Lulling the Kidnapper

by O. L. Gregory

  With the arrival of the hail, the noise was no longer comforting. It was now stressing me the hell out. Not soft, little pings, these were loud thuds as the hail bounced off the windows that were somehow managing to repel them. Add to that, there was now a loud clap of thunder, and then the rumbling of the house, that immediately followed after each flash of lightening.

  I was no longer having a good time.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if the storm left behind small dents in the siding.

  Eventually, the hailing part of the storm moved on. We still had the thunder and the lightening, but the scary part was over. I looked at each pane of glass as I climbed down from the desk and then slowly descended the stairs. None of them were broken so that was good, I guess.

  I didn’t know if it was better that the glass hadn’t broken and I didn’t have a reason to leave the house, or to have had to pick my way out over a minefield of broken glass while picking shards out of my hair. At least this way I didn’t need any stitches.

  Seems as though there was no way a girl could get those windows to break and give her a few cuts, anyway. All I wanted was for a window to bust open and draw a little blood. I guess fate had forbidden the windows from scarring me. I suppose that was Asshole’s job in life.

  I scanned the porch next and smiled, the flip-top lid of the grill was sporting a few new dents. And from this angle, it appeared as though the table out there had a crack on the top. It would be interesting to see if Mr. Must-Appear-To-Be-Perfect-At-All-Times replaced them, or kept them because they were still usable and he couldn’t stand the idea of wasting anything.

  I sighed and rolled my head to stretch my neck, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the storm-induced tension. I had begun to wonder how much time had passed during this whole mess. I turned around and headed into the kitchen to look at the clock on the microwave, only to find the display blank.

  The clock on the stove was on, but it was flashing twelve o’clock. I opened the refrigerator and the light came on. I walked over to the light switch and flipped it, it didn’t work. I checked the switch in the great room, no luck. I walked over to the alarm panel by the front door, the keys were still backlit. I tried other rooms, but nothing requiring electricity would work.

  I stood in the kitchen, closed my eyes, and tried to listen over the din of the storm. There was nothing, just the slight hum of the fridge. This wasn’t a blown fuse. The electricity had gone out, that was obvious enough. But with the fridge and stove still working, it seemed like there was a generator somewhere. I didn’t, for one minute, believe that he had wanted to make sure I could still feed him proper meals when we were without power. I turned my head to look back over at the alarm panel… He’d wanted to make sure I was still trapped.

  But I still should have heard the hum of a generator. It’s not like those things were silent. That’s when the garage flashed through my mind. It was hard to get a glimpse of it from the windows, because it sat off to one side. But I knew it was out there, and I knew Asshole never parked his car in it. I now I had begun to wonder what else he had stashed out there.

  I’d be willing to bet that the cameras were hard-wired into the generator, and probably an outlet or two for his office, as well. All so he could keep my surveillance up and running. I wondered what kind of story he had conjured for the people he had brought in to wire the house, before we moved in.

  Asshole came home a few moments later. “Mia, are you all right?” he asked as he hit buttons on the alarm panel.

  “I’m fine now.”

  He put his wet, suit jacket and briefcase down on a chair in the kitchen and rushed over to hug me. “I’m so sorry you were by yourself through that mess.”

  I held my resigned sigh and hugged him back. “I’m not the one who had to be out in it. You’re soaked.”

  “Better soaked than knocked out, I waited until the hail passed. I’m sorry that I was late coming home.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

  He pulled away and his gaze shifted to the two clocks in the room, “Oh. I guess you couldn’t know, could you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, how did we fare otherwise?”

  “The grill and table are damaged. That was all I could determine. How’s the car?”

  His face turned grim, “It’s in need of a body shop.”

  I scrunched up my face, “How upset are you about that?”

  He grinned, “Not very. It was almost worth it to see you jump up on the desk like that.” He’d totally given up on the idea of giving only vague references about the cameras after the whole tripping into the window thing. And I guessed that he wasn’t even going to acknowledge having a generator. He’d reached the point of being above offering explanations or cover-ups. ‘Don’t question, little girl, just accept that my eccentricities are normal,’ that’s what his actions spoke on his behalf.

  I rolled my eyes, “I almost hid in a closet. There’s a lot of glass that could have come crashing in.”

  “What is it with you and that wall lately?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m over it now.”

  He pulled away and crossed his arms in front of himself, “How so?”

  “That wall and I have been forming a bond. I’ve learned that it will protect me. And it will only hurt me if it has to, in order to prevent me from a more intense and serious pain.”

  “You’ve bonded with the wall?” he asked, deadpan.

  “Yes. Just that wall though, the others aren’t as interesting.”

  He chuckled. “Your silliness is good for my blood pressure.” He picked up his jacket and briefcase, “I’m going up to change.”

  “I’ll be down here, fixing dinner.”

  It was a quiet evening. Dinner consisted of canned soup and a salad. We each spent the evening reading, for as long as the dim light had lasted. But then the day was cut short since the electricity had not been restored by the power company, yet. And the only flashlight Asshole had was on his phone.

