Still Missing (3 page)

"I'm sure you're a really nice guy, but I already have a boyfriend. I'm sorry if I unintentionally did something that confused you, but I don't feel the same way you do. Maybe we can be friends--"

He smiled kindly at me. "You're making me repeat myself here. I'm not confused. I know women like you don't get romantic feelings for men like me--women like you don't even see me."

"I see you, I just think you deserve someone who--"

"Someone who what? Is willing to settle? Maybe a tubby librarian? That's the best I can expect, right?"

"That's
not
what I meant. I'm sure you have lots to offer--"

"I'm not the problem. Women like to say they want someone who's always there for them--a lover, a friend, an equal. But once they have it, they'll throw it all away for the first man who treats them like a piece of garbage, and no matter what he does to them, they'll just keep coming back for more."

"Some women are like that, but lots aren't. My boyfriend is my equal and I love him."

"Luke?" His eyebrows shot up. "You think
Luke
is your equal?" He gave a small laugh and shook his head. "He would have been disposed of as soon as a real man came along. You were already growing bored."

"How do you know Luke's name? And why are you using past tense? Did you do something to him?"

"Luke's fine. What he's going through now is nothing compared to what you'd have put him through. You didn't respect him. Not that I blame you--you could have done so much better." He laughed. "Oh, wait, you just did."

"Well, I respect you, because I know you're a special guy who doesn't really want to do this, and if you just let me go, we--"

"Please don't patronize me, Annie."

"Then what is it you want? You still haven't told me why I'm here."

He began to sing, "Tiiiime is on
my
side," then hummed the next few bars of the Rolling Stones song.

"You want time? Time with me? Time to talk?"
Time to rape me, time to kill me?

He just smiled.

When something doesn't work, you try something else. I got up, left the safety of my corner, and stood next to him.

"Listen, David--or whatever your name is--you have to let me go." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, facing me. I leaned over right in his face.

"People are going to be looking for me--lots of people. It would be a hell of a lot better for you if you let me go now." I pointed my finger at him. "I don't want to be part of your sick game. This is
crazy.
You have to see--"

His hand shot out and grabbed my face so hard it felt like all my teeth were ground together. Inch by inch, he pulled me close. I lost my balance and was practically in his lap. The only thing holding me up was his hand on my jaw.

Voice vibrating with rage, he said, "Don't ever talk to me like that again, understand?" He forced my face up and down, tightening his grip with each down. My jaw felt like it was coming apart.

He let go.

"Look around, do you think something like this was easy to create? Do you think I just snapped my fingers and it all came together?"

Gripping the front of my suit jacket, he pulled me over him and pressed me back on the bed. The veins in his forehead had popped out and his face was flushed. Lying partly on top of me, he gripped my jaw again and squeezed. His eyes stared down at me, glittering. They were going to be the last thing I saw before I died. Everything was turning black--

Then all the anger left his face. He let go and kissed my jawline, where his fingers had been digging in seconds ago.

"Now, why did you go and make me do that? I'm trying here, Annie, I really am, but my patience has limits." He stroked my hair and smiled.

I lay there in silence.

He left the bed. I heard water running in the bathroom. With my photos spread around me, I stared at the ceiling. My jaw throbbed. Tears trickled out of the corners of my eyes, but I didn't even wipe them away.

I noticed you don't have a bunch of Christmas junk in here, just the cedar wreath on the front door. Good thing, considering they say the holidays have the highest suicide rates and most of your patients are probably already teetering on the edge.

Hell, if anyone can understand why people go off the deep end around this time of year, it's me. Christmas sucked when I was a kid. It was hard seeing all my friends get shit I could only look at in store windows and catalogs. But the year before I was abducted? Now, that was a good year. Blew a fortune on gaudy ornaments and sparkly lights. Of course, I couldn't make up my mind on any one theme, so by the time I was done every room looked like a different float in some weird-ass Christmas parade.

Luke and I went on long winter walks complete with snowball fights, strung popcorn and cranberries to hang on the tree, drank hot chocolate laced with rum, and sang tipsy, off-key Christmas carols to each other. It was a goddamn made-for-TV movie special.

This year I could give a rat's ass about the holidays. Then again, there doesn't seem to be much of anything I care about. Like when I used your bathroom before our session today and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Before all this crap happened I couldn't walk by a store window without glancing at my reflection. Now when I look in a mirror I see a stranger. That woman's eyes look like dried-out mud and her hair lies limp on her shoulders. I should get a haircut, but even thinking about it wears me out.

Worse, I've become one of
them
--the whiny, depressing people who have no problem telling you exactly how shitty their end of the stick is. All delivered in a tone of voice that makes it clear they not only got the wrong end, you got the one that was supposed to be theirs. Hell, probably the exact tone I'm using right now. I want to say something about how pretty all the stores look lit up or how friendly everyone is this time of year, and they do, and they are, but I just can't seem to stop spewing bitter words.

Sleeping in my closet last night probably didn't help my attitude or the dark circles under my eyes. I started off on my bed--tossed and turned until it looked like a war zone--but I just couldn't feel safe. So I crawled into the closet and curled up on the floor, with Emma just outside the door. Poor dog thinks she's guarding me.

