Page 1 of Give Me Peace

Prologue

Saylor

I’ve come to learn that our hardest and happiest moments happen within the span of a few seconds. Whether it’s good news or a brash decision that holds life-altering consequences, we rarely see it coming. But it’s the tough ones that stand out the most. They make an impact. There’s no time to brace or prepare yourself—mentally or physically. It just happens. All you can do is pick up the pieces and move forward as best you can.

Twice now, I’ve been blissfully unaware of that impending transition from happy to not.

I was ten the first time. Mom and I had gone to church that morning, something we didn’t get to do very often because of her hectic work schedule. After that, we stopped by the local mall for some food court pizza, browsed a few stores, then headed home. It’d been a perfectly normal day, but on the drive back, Mom switched lanes to pass a bus. That was it—our moment. A simple act that held no pretense of danger until it did.

Unbeknownst to either of us, a car had stalled in the middle of the road while attempting to make a left-hand turn. The blind spot the bus created prevented us from seeing it until it was too late. We smacked the back of their Buick and bounced across the median, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic, before the blunt force of a tree brought us to a stop. Our final destination? The front lawn of the DMV.

Oh, the irony.

I’d been so shocked, the first thing I did was spin around and look back at the place we’d just been chugging along, our car intact and the day unruined. I was convinced I’d hallucinated the whole thing, despite the pungent scent of deployed airbags or the seatbelt burn stinging my chest. But there it was—the scene of our accident unmissable. The other sedan was completely spun around, facing the opposite direction, and produce littered the road. For weeks, remnants of bright colored fruits and vegetables could be seen every time we drove by.

We’d gotten lucky. Our injuries were superficial, but being a nurse, Mom insisted we get checked out, regardless. Aside from a sore foot, she was fine. While scrambling to hit the brake, she somehow tore straight the side of her strappy new high heel. As for me, I had some aches and bruises, but nothing that warranted further treatment. The passengers in the other car were relatively unscathed, as well. All thing’s considered—it could’ve been a lot worse.

The next day, we stopped by the junkyard to assess the damage. Mom’s Camry was totaled—a complete loss we couldn’t afford to eat being a one-income household. I could see the worry in her eyes as we gathered our personal belongings, and I wished more than anything I could go back in time and prevent the wreck from ever happening. A few extra seconds at the mall would’ve made all the difference, but what’s done is done. Sadly, no one has figured out how to rewrite history yet.

We struggled to make ends meet for a while, but Mom never let on how dire our situation was. She didn’t have to, though. I was a curious and perceptive kid; I could tell we were stretching pennies. Ramen noodles made a frequent appearance in our dinner rotation, but things slowly got back to normal. Her shifts at the hospital lessened once the overtime wasn’t needed, and life went on.

Four years later, on May 23rd, 2017, it happened again. I’ve replayed that day a thousand times trying to make sense of it, but I doubt I ever will. I’d been walking home, frustrated and embarrassed, when that bright red pickup slowed beside me. I didn’t question the offered ride, not when the person driving was as familiar to me as my own name. They’d been a staple in my life for as long as I could remember. I was hot and the sour mood I’d been in only made it worse, so I graciously agreed.

But for some reason, when I slid across that torn bench seat and pulled the door closed, a niggle of unease brushed against my senses. I turned to look back at the patch of sidewalk I’d just been standing on, that same disembodied incredulity I’d felt the day of the wreck making my brows scrunch in confusion. Nothing about the two situations were remotely similar, but maybe I knew I’d think back to that moment, rack my brain endlessly for an explanation. Why someone I’ve known and trusted for years would do what they’d come to do.

Steal me.

Lock me away.

Hurtme.

Or perhaps, some sense of foreshadowing took place, and deep down I knew the girl I once was ceased to exist the second I accepted that ride. I grew more wary with every mile, and despite knowing something wasn’t right, I kept quiet. That sixth sense everyone talks about tried to warn me, but I stupidly ignored it. I brushed it off as paranoia, convinced there was a reasonable answer for all the questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

Like why we passed my street.

