Chapter Text
It was two weeks before you finally saw the sun again, and the snow had begun to settle amongst the fallen leaves. In your dazed state, you could hardly remember what the weather had been like before winter had fully entered Massachusetts. You weren’t even sure if you were still in Massachusetts at all.
All you remember is running till your feet ached and your lungs burned, every part of you on fire from the exertion and your body slowly succumbing to the fear as each resonation of his boots muffled the soft padding of your bare soles. You’d kicked and screamed all you could when he reached you. Whether anyone had heard you or not, you didn’t know.
Three days into your weeks in the darkness, when you were still keeping yourself sane enough to check the change in the light through the small crack in the structure, he came to give you water. The locks had rattled, the hinges had creaked, and you had huddled yourself into the far corner so the light didn’t hit your eyes. You had feared they’d burn to nothing.
The mystery man, your kidnapper, had said nothing. He had placed the water on the floor in a doggy bowl and then shut the door. You had rushed to the entryway, desperate for escape and cursing the fear that had forced you into the far corner, but he was locking it behind him before you could scratch his eyes out and keep running. By the next day, when he came back to snatch the bowl, refilling it from a full pint glass, you didn’t even think it was plausible to imagine you’d make it out. You were starved, exhausted from the sounds of the night that would shake you awake every time you began to succumb to unconsciousness. The day after that, you stopped wondering how long it had been.
It was bright out when he picked you up in his arms and pressed your face into his chest to shield your eyes. You had weakly pushed at him, but your efforts were insignificant, and he swatted away your clawing hands with little exertion. Eventually, you went willingly.
It would be hard, when someone eventually found you, if they ever did, to say that you didn’t let him take you. There was blame to be given, and the blame landed on you: your foolishness, your pathetic sensibilities and desperation to die. You could’ve run faster. You used to do track in middle school, and then everything had gone to shit, and the next semester had not been so gentle with you. If they hadn’t mistaken your kindness for weakness, maybe your hands wouldn’t be tied behind your back. Maybe your stomach wouldn’t be feeding off its acid.
You had thrown up around the second day of captivity, and it still stained the front of your work blouse. You must’ve been a picture: clothes ripped, hair mussed, skin sallow and visibly emaciated. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop the shakes. At some point, you had stopped crying, and your vocal cords refused to ring their triads.
The little water he had given you was the only thing keeping your eyes open and focused on your new surroundings.
You hadn’t pulled your eyes away from him when he carried you up the steps; limp and on the brink of death in his arms. If you had, you probably would have recognised where you were. You were certain you were still in Lexington. When he’d caught you, you’d been in Willard’s Woods. He had hit you, knocked you clean out, but you were sure that you couldn’t have been unconscious long enough for him to take you out of town. At least, you were hopeful. It was easy when he was still just a shadow to let your imagination run wild with the thought of escape. The comfort of a new location, with its four walls and insulation, was such a far cry from that little, makeshift prison that you found yourself grateful for the change of scenery. You mulled over scenarios of his easement; you could twist it into his hamartia if you bullied yourself enough.
The bedroom you were tied up in was wood-panelled and seemed stuck in the seventies. The bedspread was floral, ugly splotches of pink and yellow flowers littered across the frilled pillows and comforter. There was a lone lamp on the bedside table that lit the room in a soft glow. The curtains were closed, and you struggled to decipher what time of day it was. You struggled to come to your senses at all and consistently tried to comfort yourself with the knowledge that you were no longer shivering. The shed, or what you could only assume to be so, had been so cold. You had not worn a coat when you started running. You had been walking, barefoot in the hopes that the pain in your feet would make you feel alive. The cold invigorated you, and it was the only reason you didn’t take your Daddy’s old Colt Python to the side of your head. Usually, you would walk back home with a heavy heart and sleep away the melancholia, but he had found you first: taken you from the danger of your mind and thrown you headfirst into a new kind of peril.
You wondered if your voicemail was just as empty as it always was or if the fact that you were missing had perhaps garnered some attention. It was doubtful. Your manager at the gas station would probably just think you skipped town; you talked about it often enough.
Tears managed to squeeze out of your eyes as the hope of escape dwindled with your common sense. People went missing in Lexington all the time, and they’d show up in Concord a month later, living with an uncle and professing to the police that they hadn’t meant to cause such a fuss. Eventually, the missing persons board in the centre of town housed more cats than people; when the sight of humanity reached the cork, people rarely paid attention and created their illustrious rumours of abused children and heroic extended family who had willingly taken them under their wing when the bruises became too noticeable.
You had always thought Lexington was cursed in the way that it bound people. The ones who managed to get out never amounted to much. You remembered Brad Earnshaw, who you had gone to high school with: he had skipped town just before he graduated and was buried in Westview Cemetery, back under Lexington soil, three months later. A drug deal gone wrong, they said.. It corroborated the idea for you that if one of the few lucky ones made it across the border into Concord or Lincoln, it wouldn’t be long before they were back, dead or battered.