When The Freak came out of the bathroom he shook his finger at me, smiled, and said, "I don't forget the time that easily."

Humming some melody--I couldn't tell you what it was, but if I ever hear it again I'll puke--he pulled me up from the bed, spun me around, and dipped me over his knee. One minute he's trying to break my jaw, the next he's goddamned Fred Astaire. With a laugh, he pulled me back up and led me to the bathroom.

Tea-light candles flickered on the counter, and the air was filled with the scent of burning wax and flowers. Steam drifted over the bathtub and rose petals floated on the water's surface.

"Time to get undressed."

"I don't want to." It came out in a whisper.

"It's
time
." He stared steadily at me.

I took off my clothes.

He folded them neatly and took them out of the room. My face burned. One arm was across my breasts, one hand over my crotch. He pulled them away and motioned me into the bathtub. When I hesitated, his face flushed and he stepped closer.

I got in the bath.

With that monster key ring he unlocked one of the cabinets and pulled out a razor--a straight-edge razor.

He lifted up my right leg and rested my heel on the edge of the tub, then slowly ran his hand up and down my calf and thigh. It was the first time I noticed his hands. There wasn't a single hair on them, and his fingertips were smooth, like they'd been burned. Terror roared through my body. What kind of person burns off his fingertips?

I couldn't stop staring at the razor, watching it move closer to my leg. I couldn't even cry.

"Your legs are so strong--like a dancer's. My mother was a dancer." He turned toward me but I was focused on the blade. "Annie, I'm talking to--" He sat back on his heels. "You're scared of the razor?"

I nodded.

He held it up so the light could reflect on it. "The new ones just don't cut as close." He shrugged and gave me a smile. Then he leaned back in and started shaving my calf. "If you remain open to this experience, you'll discover a lot about yourself. Knowing someone has life-and-death power over you can be the most erotic experience of your life." He stared hard at me. "But you already know how freeing death can be, don't you, Annie?" When I didn't answer, he looked back and forth between the razor and me.

"I--I don't know what you mean?"

"Surely you haven't forgotten all about Daisy."

I stared at him.

"What were you, again? Twelve, wasn't it? And she was sixteen? To lose someone you love so young..." He shook his head. "Things like that can really change a person."

"How do you know about Daisy?"

"Your father, now, he died on the way to the hospital, isn't that right? And Daisy, how did she die again?" He knew. The bastard knew.

I found out
how
at her funeral, when I overheard my aunt explaining to someone why Mom hadn't wanted her beautiful daughter to have an open casket. For months after that, my sister came to me in dreams, holding her bleeding face in her hands and begging me to help her. For months I woke up screaming.

"Why are you doing this?" I said.

"Shaving your legs? Don't you find it relaxing?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Talking about Daisy? It's good to talk about these things, Annie."

Another this-can't-be-happening wave rolled over me. I can't be lying in a warm bath with some freak shaving my legs while he's telling me I need to get my feelings out. In what world does this shit happen?

"Stand up and put your foot on the side of the tub, Annie."

"I'm sorry, we can talk more.
Please
don't make me do that--"

His face went blank. I'd seen that look before.

I stood up and put my foot on the side of the tub.

Shivering in the cool air, I watched rose-scented steam roll off my body. I hate the smell of roses, always have. But The Freak?

He started to hum.

I wanted to push him away. I wanted to knee him in the face. But my eyes were riveted on the razor's shiny blade. He wasn't physically hurting me, just a little with his fingernails when he gripped my butt to hold me in place, but the terror was huge, a massive thing tearing into my chest.

Years ago I went to a doctor, an old guy I'd only been to once before. This time he had to do a Pap smear, and I still remember lying on my back with his head between my legs. He was a weekend pilot, and photos of airplanes were all over his office. As he jammed a cold instrument up me, he said, "Think about planes." And that's what I did while The Freak shaved me. I thought about planes.

When he was done and had rinsed me off, he led me out of the tub and gently toweled me off. Then he unlocked the cabinet, took out a big bottle of lotion, and started rubbing it on my body.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

My skin crawled. His hands were everywhere, sliding around, rubbing the lotion in.

"Please stop.
Please
--"

"Now, why would I do that?" he said, and smiled. He took his time at it and didn't miss a spot.

When he was done he left me standing there on the stupid pink fuzzy bath mat, feeling like a greased-up pig and smelling like fucking roses. I didn't have to wait long before he came back with a handful of clothes.

He made me put on tiny white lace panties--not a G-string or thong, just regular panties--and a matching strapless bra. In my size. He stood back, gave me the once-over, and clapped his hands together, congratulating himself on a job well done. Then he handed me a dress--a virginal white thing I probably would have liked in a former life. Hell, it was a nice dress, felt expensive. It looked like that famous dress of Marilyn Monroe's but not so risque, the good-girl version.

"Spin."

When I didn't move, he raised an eyebrow and made a circular motion in the air with his finger.

The dress floated around me as I twirled. He nodded his head in approval, then held his hand up for me to stop.

