Held (8 page)

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Angie Shaw
The main thing is not to forget about her! I’m so glad she’s still in the news—though some of those tabloids, have you seen them??? There is NO WAY they can know that Chloe’s been tortured or anything else!! She sounded okay in her letter, I think she’s okay. I notice my art has changed completely btw, in Greece it was all stone and sand and light and now there’s this wild, slashing thing going on. Don’t worry it’s just on canvas! I love you all, your support is so amazing. We’ll have a huge party when she gets back—it will happen. How about this for our slogan—“Chloe Come Home”? I’ll post it on the Free Chloe Campaign site and ask for votes. What do you think?

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CHAPTER 8

I didn’t fall asleep right away. I wondered whether he was lying about everything. I thought about his expressionless face, his cool and casual voice. His impassivity was not entirely reassuring: he didn’t give anything away. He may have been putting on an act for me, pretending to be considerate and concerned.
Sorry for the inconvenience
! Yes, sorry for terrorizing you and your family and friends. Sorry for locking you up. Sorry for threatening to kill you and making you think you were a sex slave. Sorry.

Could I rely on the fact that he didn’t look or act like an insane criminal? People who seemed polite and harmless sometimes ended up being serial killers—and after all, he’d done all this. He’d put me here. Not only that: he’d done it in a very careful and calculated way. Every detail had been planned in advance. He was extremely intelligent, and that also meant that he could be an excellent liar.

I finally sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, and I woke up feeling a little better. I decided to make the best of the situation, find a way to make it bearable.

I turned on the boiler and had a shower. The hot water was soothing, and I even sang to myself—I was desperate for music.

After the shower I exercised. I revived some old gymnastics moves and then moved on to aerobics. I didn’t bother with karate.

I’d finished exercising and was trying to decide whether to have a second bowl of vanilla pudding when there was a loud pounding on the door.

I froze. The pounding scared me. It didn’t sound like the man from the day before. He wouldn’t pound on the door, he’d knock. Besides, he wasn’t due back until evening. There were a few more loud bangs and then I heard a terrifying male voice: “I am coming in. Put on your blindfold or I’ll shoot you.”

“Wait! Wait!” I called out. I was right, it had all been a lie. It had all been an act. How could I have let myself be taken in?

I looked around frantically for the blindfold. Then I remembered that I’d put it inside my knapsack. I emptied the knapsack on the bed and desperately rummaged through everything, but it wasn’t there. The hammering on the door continued, and my heart seemed to be hammering just as hard. I felt around inside the knapsack and to my relief I found the blindfold at the very bottom. Everything seemed to be taking ten times longer than it would normally and my fingers were so stiff I could barely make a knot. I wondered whether this was the end for me. Or worse.

“Okay!” I said as loudly as I could without sounding aggressive. I didn’t want to make the man angrier than he already was.

The door flew open and I heard someone charging into the warehouse. I could see his shoes through my blindfold—old, dirty sneakers with laces.

“American whore,” he said in a hollow, raspy voice that sounded as if he’d been up for several nights drinking, and was possibly still drunk, though I didn’t smell any alcohol. He had an accent, but it was different from the other man’s.

I knew at once that I was in trouble. I’d been right, they were terrorists. They hated me, and they were going to kill me, though maybe not right away. Maybe they would torture me first.

I began to sob hysterically, though I tried to control myself. I wanted to be in control so I could at least make an effort to overcome him. Should I rip off my blindfold and try my karate on him? Maybe he wasn’t as good at fighting as the other man.

But I was too frightened to do anything and a second later it was too late. My wrists were tied behind my back. “Please,” I said. “I haven’t done anything. I’m not even old enough to vote,” I added inanely, as if I could reason with him.

How to have fun with a hostage: Bring hostage to knees. Dunk her head in a pail of water until she’s convinced she’s drowning. Let up for air. Repeat as often as desired, until sadistic urges subside. Leave hostage lying on floor. Don’t forget to kick the pail, so the water spills everywhere.

I would like to forget what happened, or at least for the memory to fade, but instead I can recall every tiny detail in its exact sequence, as if my brain had turned into some kind of video recorder. The only thing I can’t know is how long he was there—was it ten minutes? Half an hour? An hour? Everything else, everything I thought and felt, is weirdly vivid. I remember the smell of the metal pail, the piercing pain of its rusty edges on my throat, my eyes burning under the soaking blindfold.

I was sure I was going to die. I wanted to talk, to answer the man’s hollow shouts and accusations, to explain things to him, but I couldn’t even breathe. It was as if ten different types of pain had invaded me. The worst was a blackout pain at the back of my eyes. I couldn’t help swallowing the dirty water, which tasted of some horrible cleanser, and I thought,
If I
don’t die of drowning I’ll die of poisoning
.

For some reason I remembered some TV show about sadistic parents who dunked their kid’s head in the sink as a punishment. And about how sadists justify themselves. How all sadists justify themselves in the same way. No matter what people do, no matter how horrible it is, they can invent a reason—or several reasons—to explain why it’s right and good to do what they did. I even had a flash of the five major justifications that had appeared on the screen in point form.
I had
no choice. They deserved it. Everyone does it. I’m a hero for doing
what I believe in.
I couldn’t remember the fifth one.

The man was weak. I could tell by the way he pushed me that he was physically weak, even frail. Had I not panicked, had I taken off my blindfold and rushed at him, I would have been able to knock him out, even if he had a weapon. I could have disarmed him if I’d acted fast. But by the time I realized he was weak, whether naturally or because he was drunk or on drugs, I was even weaker than him. Every bit of energy I had was concentrated on trying to breathe.

He had his fun and then he left. I was alive after all, but maybe that was only because he wasn’t through. Maybe he’d be back to finish the job later.

