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Instead of taking me to the passenger side like I expect, he stops on the driver’s side and opens the door. He sits down inside the car, lowering the window, and closes the door without releasing my arm, our hands tucked neatly inside. I’m too scared to ask what’s happening or try to fight.
A dull throb in my knee is past the point of being able to ignore it, even through my adrenaline, and I realize when he kicked me earlier, it did something. I can feel it swelling already.
He starts the car, and suddenly, I understand.
“No, Chris, please don’t—”
As if egged on by my pleas, he hits the gas. My arm is jerked forward, the rest of my body following suit as I’m forced to run to keep up. He doesn’t go so fast it’s impossible to stay with him, or that I’m dragging on the ground, but fast enough my lungs and legs burn for relief. Fast enough I know, if I fall, I will be killed in an instant.
The driveway seems longer than ever as he speeds forward, jerking and stopping for periods long enough to give me false hope this torture is ending, but not long enough to allow me to catch my breath. It’s obvious he’s enjoying tormenting me every painful step of the way.
I think through my options as much as possible while pure panic supersedes all other thoughts. I could try to bite his hand, but our hands are inside the car. If I attempt to, I might trip myself or risk causing him to wreck. Jerking my hand away isn’t enough. He’s just holding me tighter each time I try.
With each step, a bolt of lightning shoots through my knee. Something is very wrong, and I fear it’s going to give out at any second.
Think, Mari.
Think.
I want to give up, to just drop to the ground, to stop trying, but I fear what would happen. I fear I’d end up under the tires, that he’d run me over and still drag me back to the house and somehow nurse me back to health. That I’d become some Frankenstein-esque monster, pieced together, missing more limbs than I have, scars and fresh wounds covering every inch of my skin, and forever locked in a basement, relying on this man to keep me alive and functioning. Relying on him for everything. Then there’d be no chance of escaping. Ever.
Maybe that’s what he wants.
How did this happen? How did we end up here?
Minutes ago, I’d been moments away from freedom. Now, I’m back in his clutches and certain this torture will feel like child’s play compared to whatever’s coming next.
We don’t stop until we reach the house, where he parks, and I double over, panting. My lungs and muscles throb and tremble from exhaustion. Spots fill my vision, and I can feel blood trickling down my side from the wound on my stomach.
I should say I’m sorry. Maybe that would help. But if I speak, if I use my mouth to do anything except breathe, I’m afraid I’ll vomit.
He takes hold of my arm and leads me inside without a word, but to my surprise, it’s not the lower level of the house I’m taken to. We walk over the devastation of his tirade from earlier, the shattered dishes and scattered silverware. The chairs he knocked over—two of them broken. The food, which he tossed from the pantry, the fridge, and the counters. Everywhere I look, splattered remnants of food clings to the walls, ceiling, and floor. In the living room, there are shattered picture frames and shards of glass littering the carpet, and the couch and lamp are still overturned.
He pushes me forward, not giving me time to take it all in, and before I realize what’s happening, we’re in the tiny bathroom next to his bedroom.
“What are you doing?” I ask finally, finding my voice.
“Take off your clothes.”
When I turn to look at him, his arms are folded across his chest. “What?”
“Do it, or I’ll do it for you.” His eyes flick down to my chest.
“Why?”
In answer, he glances at the shower.
“I need privacy.”
He shakes his head. “You lost the right to that. You’ve lost all your rights, Mari. I’m not going to be so nice anymore. Now, take off your clothes and get in the shower. I won’t ask again.”
I want to tell him he hasn’t asked at all, but I can see in his eyes this isn’t the time to press my luck. Turning my back to him, I grab hold of the bottom of my shirt. The fabric clings to my bloody bandage as I pull it over my head. Next, I step out of the sweatpants Chris gave me several days ago, feeling totally exposed. I pull off the bandage on my stomach, wincing as the adhesive is ripped from my sore, sensitive skin. Then I bend and pull the bandage from my leg as well. I toss the bloody gauze onto the floor, wondering vaguely what he’ll do with those.
Another thing for the blog I imagine he has?
Something to sell? Something to attempt to clone me?
Honestly, nothing feels too far-fetched at the moment.