After he led me out of the bathroom, I saw that he'd cleared away all my pictures and the box was nowhere in sight. Candles were arranged on the floor, the lights were turned down low, and there it was, looking enormous: the bed. Ready and waiting.

I had to find a way to get through to him. Buy some time until somebody found me. Somebody would find me.

"If we waited, just until we know each other a little better," I said, "it would be more special."

"Relax, Annie, there's nothing to be scared of."

Mr. Rogers telling you it's a beautiful day to kill everyone in the neighborhood.

He turned me around and began to unzip the white dress. I was crying now. Not sobs, just stupid hiccupping whimpers. As he lowered the zipper all the way down my back, he kissed my neck. I shivered. He laughed.

He let my dress fall to the floor. While he undid my bra, I tried to pull away from him, but he held me firm with one arm around my waist. With his other hand he reached around and cupped my breast. Tears wet my face. When one dropped on his hand he turned me around to face him.

He brought his hand to his lips and covered the moist spot with his mouth. He held it there for a second, then gave a smile and said, "Salty."

"
Stop.
Please, just stop. I'm scared."

He spun me around and sat me down on the side of the bed. He never looked into my eyes once--he just stared at my body. A bead of sweat rolled down his face, dripped off his chin, and landed on my thigh. It burned into my skin, and I wanted desperately to brush it off, but I was scared to move. He knelt on the floor and started to kiss me.

He tasted like sour old coffee.

I squirmed and tried to pull away, but he just ground his lips harder against mine.

He finally left my mouth alone. Grateful, I gulped a lungful of air but it caught in my throat when he stood up and started taking his clothes off.

He wasn't a bulky guy but his muscles were well defined, like a runner's, and his body was completely hairless. His smooth skin gleamed in the candlelight. He stared at me like he was waiting for me to say something, but all I could do was stare back, shaking violently. His dick started to go soft.

He grabbed me around my knees and flipped me back onto the bed. As he forced my legs apart with his knee, he trapped one of my arms between our bodies and gripped the other above my head with his left hand, his elbow digging into my bicep.

I tried to twist away, bucking my hips, but he pinned my thigh down with his shin. His free hand began to tug at my pan ties.

My mind frantically scrambled over everything I'd ever learned about rapists. Something about power, they needed power, but there were different kinds, some of them needed different things. I couldn't remember. Why couldn't I remember? If I couldn't get him to stop, could I at least get him to wear a condom?

"Stop! I have a--" His chest pushed my fist into my solar plexus. I gasped out, "A disease. A sexual disease. You'll get sick if you--"

He tore my pan ties off. I started to buck wildly. He smiled.

Almost out of breath, I stopped struggling and gulped at the air. I had to think, had to focus, had to find a way--

His smile began to fade.

Then I got it. The more I reacted, the more he liked it. I forced my body to stop shaking. I stopped crying. I stopped moving. I thought about planes. It didn't take him long to notice.

He pressed down so hard with his elbow I thought my arm would break, but I didn't make a sound. He spread my legs wider and tried to force himself into me but he was soft. I noticed there was a mole on his shoulder with a lone hair sticking out.

He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw, and grunted out, "Say my name." I didn't. There was no way I was going to call this freak by my father's name. He could control my body, but I wasn't going to let him control my words.

"Tell me what you feel."

I continued to stare at him.

He turned my face to the side. "Don't look at me."

He tried to force himself inside me again. I thought of that one mole hair. Everything on his body was shaved clean except that one mole. I passed by terror, arrived at hysteria, and started to giggle. He was going to kill me, but I couldn't stop. Giggles became laughter.

His body froze on top of me. I was still looking away, facing the opposite wall. His free hand shot out and clamped over my mouth. He turned my face back so I was looking at him, my lips mashed into my teeth. He ground his hand down harder. I tasted salt.

"Bitch!" he screamed, spraying me with spit. Then his face changed again. All life was gone. He leapt off the bed, blew out all the candles, and stalked into the bathroom. Soon I heard the shower.

I ran to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. The shower shut off, my heart started to pound again, and I raced back to the bed. With my face turned to the wall, I sucked on my bleeding lip and cried. Tears and blood mingled. The bed sagged as he lay down beside me.

He sighed. "God, I love this place. It's so quiet--I put in extra insulation. You can't even hear the crickets."

"Please take me home. I won't tell anyone. I swear.
Please
."

"I have the best dreams here."

He snuggled up to my side, folded his leg over mine, and held my hands until he fell asleep. I lay there with this naked freak cuddling me and wished the bed would open up and swallow me whole. My arm hurt, my face hurt, my heart hurt. I cried myself to sleep.

We still have some time left, but I'm finished. And, yes, I remember we're missing next week's session because of Christmas. Just as well--I need a break from this crap. To tell you about it, I have to go back there. Denial is a whole lot easier. Well, at least I can fool myself into thinking it is...for about half a second. Avoiding this shit is like closing a door on a raging river. Little trickles of water start coming through the cracks, and next thing you know, the door blows off. Now that I'm letting some of the water through, will the door come crashing in? If I unleash everything that's inside me, will I go floating down the river with it? Well, for now I think I'm going to go home and have a hot shower. And after that, I'll probably have another one.