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“Home sweet home, darlin’,” he sniggers, dipping his knees and hauling me back over his shoulder.
Inside is cold, dark, and smells musty. He marches through the black space, and I feel my ass meet a cold hard surface when he places me down.
“Stay there,” he tells me, his body pulling away from me and leaving me in empty darkness.
My body shivers under the thin fabric I’m wearing, goosebumps pop under my skin as I anxiously await his next move. I can’t even judge what direction he'll be coming at me from.
I jump nervously when the room fills with light, and I realize that I’m sitting in a kitchen. The cold surface beneath me being a table in the center of it.
It’s not a very big space and needs some serious attention, it’s grubby and most of the cupboard doors are hanging from their hinges. I watch cautiously as the stranger who kidnapped me moves from the light switch by the door to the sink. He turns on the faucet and after a few sputtering sounds from the pipework, water eventually comes through.
“It’ll do.” He looks around and shrugs as if he’s actually impressed with this hovel, while I sit awkwardly with my legs hanging off the edge of the table, my arms aching behind my back.
“What are we doing here?” I ask him, trying not to sound as scared as I’m feeling. But he ignores me, busying himself by rooting through the cupboards and drawers. It’s when he reaches up to check inside the wall units that I notice the gun he’s got tucked in the back of his jeans, and I feel my heart beat a little faster.
“Why have you brought me here?” I rephrase my question. I remember watching a documentary with Dad once about kidnap victims. A survivor had said the best thing to do in a hostage situation is to try and build a relationship with your captor. Apparently, it helps them develop empathy.
Though, with this guy, I doubt I stand a chance of that.
Right now, I’m more concerned about the fact that he’s made no attempt to hide his face from me. Surely that isn’t a good sign.
“Please, just tell me why I’m here.” I sound scared, and as he starts making his way toward me, I make a mental note to get a handle of my emotions when talking to him. But fear stops me from thinking when his hand snatches at my cheeks, painfully squishing them between his thumb and tense fingers.
“Do I need to fuckin’ gag you too?” he threatens, and I close my eyes to avoid looking into his, shaking my head against his hold until he finally releases me.
Our attention is pulled in the same direction when we hear a rustling come from outside and when I turn my focus back on to him, his index finger presses over his lips, warning me to stay silent.
Slowly, he reaches behind his back, pulls out his gun, and creeps toward the back door. When there’s enough space between us, I finally suck in a breath, quickly flicking my eyes around the room and looking for something I can use to untie myself. We’re in a kitchen, surely there are knives in one of those drawers.
I manage to slide myself off the table, landing on my feet and making tiny shuffles toward the drawers that are all the way over the other side of the room.
“Come on.” This time when I hear his voice, his tone sounds different, almost welcoming. When he reappears and catches me in the middle of the floor, he gives me a harsh once over with that dark glare. He doesn’t say anything about the fact I’m up and on my feet, just keeps his disapproving eyes on me as he reaches past me to open one of the cupboards and pull out a porcelain bowl.
He fills it with water, then with another cold stare in my direction, he places it on the floor beside the open back door.
“Come on,” he taps the side of his leg, and crouches to the ground, totally distracting me from the escape I’m trying to plot. He reaches out his hand cautiously and after a little more coaxing, a wet snout appears from behind the door and touches his fingertips.
“That’s it, come on,” his voice remains deep and gravelly, even through a whisper, as a furry head timidly pokes its head around the door, and edges closer to the bowl of water.
It’s a dog, one that’s fairly large in frame, his fur is scraggy and unkept, and I can see from how he tapers in at the waist that he hasn’t had a decent meal in a long time.
“Good boy.” My kidnapper ruffles his hand through the mutt’s fur when he dips his head and starts lapping from the bowl. And satisfied that the dog’s drinking, he stands back up and makes his way toward me.
“Going somewhere?” he asks, tipping his head to one side and licking that bottom lip again. Why am I wondering what it tastes like? Of all the fucked up things to think about right now. Why is that important?
“I need the bathroom,” I lie.
His eyes gesture to the opposite side of the room where the door is and I make a cute, awkward laugh which I hope will make him less angry at me. It seems to work on everyone else.
His face remains stern, not giving me any form of reaction, and I’m surprised when he drops down to his knees in front of me. Those dark eyes looking up and warning me not to do anything stupid as he loosens the knots around my ankles.
With the loose rope gathered in his fist, he stands up, takes me by the elbow, and roughly spins me around. His hips push hard into mine as he forces me toward the door to the hall.
“Then we better find you the little girls’ room,” he speaks harshly against my cheek, as he drives me forward.
“Stay,” he calls a command back to the dog, and when I look over my shoulder, I see the matted furry creature sitting on his bottom obediently.
“Does everyone always do as you say?” I ask as he forces me to walk on.
