Happy Ever After - Volume 1: A Novel of Horror and Suspense

by Matt Shaw

  Meeting Vanessa

  “LET ME GO, YOU SICK FUCK!”

  I open my eyes and wait for my vision to focus on what’s in front of me: my computer screen. The last thing I remember last night as finishing my jobs and coming online to check everything was set up correctly with regards to my finances and bill payments. I don’t remember dozing off and, yet, that’s exactly what I must have done. I wipe the yellow crust from my eyes and sit up in my leather chair. A little puddle of my saliva has spread on the desk, where I had been resting my head. My cheek still feels wet from sitting in it, oblivious. I have a nasty tendency to dribble in my sleep, which I find most embarrassing.

  “HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE?”

  I don’t know how long she has been awake for, let alone screaming at the top of her voice. It must be a while as she’s starting to sound a little croaky in the throat. She’ll have to scream a little while longer. The late night activities I had to finish last night have taken their toll on the clothes that I am wearing. Dry cement is stuck to the fabrics and my hands are coated in a white powder. Running my hands through my long, dark hair I can feel that I have ‘bedhead’. She can’t see me like this. I need to smarten myself.

  “LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

  She’s on the second monitor to the left of the computer screen, wide-awake and struggling pathetically against the cuffs that hold her in place. I have time to wash, if that’s the best that she can do – she’s not going anywhere.

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?”

  Locking the computer room behind me, I head off down the landing towards the main bedroom – trying to be extra quiet so as not to give her any clues that I am only a few feet away. I don’t want to talk to her until I have made myself look better. First impressions, I find, are very important. Although, technically, this won’t be her ‘first impression’ of me, it will be the first day of the rest of our lives together so I’m sure looking good is just as important as when we first met in the bank. On that occasion I have gone in wearing a black suit with a pink shirt.

  I’m comfortable with my sexuality so I can get away with wearing pink. Most men can’t pull it off. I’m not like most men.

  “HELLO? ANYONE?”

  The main bedroom has been divided into a side for her things and a side for mine. Currently there are few things on her side as they are all in the spare room. When we both feel the connection we’ll spend a day, together, moving her things into the main room – a very important step in our blossoming relationship. I long for that day and all that it brings.

  “SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!” I hope her voice gives in soon.

  I kick my trousers off and into the corner of the room, where there is small wash bin, and fling my shirt over soon after. Standing in my blank boxers I walk over to my cupboard and open it up to reveal identical clothes all hanging in a row.

  I’ve never been one for shopping and different styles so I’ve always found myself to be a bulk buyer. Having nothing but the same clothes certainly saves time in the morning too. Where some people are stuck for ‘what to wear’, I simply grab any of the clothes from my cupboard. The trousers are to the left and the shirts are hanging to the right. Some people might say they’d get bored wearing the same thing on a daily basis but I get bored with the idea of having to wear different things on a daily basis. I like my black shirts and black trousers. On formal occasions you can tuck the shirt in and on casual occasions you simply un-tuck it. Black suits all occasions.

  After I’ve pulled on a new pair of trousers and buttoned up a new black shirt, I walk over to the bedside cabinet on my side and open the drawer to find a new pack of wet-wipes. A quick rub down, over my hands, soon dispenses of the cement mix from the previous night. The used wet-wipe, I simply put in my pocket as I reach back into the drawer to pull out a hairbrush.

  Always a parting to the side, it makes me look like Clark Kent if he were to have slightly longer hair.

  Nailed to the wall, by the bedroom door, is a full-length mirror. I check my reflection and agree with myself that I am ready to see her again. Perhaps I should undo the restraints and leave her in the room for five minutes, so she too can get herself prepared for me? Nah. Forget that. I’m too impatient. I can’t wait for this.

  “PLEASE! IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE?”

  “I’m coming.” I call out to her; let her know that I’m here and coming for her. Coming for the love of my life. This is going to be another one of those Kodak moments.

  “WHO ARE YOU? WANT DO YOU WANT?”

  If she’d just wait a few more minutes, we’d be in the same room and she wouldn’t have to shout – but that’s a woman for you. No patience.

  “FUCK OFF! GET AWAY FROM ME!”

  She’s shouting at me through the door whilst I turn the key in the keyhole, to unlock it and gain entrance. ‘Fuck off’, she shouts and yet, a minute ago, she wanted me to go to her. I open the door anyway and stand there for a moment, looking at her as she looks back to me, still struggling in her restraints. It’s the first time this morning that she’s remained silent, obviously unsure of what I am going to do. I don’t want to ‘do’ anything other than get to know her and love her but she doesn’t know this yet.