It’s why, in the room that was eerily empty and warm, you were sure that you had not left. If the kidnapper had taken you anywhere else, you would be dead by tomorrow and dumped near the deceitfully cheery welcome to Lexington sign. Or maybe your superstition of combusting as soon as you stepped across the border was not legitimate, and you had been lying to yourself about not getting to leave all eighteen years of your existence.
If you had not been so stupidly paranoid, you would not be here. If you had not been so pathetic, you would not be here. It was a constant sentiment that grew tauntingly louder as his boots sounded against the other side of the wall, and your eyes snapped to the brass handle to watch it turn clockwise, speeding the allabreve of your heartbeat.
When he walked through the door, you began to cry again. He ignored the tears and shrugged off his jacket, still dusted with snow along the shoulders; the chair by the door silently scraped across the carpet as he threw the fabric on the bed, and he nestled himself on the furniture with spread legs. He ran his hand over his face as if exasperated by your presence, and you shook even more when he leant forward and rested his forearms on his thighs.
It was careful and calculated: the way that he observed you. Every glance came with an imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and every muffled grumble came with a flicker in his eyes that terrified you. He was big, clearly strong, but old, and you thought briefly that you could use that knowledge to your advantage. Grey hair, wrinkled face that mapped the lines of his life—a life you only assumed was disgusting and depraved—and a depth to his eyes that marked hardship.
If he thought the hardness of him, the decided torture of his impediments would make you feel any sympathy for him, he was sorely mistaken. You would never feel sorry for him, not when he had taken you, starved you and now surveyed you as if you were taxidermy, waiting to see if your stuffed body would move just an inch. He may have been hardened, but you were not soft. If you fought with yourself enough, you were sure you could pull another scream from your bloodied throat.
When he spoke, you struggled to conceal your surprise at an accent you couldn’t quite put your finger on. No wonder you hadn’t seen him before in Lexington. You liked to think that working at the only gas station within two miles of the centre of town meant that you knew anyone who lived near the woods quite well. His face was not in your memory; he had never come for gas, not even to pick up some missing supplies. You had spent eighteen years in Lexington, two of those years you had been working at that shitty little gas station, and unless he was willing to waste his petrol by driving to town every time his tank was empty, you were certain that he was new.
There were so many certainties there, in that bedroom, that quickly wavered as the minutes passed.
“You hungry?” You would’ve scoffed if you weren’t so terrified, and amid your fear, you found that you could produce no words. You jumped when his tone grew harsh. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
“Y-yes.” The words came out like a croak, and you tried futilely to swallow down the dryness.
The man nodded slightly and then stood. He simply rubbed his hands along his knees and left the chair with a crack of his back and a small groan at the assumed pain.
Despite how utterly frightening he was to behold, all broad-backed and wide, not incredibly tall but so big that it felt like he would tower over anyone, you were desperate for him to stay. You had so many questions, you had so many things that you wanted to say, curses to spout that he had not heard when you’d been screaming and clawing at the walls of your enclosure. It was conflicting, the relief that you felt watching him prepare to go and a simultaneous call in the back of your throat for him to stay in this goddamn bedroom until you were satisfied with his excuses.
It was rising, dangerously close on the tip of your tongue as you watched him reach for the door handle, and you couldn’t contain the monosyllable that spilt like curdled milk at your feet when the door creaked open.
“Wait.” Your chest rose and fell, a clawing in your stomach as you tried to ignore the burn of the ropes around your wrists. “Wait…”
The disgusted look he threw at you had you cowering, and you truly feared for your life when his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. His words were measured and careful, unusually calm in such a strange situation. You could only assume that having a young girl tied up in his bedroom was a normalcy for him. How else could he have become so desensitised? The image of a brutal death materialised in your mistrustworthy mind.
“Do you wanna eat?” It took you a minute and another hard stare for the question to register. You nodded and felt nauseous all of a sudden. “Then I suggest you keep your goddamn mouth shut until I tell you otherwise.”
You shook in place of a sob, too afraid now to make any noise, and nodded to ensure your compliance. If you played your cards right, you could still escape him. Just be good, and he might even let you go.
“Tell me you understand,” he commanded, and you opened and closed your mouth pathetically, unsure if he was assessing you or just looking to humiliate you. Whichever it was, he had succeeded in both feats.
“I understand.” Your voice was shaky, and you squeezed a few more tears from your eyes with a strange gurgling sound. Presumably, he was pleased with your answer. His lips twitched upward for a second before his frown plastered his countenance once more, and he shut the door behind him with a resounding click, leaving you alone with the ache in your stomach and a million inconsequential plans running the lengths of your mind.
You had been kidnapped, starved until your body was ready to give up and then dragged right back to the comfort. It made so little sense in your addled brain that the nausea began to grow harsher, and you threw up again. You thought it would be better to get it on yourself rather than his carpet, so you aimed for your chest and then began to cry when you saw the stain of bile against your sullied shirt. Your manager would be angry when you asked for a replacement, but something told you it would be a long time before you ever saw him again.
