.
But the most prominent of them all?
Desire to understand what has driven him to this and why he still keeps me alive.
It’s like he wants to kill me but can’t even explain to himself why he can’t do that. And discovering why and playing it to my advantage might be exactly what I need to escape from this hell.
So I can’t be stupid and irrational anymore. I have to use all my knowledge to save myself from the man I’ve considered the love of my life.
Exhaling heavily, I put on the black hoodie lying nearby and find it reaches my knees. I roll the sleeves up, enjoying the softness of the fabric. It’s thick compared to that joke of a dress, so it gives me more protection, at least in my mind.
I wince as I put pressure on my foot, still sensitive after the water, and go out, not really knowing what awaits me.
Kierian sits on the couch, breathing heavily as he concentrates on the needle and thread, as he methodically stitches his wound.
A bottle of whiskey sits nearby, half full, so he probably used some of it as antiseptic and drank some to dull the pain.
The woman in me longs to soothe him and make it all right, and I step in his direction but stop myself quickly.