I lay on the wet floor, unable to move. I was coughing and gasping and my head felt as if it had smashed into a hard object. I lifted the wet blindfold from my eyes and tried to get up so I could shower, but the room began to spin and I passed out instead.

I don’t know how long I lay there. At some point I became aware of warm air in my mouth, and I began to cough.

I was wrapped in the army blanket and my feet were raised on a pillow. The man from the day before was blowing air into my lungs.

I watched myself from a great distance. I felt completely detached, as if nothing could possibly affect me.

I became aware that my fingers were frozen stiff. I couldn’t move them at all. But it didn’t worry me. Nothing did.

“I’m hot,” I said, trying to pull away from the blanket.

“It’s better if you stay warm.”

“I’m too hot.”

He loosened the blanket. “Do you think you can drink some water?”

“I can’t move my hands.”

“I’ll hold the bottle for you.” He held my head up slightly with one hand and with the other he brought the water bottle to my mouth. Then he held my wrist and checked my pulse.

“I want to go home,” I said. “I want my mom. Mommy, Mommy.” I knew I sounded like a small child but that was exactly how I felt—small and helpless.

“It’s not a good idea to move. You’ll pass out again.” I saw now that he was furious. I felt it in his body and I heard it in his voice, though he was trying to conceal it.

I became aware of an unpleasant smell and I realized, to my horror, that the smell was coming from me. I’d wet my pants.

“I have to wash. I have to wash,” I said. Hearing the frantic pitch of my own voice made me realize that I was on the brink of hysteria.

“Please try to relax. It would be better to wait.”

“No, I need to wash,” I insisted. “I need to wash now.”

“I can do it for you if you allow me.”

Allow
—as if I had a choice. But I only nodded. It was too much effort to speak.

He wet a towel and wiped my face. Then, without warning, I threw up on everything—the floor, his arm, the blanket. I had just enough time to twist sideways. It was beyond horrible.

“It’s okay,” he said. He was very upset. He placed his hand on my forehead, as if checking for fever. It felt so good, having that reassurance, and he must have sensed how consoling it was for me because he left his hand there longer than he needed to. Almost instinctively he drew my hair back and I felt he wanted to stroke my hair to soothe me, but he stopped himself.

I shut my eyes as he cleaned the mess. I didn’t care at all about being exposed in front of him. I was in too much pain to care, and too detached. If anything, I hoped he was disgusted. I hoped he was sickened and disgusted and embarrassed.

But probably neither of us cared. There were new rules in place now.

My throat was burning, and I remembered that I’d swallowed cleanser. “I’ve been poisoned, I’ve been poisoned!” I began to scream.

“Please try to calm down.”

“There was cleanser in the water. In the pail. And I swallowed it.”

“It was only dishwashing soap in there, and I don’t think all that much. You’ll be okay.” I felt him trying to control his anger as he spoke. He wasn’t steady or calm now.

I wanted to believe him. I shut my eyes and moaned. “I can’t move my hands,” I said.

He began to massage my fingers. I felt a great wave of misery coming over him, replacing the anger.

The massage worked. One by one, my fingers relaxed. “I’m ready for bed now,” I muttered. “I need to get these jeans off.” I began to pull at the jeans, but they clung to my legs. “Help me, please,” I said. I pushed my jeans and panties off under the blanket while he pulled at the legs. “Okay, I’m ready for bed,” I told him.

“I’ll carry you,” he said.

The blanket fell off as he lifted me. I didn’t care. I was very dizzy and I held on to him. I felt his rage returning as he carried me to the mattress.

I must have passed out again. When I woke up my head was throbbing.

“Bathroom,” I groaned.

“I’ll give you a hand. Maybe you’d like to put on the skirt while your jeans dry?”

I shook my head. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the energy. He wrapped the sheet around me, helped me to the bathroom and left me there. My stomach was grinding away; I had cramps, nausea—I was a mess. I noticed my jeans hanging on the shower rod.

When I was back in bed, he said, “You need to keep drinking. Can you manage some more water?”

I shut my eyes and saw myself hurtling through a tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel was the brutal man, waiting for me.

“My head hurts,” I moaned.

“Did you hit your head against something?”

“Yes, against the heart of darkness, ha ha.”

He took my wrist and felt my pulse again. He said, “You’re better now. Your color is returning, your pulse rate is almost normal. You’re over the worst, I think. Can you drink a little?”

“My throat hurts.”

He looked straight at me and said, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. It will never happen again.”

A strange thing happened then. I’d heard about people reliving experiences and I thought it meant that you recall the experience vividly. But it isn’t like that. It’s more like a waking dream. You think, feel, and react exactly as you did during the event, as if the event was actually recurring.

Without warning I sat up as if I’d been startled and began alternately shrieking and whimpering. I was sure I was going to die, I choked and retched and pleaded, I wasn’t in the present at all. Then it was over, and I was aware that my hostage-taker was kneeling behind me with his arms clasped around my waist.

“Do you want to lie down?” he asked, letting go of me.

“My throat hurts,” I said. I felt humiliated and ashamed, and I wanted to forget what had just happened.

“I’ll make tea.” He boiled water on the hot plate and made me sweet tea. I watched him without really understanding what he was doing.

“I don’t know what that was all about,” I mumbled when he handed me the mug. I didn’t mind that he’d seen me vomit, or that he’d had to wash my urine-soaked jeans, but I was embarrassed that I’d lost control in front of him.

“You’re very strong,” he replied. “Everyone reacts that way. You’re not an exception.”

How would you know?
I wanted to say. But I was too afraid of him
.
I could no longer trust him not to hurt me, even if he was being nice now. Who knew what he was capable of, what kind of double personality he had?