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“Of course I can,” I tell him. “What do you need? I heard you crying, Daddy. What's wrong?”
“Your mother is sleeping, and I think she needs you to help wake her up.”
“Of course, Daddy.”
His hands are shaking, his eyes bloodshot as he unlocks the chain that is tethered to a bolt in the center of the room.
He's the one whom always leads me from this room.
I go out once or twice a day, usually outside for a walk or to work in the garden.
He always tells me it's for my own good when he holds a gun close to my back or
has me chained up at my ankles, while I plant seeds or dig up carrots, so I can't run away.
But now he is distraught, confused, agitated. All these things will work in my favor.
He leads me with the chain like a leash. He guides me down the hall to his bedroom.
Of course, I want to leap at him right now. But he's not that stupid.
He's pulled a small revolver from his pocket.
“You're scaring me with the gun,” I tell him, pretending to be his child.
“I know,” he says, “I don't want to scare you. I just want you to be safe. In case an intruder comes. That's why I have the gun out.”
“Thank you for protecting me, Daddy,” I say, pretending to agree with him.
But we both know the truth. We can only lie to ourselves for so long.
In the bedroom, I cover my face. The shock of the situation stuns me. Marjorie has died. In this bed… and Horace doesn’t know how to continue without her.
I look over at Horace. He is shaking again. Weak, tears in his eyes. He loved this woman. Their depravity made them perfect for one another.
But I'm not weak right now. I'm not shaking. I'm not crying.
In fact, I'm stronger than ever.
And that fantasy of mine, the one that I've been clinging to for the last four years since they took me hostage? Well, it's no longer such a daydream.
I'm done living in their fantasy.
Horace must notice the look in my eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, child,” he says, lunging at me with the gun in his hand. He points it at me, as if to shoot.
“She’s breathing,” I say, lying to him to catch him off guard.
I barrel toward Horace and knock the gun out of his hand.
He doesn't even realize what's happening until it's too late.
He dives for me, but I have the gun now. He wrestles on top of me, his hands surprisingly strong as he attempts to choke me, to stop me. Tears fill my eyes, my kidnapper now my murderer.
I won’t let this be how my story ends.
I swallow, for a moment scared to shoot him.
I’m sunshine. I want to be light.