There, with the vomit that tasted so acidic you began to gag again, you started to give up. You had no tears left, so you shook violently and let yourself topple onto the floor. You went slowly, but you felt your whole body vibrate when your head touched the ground, and the arms behind your back ached with the sudden movement. Your body was shutting down, your brain giving in to the desire for unconsciousness, and you were still violently, dryly sobbing by the time you passed out completely and closed your eyes with the final image of the shadow of his shoes under the door.
*
There were hands on you and they felt huge—palms rough against delicate skin, and a grumbling behind you as you came to with a gasp. The water was freezing, and it was spurting down on your naked body like it was desperate to offend you. Your head was pounding, and you still felt so weak. Every bone felt like it was ready to snap off at the slightest touch. It didn’t help that the fingers against your scalp were rough, pulling at your wet hair and manhandling you under the water when he was satisfied with the lather of some sweet-smelling shampoo. The scent pulled another gag from your throat, and your stomach protested at the constant contractions.
“If you throw up again, you’re goin’ back outside.
The voice brought you back to the earth, the blurred edges of reality merging with your dreamlike haze, and you whipped your head around to catch his eyes. They were so mean, so full of vengeance that you couldn’t help but scream and try with all your might to get away. You pushed against him, hands no longer bound in some twisted act of mercy, and you managed to stand on shaking legs, hoping to land a kick on his shin and start running again. The adrenaline would keep you going long enough to get to the police. He wouldn’t find you if you were quick enough. How long could an old man really run without his knees giving out?
You struggled against him, kicking and screaming with every ounce of strength you had left in you, but his hold would not cease. He was strong; your weak kicks meant nothing to him, and your legs gave way with the exertion of your nails clawing against his cheek. You didn’t even have the energy to be proud of the injury you’d inflicted.
“Goddamnit,” he growled, pulling you from the bathtub and tugging you tight against him, dragging you by the waist, his other hand in your hair and violently tugging at your scalp. He hastily turned off the shower and was making his way out the door before you could even bother to apologise. You only caught a glimpse of the living space, a faint whiff of TV dinner Salisbury Steak, before the front door swung open and he was taking you outside again.
“No!” you screamed, desperate as your toes numbed under the snow. Your naked body prickled with the chill, the shock of the cold hitting you with little pleasure. It hadn’t even registered until then that it was he who had stripped you. “No, please! I’m sorry, I’m—”
His hand clapped around your mouth, and your screams grew muffled under the weight of his palm. You had no choice; even without the restraints, you were useless to yourself, and you felt an innate sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction. If you had just sat still and let him wash your hair for you, you wouldn’t be here now. You had wanted a shower anyway, regardless of whether it was cold water or not. As long as he didn’t touch you anywhere inappropriate, you might’ve been able to get through it without being sick again. Then, he would’ve fed you, and maybe you would’ve been able to sleep in a bed. You could wake before him and start running, refreshed and with a clear head.
There had been a sense, however, the minute that he asked you if you were hungry, that this was going to be his plan no matter the way you behaved. Throwing you outside naked would undeniably break you. If he left you for another two weeks, you'd either die from thirst, starvation, hypothermia or a more likely combination of all three.
“All you gotta do is listen to me and you’ll be fine,” he said against your ear with gritted teeth. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Bullshit, you thought and defiantly went to say it, but his palm muffled the curse, and you were mildly grateful that he hadn’t heard you. There was no getting around it: you were going to have to do what he said if you wanted to survive.
When he reached the shed, he slung the door open and shoved you roughly to the ground. It was freezing. You were so cold, and you missed the warmth of that motel-looking bedroom and its yellow glow.
“I’ll come get you in the morning,” was the final thing he said to you before he locked the door and turned away.
You clawed at the wood for an agonisingly long time, screaming so loud you were certain he could hear you. It wasn’t long before your body started to give up again, and you slumped, chin on your chest as your body twitched with every sob. You had already been halfway broken when he’d found you; it wouldn’t be long before you crumbled completely.
Drops of cold water from your hair fell onto your skin, and you shivered violently as you pressed your face into the ground. You lifted your knees to your chest, trying desperately to create any warmth you could. You could die out here, and you started thinking that it was better than staying in there with him. Maybe it was a blessing that he’d thrown you out. Perhaps now, you could sleep in peace and let the cold hands of death pull you under the soil. You were exhausted and still so goddamn hungry.
Worst of all, you felt so stupid. He was going to feed you, and you’d pushed him away. He was taking care of you, and you’d tried to run. You just had to do what he asked, speak when spoken to and express your hatred in silent spells of solitude. You could swear your sanity to yourself when he was no longer there, and you could think without his overwhelming presence causing the static in your brain to grow into the harsh discordance of white noise.
Tomorrow, you would do what he wanted you to, so long as you didn’t die during the night.