  I break the silence, “Hi.”

  “Please let me go.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “From the bank,” she replies.

  I walk over to her and she backs away as far as the restraints allow her to. Why does she think I’m going to hurt her?

  “Does your head hurt?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  She looks scared and tired.

  She has black bags under her eyes, heavier than the previous night, and red eyes from when she must have been crying this morning. I kneel on the floor and reach under the bed. She tries to pull away from me again and, again, she is stopped from getting further away by the restraints.

  “Stop struggling. You’ll make your wrists sore.” I plead.

  My pleas fall on deaf ears and she continues to struggle. I pull a small box from under the bed and put it on the mattress next to her. Opening it reveals a needle, some small vials of morphine and some tablets – all of which I have used, before now, to knock her out.

  “These are what I’ve been using to keep you sedated...” I explain.

  “Please, just let me go...”

  I ignore her, “This one is just for your headache and any other minor pains you may have.” I pull out another box, from under the bed, that holds a box of painkillers. “Here...” I open the packaging and hold a pill to her mouth. She simply pulls away.

  “Just take it, it’ll help your headache. Whilst it’s working I’ll go downstairs and prepare you some breakfast. Whatever you want.”

  “I don’t want any more pills.”

  Fair enough. I don’t want to force her. If she wants to live with the headache, it’s her choice.

  “If you change your mind, you can just call down to me and I’ll come right back up.” I explain. “What would you like to eat for breakfast? You must be starving!”

  “I want to go home.”

  “You are home.”

  “This isn’t my home.”

  “No it’s not. It’s our home.”

  “Please...”

  I didn’t expect it to go this way. I thought, after agreeing that she could fall in love with me if we were the last two people, she’d be happy to see me. If anything, she seems scared of me.

  “You have to eat. You haven’t eaten for a couple of days now, you must get your energy levels up.” I continued despite her asking to go to her old home. There was no chance I was letting her go now. The wheels were set into motion last night, when she said that she could fall in love with me. If it were a lie, then it will make the coming days.... Interesting. “What do you fancy eating?” I ask again.

  She’s crying now, “I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.” The record has broken again.

  “You are hungry. You must eat. If
you don’t choose something, I’ll choose it for you. I want your first meal to be special. Our first breakfast together.”

  “I don’t even know you, please, just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone.”

  I’m getting angrier now. This isn’t going right at all. “You are home.” I said. Great, now I’m starting to sound like the broken record. “You will know me, in time. In time you could love me. You said that yourself yesterday.” I carried on.

  “I didn’t want to make you angry. You said I could go home if I answered the question,” she explained.

  “You said ‘yes’. By saying ‘yes’ you made this home your new home.”

  I don’t believe this. The others just said ‘no’ when I asked the question so I let them go. Admittedly I didn’t let them go in the way they thought I meant, but I did let them out of the house – and into the garage. Well, this woman doesn’t have a choice now. She’s stuck with me. She said ‘yes’ and that’s that. There is no way back now. Not for either of us. Even if I there was a way back, I wouldn’t want to take it – I’ve grown to like her already. I just hope that, in time, she’ll get to like me too. Eventually love me.

  “I’ll get you your breakfast,” I said. Even if she didn’t want the food, I couldn’t carry on with this conversation now. I’ll give her time to think things through whilst I get her some cornflakes. Maybe, by the time I get back upstairs, she’d see things differently. If not, I could always drug her and try again tomorrow.

  “Wait, where are you going? Please, just let me go!” she screamed after me as I left the room again. I didn’t close the door behind me. There was no need to – she was still bound to the bed.

  The door to the kitchen only just opened without hitting any food. I had divided the room into different food groups. There were vegetables, different kinds of meat (and the human variety in the garage that will do when we are desperate) and fruits from all over the world. Well, I say the fruits are from all over the world but, in actual fact, they are from ASDA. I just meant that’d you normally find them in different parts of the world. There was also a section of the room dedicated to sweet things, my personal favourite part of the room.

  I meant for us to share a special breakfast today but, as she’s not in the mood, I just poured a bowl of cornflakes out for her. I didn’t even use the special brand – I stuck to the supermarket’s own. She hasn’t earnt the named brand yet. Whatever she doesn’t eat, I’ll just pour back into the carton later. Waste not – want not.

  I put the plastic bowl of cornflakes onto a tray, ready to take upstairs. I’m not putting milk on them. She’s not going to eat it so there’s no point. I’ll just pour a little water on top of them to help make them soggy, if she chooses to eat them. If.