  This guy was very much a creature of habit. In his mind, there was a time and a place for everything. He was capable of flexibility and spontaneity, but only after certain criteria had been met. For instance, we decided to go to bed early, since there wasn’t very much that could be done with a lone phone flashlight.

  But he still had his nightly ritual to adhere to. Granted, most of us have one, but most of us would put it on the backburner for a night like this, but not this guy. And he had to complete it early since we were going to bed early. As the phone lay on the counter, so the flashlight could give the area some illumination, he got a cup full of water from the tub and brushed, flossed, and rinsed his teeth. - Okay, no problem. - Then he plugged the sink, transferred enough cups of water to fill it, and then proceeded to shave with the razor held in one hand, and the phone in the other hand to aim the light. - Yes, really. - Then he pulled out his little battery operated trimmer and trimmed his eyebrows and nose hairs. - Nope, not kidding. Because it was Friday, and Friday is nose hair trimming night.

  “Are you laughing at me?” he asked.

  Damn. I was sitting on the bed, watching him through the open doorway, and had been trying to muffle my laughter with a pillow. I cleared my throat, “Absolutely not.”

  He leaned away from the sink, turned his head to face me, held up the flashlight so I could see his face, and cocked a trimmed eyebrow.

  I had to respond through a fresh bout of giggles. “I’m laughing at your predicament, not at you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He came out of the bathroom. “Your turn, do you need me to hold the flashlight for you?”

  “Sure, thank you.” Actually, what I need is for you to give me that phone and then go downstairs for some mysterious reason while I make a phone call. I proceeded to make short work of brushing my teeth. Anything else could wait until morning.

  He hadn’t moved from the doorway after I’d finished. I turned and stood, waiting for him to step away so I could go
to bed.

  “Are you finished already?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you. You can put the phone away.”

  He turned off the flashlight and sat the phone on the counter. Then he took me by the hand and led me over to the bed.

  I closed my eyes in my effort to silence my groan when he turned to lean down and kiss my neck. Why the hell couldn’t we just go to sleep?

  If there is any justice in this world, you will end up in jail and you will become the boyfriend of a mean, brawny inmate who will make you call him Big Daddy.

  The next day was Saturday. The skies were clear, the temperature warm, and the power was up and running again. It was gorgeous outside, and it would have been a crime to have to spend the day indoors.

  Asshole got out of the shower and told me he was slipping out to a store.

  “What kind of store?” I asked.

  He paused in the middle of getting dressed and raised his eyebrow at me. He did that every single time he thought I might be about to cross his line. It was always meant as a warning to tread carefully.

  Sometimes I fantasized about waxing off that eyebrow. I hated that he could wield such power over me with so little effort. I wasn’t raised to live at the mercy of any man, or to run around at his beck and call. It was so damned galling to be afraid of what he might do to me all the time. Not to mention that it was beyond exhausting to try and keep up with his swiftly changing moods.

  I sighed and turned to face the window and stare sightlessly at the front yard, “Never mind.” When they finally get a psychological diagnosis on you, during your upcoming stay in The Big House, I hope your treatment includes electroshock therapy.

  I could feel his eyes still on me. “I won’t be gone long,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “Mia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Turn around and look at me.”

  I ground my teeth together and turned to face him.

  “You weren’t about to question my actions or admonish me for leaving you alone?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then what does it matter what kind of store I’m going to?”

  “If you were going to a department store, I was going to ask if you would pick up a few supplies so that I could take an old hobby back up.”

  That freaking eyebrow went back up.

  I shifted my eyes towards the ceiling with another sigh. “Fine,” I said, letting my frustration be heard in my tone. I was remaining submissive while letting him know that I thought he was being unreasonable. It was a choice between either that or screaming.

  “I do not think that stirring up actions from your past is a good idea, Mia. You’ve made a great deal of progress in embracing your new life. I do not wish to see you lose any ground that you have gained.”

  I decided that taking an annoyed tone with him probably wasn’t going to get me anywhere pleasant, so I concentrated on making my frustration appear as pain, rather than anger.

  I welled up and let a few tears escape before turning back towards the window. “Fine,” I said in a small voice.

  “Amelia, I’m not trying to upset you, I’m trying to help you.”

  I nodded and sniffled back some tears.

  He sighed like any man does when he’s trying to figure out a woman and has discovered, yet again, that he can’t. “What hobby could possibly mean so much to you that it evokes tears?”

  “Crocheting,” I whispered.

  “Crocheting?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked over to me and turned me back around to face him again. “And why is crocheting so important.”

  “Because you won’t let me paint,” I held my hand up before he could interrupt. “You aren’t ready to trust me with tools yet, and you fear that I might hurt myself. I get it, and I haven’t questioned you on it. But I need a project. I need something to do that will allow me to express myself. I need a creative outlet. And I know that may sound selfish, but I was going to try and counterbalance the selfishness by crocheting an afghan for the back of the couch, a bedspread for our bed, and possibly some potholders for the kitchen. I was going to use the hobby to help make this house our home. And I’m sorry, I really am, but I just don’t see the harm in that.”

