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PART TWO
Christmas Past
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
—Robert Frost,“
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
11
Four Days Before Christmas
I’m screamed out and a numbness has settled over me.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. I stare at the beam of light that comes in from somewhere near the ceiling of this place. It’s a thin line of gray that brightens then fades to darkness over time. Is it a window where the light shines in? This has happened twice. Does this mean I’ve been here two days? More?
My body aches; my wrists and ankles burn and bleed in the bindings. I can’t feel my fingers or my toes. I have no more tears. No more screams.
Twice I’ve heard steps above me, creaking the floorboards. I used all my screams and tears then. My throat is raw from it.
How long?
The line of light is growing dark.
Will I die here? Will no one ever come?
All I can do is lie here and go over all the mistakes I have made that led me here. One by one. Sometimes I doze off. I dream I am home with my mom and I lie on my bed with her the way we used to. She would play with my hair or rub my shoulders and we would talk about my day. She loves me. In my dream I tell her that someone tied me up and put me in a basement. And she says not to worry that everything will work out for the best, it always does. But then I was awake again—so cold, hungry, afraid.
Or maybe this is the dream and I’m home in my own bed, safe.
I remember him. He had kind eyes, a soft voice. His kiss, it was so sweet, respectful. It wasn’t him. He didn’t do this. Did he?
There. The sound of an engine off in the distance, and all my nerve endings come alive. I am awake and this is real.
The sound of the engine grows louder, then comes to a stop. I hear the sound of a car door open and close.
I find my voice, even if it is ragged:Help me! Help. I’m tied up in this basement. Pleasepleaseplease.
I don’t even recognize the sound of myself. I am an animal in a trap. I get it now. I’d happily chew off my own arm just to be free of where I am, of whoever is coming for me.
Upstairs a door creaks open and closes hard. My scream dies in my throat, fear a vibration pulsing through every nerve ending. I try to get myself to sitting.
You are strong. You are powerful. You are no one’s victim. That was the mantra my self-defense teacher gave us. For all the good it did. I repeat it now. Over and over.
The footfalls, slow and measured, heavy, travel across the ceiling over my head. Then they come to a stop. I hold my breath. Waiting.
I am not here.
This is not happening.
I am only pain and fear, frozen, bound in my corner.