  I wanted a special meal for us today and she fucked that but in one area, I wasn’t about to compromise. For the first few days, I had some fresh flowers prepared and, with each meal, I’d place a single flower on the tray. I placed the first red rose on the tray, alongside the cornflake and a paper cup of water. Breakfast was ready.

  False Start

  “LET ME OUT, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!”

  I have to confess, it wasn’t the welcome I was hoping for as I returned to the spare room, carrying her breakfast. I smiled at her anyway.

  “I hope cornflakes are okay,” I said, “if you want something else though, just let me know and I’ll get it for you.”

  A generous offer, I thought.

  “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT! I WANT YOU TO LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she screamed.

  Why do women always have to scream to get their point across? It’s not as though shouting makes something correct.

  I sat on the bed, next to where she lay.

  “If I free one of your wrists, are you going to be a good girl?” I asked.

  My answer was a small dollop of spit directly in the face. It hit me above my top lip, under my nostril. Morning breath. I’ll have to get her some toothpaste soon to fix that. There’s no way I want to be kissing her with breath like that.

  “LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

  I felt myself fill with rage. On one hand I had to commend her as the distance she achieved, with her venom, was impressive but, on the other hand, it wasn’t ladylike. I didn’t want my partner to behave like this.

  “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she screamed again, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

  I looked her in the eyes. She spat at me; this little cunt, the love of my fucking life, spat at me. Without a second thought I returned the compliment and spat on her right cheek where, on impact, it began trickling down her skin towards the flimsy pillow.

  “I think it’s time you and I had a little fucking chat, honey.” I said.

  I need to calm down. I can feel the anger inside of me starting to bubble to the surface.

  She’d pushed me too far.

  I don’t like myself when I get like this, and yet, I can’t help it.

  I wasn’t planning to have this chat until I had got to know her a little better as, this chat; it wasn’t the best of icebreakers. The anger spilling over my usual, calm persona dictated to me that I had to have the chat now.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just scared, and I’ll do what you want.”

  Can she see the anger in my eyes or is she just saying what she thinks I want to hear? Who knows? I can’t be sure so I spit in her face again, another small puddle of saliva to add to the other one that still sticks to her cheek. She starts crying harder than she’s cried before and tries to move her head to the side to wipe the spit on the pillow but can’t quite get the angle.

  “Please....”

  I spit again. This time it lands on the other cheek. I have her attention now.

  “Listen to me and listen carefully.” I said. I must calm down. I can’t. “Last night you said you could love me given time...”

  “I’m sorry,” she tried interrupting me again.

  I spit again, another patch of spit, this time on her forehead. She’s looking pretty stupid now. She drops her sentence and continues to cry.

  “You said you could love me. If you couldn’t love me in time, you should have said and we wouldn’t be in this position. You wouldn’t be here. But you lied to me. You fucking lied to me. You caused us to be in this awkward situation and there’s no turning back now...”

  She looks as though she is about to say something. I flex my mouth muscles and produce more saliva – ready to cut her off mid-sentence again. She doesn’t speak.

  “This is your home now, with me. There is no leaving. Do you understand me?” I think I’m making enough sense and speaking the Queen’s proper English. If she doesn’t understand, she’s a retard.

  “Yes.”

  “If you have any questions, now is the time to get them in the open.”

  “When can I go home?”

  I sigh.

  She doesn’t understand. More spit might help. My mouth feels dry now but I manage to produce another small load for her.

  “THIS IS YOUR HOME!” It’s rare for me to shout. I don’t like it when anyone shouts, even me. I like everything to be calm and quiet. Even background noise, no matter how slight, annoys me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again.

  “Is there anything else?” I ask, hoping that the answer is ‘no’.

  “If this is my home, why do I have to be kept tied to a bed?”

  Ah-ha. A sensible question! I won’t spit at her. “There’s rules to living with me. All the time there is no trust, or connection, you still stay in this room. As the trust and bond grows between us I will slowly let you out of your restraints, one pair at a time, until you are free to go about the house, by yourself. When you start loving me, as much as I love you – we’ll move your belongings into the main bedroom with mine and we’ll start sharing a bed. Once we get through this initial rough patch, I’m sure you’ll see that I’ve tried to do the best for you.”

  “What about my parents? They’ll be wondering where I am. They�
��ll look for me.”

  “There is no one else, it’s just you and me. No outside influences to ruin our love for one another.”

  “But I miss them.”

  “In time, you won’t. You have me to look after you.”

  I can feel myself calming down now and reach for a wet-wipe to clean her face. She doesn’t say anything but, by the look in her eyes, I can tell she’s grateful. Perhaps I should apologise?