Denial held me tightly in its clutches. I was mute and immobile, too scared to speak up while hoping this would all be chalked up as an overreaction later on. I never reached for the door handle or tried to make a run for it, but maybe if I would’ve listened to that intuition a little sooner, I might have had a chance. I realize now any attempt to get away would have been futile. I’m certain he had backup measures in place should I have tried anything, but I regret not fighting back. At least if I had, I wouldn’t feel culpable in my own kidnapping.

I tend to bite my tongue, choosing silence over the possibility of ruffling any feathers. Mom says I’m a peacekeeper, constantly downplaying my own feelings in place of everyone else’s. Truthfully, I just hate confrontation. And what could possibly be more confrontational than accusing someone of something, especially if you aren’t certain of the circumstances? It’s a flaw of mine—likely fatal—but the needle he jammed in my thigh effectively wiped away any naivety I had left about his motives.

When I finally woke, I was in a dimly lit room that looked on the verge of collapse. My eyes were so heavy, it took me longer than it should have to fully take in my new surroundings. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering in and out, the faint hum of electricity agitating my tender brain. The air was stale and cold, giving everything a damp feel, and the twin bed I was lying on had definitely seen better days. But the rusted sink and lone toilet situated in the corner had my heart racing. Something about those two in particular made the panic I’d been purposefully avoiding surge to the forefront.

I stumbled to my feet, my eyes bouncing from one thing to the next. A worn built-in bookcase was stacked with a few bottles of water, some off-brand protein bars, crossword puzzles and VHS tapes. A couple changes of clothes were folded at the bottom of the bed. Hygiene items—a toothbrush, toothpaste, and an old bar of soap—were placed on the edge of the sink. Lastly, a box TV was mounted in the corner, like you’d see in a classroom. The combination of those things, of what they meant, made me so lightheaded I had to brace my hand on the wall to keep from falling over.

He's had this planned for a while. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. Based on his level of preparedness, taking me was a well-thought-out process. This room has everything needed to keep me contained.

I’ve never been outspoken. Just the thought of causing a scene or being an inconvenience makes me anxious. I was taught ‘you catch more flies with honey’ and I’ve made it a point to apply that to my everyday life. I’m nice to everyone, even when they aren’t nice to me. The whole reason I’d been walking home that day instead of riding the bus was because I had, once again, tried to be friendly with the boy who’d bullied me since grade school.

And look where it got me.

As my new reality set in, politeness went out the window. I screamed for help, banged my fists against the steel door barring my freedom. But it never budged and my pleas fell on deaf ears. The rest of the room might have been in shambles, but it was obvious my only means of escape was a recent edition. A definite upgrade from the original. All I’d managed to do was bruise my hands and drain what little bit of energy I had left. Eventually, the adrenaline faded, leaving my throat raw and body trembling as I huddled in the corner of the bed and silently cried myself to sleep.

The sound of the lock disengaging sometime later made my eyes snap open. By the time he cleared the door, I was already begging. Tears fell once again, or maybe they never stopped. I pleaded with the man that coached my t-ball games and hosted the annual Easter egg hunt. The pillar of our community who’d genuinely infused trust in me and everyone else in Pike’s Bay. And like the flip of a switch, I watched someone I didn’t recognize in the slightest emerge from those cold, black eyes of his.

I didn’t know that person. He might share a face with someone I thought I knew, but I couldn’t rationalize the two of them being one and the same. His massive hand snapped out and gripped my hair firmly, yanking me forward without an ounce of care. My sobs grew louder as he used his free hand to pry the built-in bookshelf from the wall. A second later, an even worse sight than my current predicament greeted me.

It was black, so dark I couldn’t see an inch in front of me. The lack of sight made me even more frantic. Given the option, I’d rather know what was coming so I could prepare, even if I couldn’t prevent it from happening, than be kept in a heightened state of suspense. I was shoved inside the hidden space, my knees slamming against the raw dirt roughly. Instinctively, I searched the ground for something—anything—to use as a weapon while crawling as quickly as possible away from the man behind me.

A clicking sound caused me to freeze. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my eyes to adjust. In the next breath, a light was turned on, the sudden change in brightness causing me to wince. A lone beam shone on a threadbare mattress a couple feet in front of me. It was stained and frayed, a few springs poking through here and there. To the left of the light, a flashing red dot drew my attention. The pieces began to click, the image they formed making me fight for air.