  “I do not want you to dredge up your past. I don’t want you to go back to arguing with me over every little thing.”

  “I don’t want that, either.” I turned back around to the window. “But I feel like you just do not want to understand that not every single person in my past was horrible to me. I know you like to lump everyone, and every experience, together and treat it all as something to be banished from my memory. But I did have a few loving family members. And I was taught some pretty cool things.” I took a couple steps away from him and the window, before facing him again. “That’s really why you don’t want me to paint, isn’t it? Because it was something I’d learned in my past.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, that is the reason why, mostly. It’s not that I don’t trust you use the tools without getting hurt. It’s that I don’t want it to trigger something in you that sets you back in your progress. I don’t want to go back to the days of having to retrain you again. That wasn’t pleasant for either of us.”

  I walked over to the bed and did a face-plant onto the bedspread. This man was so freaking loony tunes, it was pathetic. After a moment, I turned my face to the side so I could talk again. I was careful to not take a challenging tone with him, “Then I’ll stop cooking and cleaning as well, because I learned to do that in my past. I’ll stop progressing through my school work, because everything I had to learn before being able to understand the level of material I’m studying was all learned in my past.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, next to me. “Mia, you’re taking this to extremes.”

  “Then where should the line be drawn? How do you discern what is and what is not okay for me to carry over into our life together?”

  Again, for the record, I was never abused by anybody, except for Asshole. But if I had a hope of getting through this exchange without losing some ground I had gained with him, I had to play into his delusions. I had to pretend that he had convinced me of how horrible my previous life had been.

  And, yes, I understood that I was thinking in terms of having lived two separate lives. It’s how Asshole always referred to them. And, quite frankly, that’s how the two periods in my life had felt.

  “Hmm, I never thought about how your cooking would connect to your past. I failed to realize that the way you clean was drilled into you by them. I just focused on how those were things that a wife does, and that you were much calmer after being given something to do during the day. I didn’t take the thought any further than that. I apologize, you make a valid point.”

  “You said that I’ve made progress. Well, I’ve been making that progress by folding towels the way they taught me to fold them, and cooking the way they taught me to cook. And neither the cooking, nor the cleaning, has prevented me from progressing. If anything, once I started doing the cooking and cleaning, I started to make real strides in putting it all behind me.” I turned onto my side, so that I was now facing him. “Avoidance didn’t help me, your acceptance did.” - Man, I hoped I was navigating his convoluted logic in a way that would ultimately end up benefiting me.

  His hand reached out to caress my cheek. “Mia, I’m so sorry. What you’ve said makes perfect sense. I’ve been remiss in not letting you find a new sense of self that extends past household duties. And crocheting isn’t an unreasonable pastime.”

  I rubbed my cheek against his hand, feigning some affection, and sighed in relief. “Thank you for taking the time to listen to me.”

  He stretched out on the bed and pulled me against him. “You said that not every member of your family was abusive to you. Who were you talking about?”

  Play this very, very carefully. Make the story believable. “My grandmother’s sister.” I figured a great-aunt would
never have been mentioned in any news coverage of my case that there may have been when I disappeared.

  “She was nice to you?”

  “Very nice. She treated me how a child is supposed to be treated.”

  “And did you get to spend much time with her?”

  I didn’t know what kind of information he might be fishing for, but I did know one thing for sure. This story I was concocting on the fly had better have a bad ending. Otherwise, he’d only end up using it against me at some point in the future.

  “She was around from time to time, mostly on holidays when I was younger. She was a spinster who lived by herself. But then she got sick.”

  He gave me a reassuring squeeze, “And then what happened?”

  “She got to the point where she couldn’t take care of herself anymore. My parents sent me to her house for the summer so I could take care of her.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  He made a disgusted noise. “I can’t believe they sent a child to take care of an old, sick woman.”

  And right then was when I realized the irony in what I was doing. He’d spent months lying to me, trying to make me believe my parents were terrible people. And now the roles were reversed. Here I was, making up stories to convince him that they were, in fact, inept parents after all. A part of me felt guilty for the lies I was telling, but I told that part of my conscious to shut up. He hadn’t hit me since before we moved here, I was better off if I just kept playing the game.

  “It was actually better for me to be with Aunt Celia than it was for me to be at home. She was nice, sweet even. She never seemed to be annoyed by my presence, and she always had time to talk and answer questions.”

  “But you had to care for her.”

  “Yes, but… It was like… I don’t know how to put it into words. …It’s like I was there to care for her physical illness, and she was there to heal my spirit. Do you know what I mean?”

  “She showed you love.”

  “Yes, and she showed me that love was a give-and-take kind of thing, not just me giving everything, all the time. I didn’t know how to take care of a house and a sick person, but she talked me through it all. She taught me how to cook. She couldn’t show me very much, but I’d push her wheelchair up to her kitchen table and she’d watch and instruct me through all sorts of recipes. She taught me how to get stains out of clothing and spots out of the carpet.”