Kidnapped

Turning the Tables (Revised)

"Stop." His face was hard but his faltering voice betrayed his thoughts. I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him cautiously. Now that we were so close, there wasn't much I could have done if he decided to hurt me. My complete vulnerability sent cold shivers through my body.

Stiff as a board, Andrew's arms dangled at his sides. I felt his heart thump against his chest and I hugged him tighter. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine someone else, someplace else- anything else.

Andrew's rigidness melted away and forced me back into the present.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked.

"I want out of here." That part wasn't a lie. "You do too. Together, we can get out of here and make a life of our own. You don't deserve this."

He pushed me away from him so abruptly I nearly fell flat on my back.

"Yes," he said, "I do."

"No you don't!" I argued. Despite it all, his attitude annoyed me. "No one, especially someone like you, deserves to be put through this hell hole. What on earth makes you think you deserve this?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he pointed to the table.

"Lay down."

"No." I backed up a step. "You and I both know you don't want to do this to me. You said yourself you can't hurt me." He grabbed me and forced me back. "Listen to me! I am your only chance of ever escaping this house!"

With practiced hands, he wrestled me onto the table and tied me down. I continued reasoning with him but only earned a strip of duct tape across my mouth. When he left the room and pulled at my restraints harder than ever. My heart galloped in my chest at the thought of Jerry coming in there and...

Hot tears stung my eyes and I whimpered quietly. Beads of blood dripped from my wrists but the pain was worth escaping. Only a few minutes into my struggle Andrew burst back into the room and slammed the door. Throwing the lock, he backed away from it until he tripped over the mattress.

"Open the door, son!" The door shuddered under Jerry's weight and he thrashed the handle. "Andrew, open this door and face me like a man!"

The boy had wedged himself between the wall and the mattress. Quiet whimpers came from his throat and tears glistened in his eyes like diamonds.

"If I have to go get the key," Jerry growled, "I'll-"

"Okay!" Andrew shot to his feet but couldn't seem to bring himself closer to the door.

"Open the door, son." The door went still.

Looking more dead than alive, pale skin and blue lips, Andrew opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. A strangled cry came from him just as the door shut and I didn't see him until hours later when he stumbled into the room. He didn't speak to me, didn't touch me, he didn't even look at me. In a ball in the corner, Andrew stared blankly into space for the rest of the day.

Another day passed without any further communication between us. Occasionally, Andrew left the room for hours on end and came back pale-faced and sweaty.

Another day went by and Andrew left again, this time for almost half the day. Despite everything, I was bored out of my mind. Only when Andrew came back did the boredom vanish. As he approached the door, I could never tell who it might be out in the hallway. The thought of Jerry coming in when Andrew was away sent shudders through me.

After the third day of no communication, Andrew stumbled into the room and collapsed on the dirty mattress. His body jerked and quiet sobs filled the room.

"They won't touch you unless I say they can," he whimpered.

"What?" My voice cracked from lack of use.

"They won't touch you again," he repeated. Relief swept through me. "They want to make me hate you first."

"What do you mean?"

Slowly, Andrew rose to a sitting position and removed his shirt. Angry red lashes and splotches covered his torso. Purple and green bruises dotted his chest and stopped just below the collar of his shirt. A lump formed in my throat; the poor boy had been tortured in my place because he couldn't do it to me.

"Oh Andrew." Tears pricked my eyes and gratitude swelled in my heart. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head and put his shirt back on. For a while, he bowed his head and cried quietly. Finally, he raised his head.

"Say we run," his voice was low, almost inaudible, "what happens next? Where do we go? What do we do?"

"We go to the police first," I matched his tone. With some effort, he got to his feet and came to me, bending over the table to whisper.

"And tell them what?" He leaned in close, too close. "That I kidnapped you?"

"Then helped me escape. We could say you did all of this under duress."

"What does that mean?"

"Your dad made you." My mouth went dry. "You can't be held responsible for the things he's made you do."

"Then what?" Desperation, hope, and fear swam in his eyes. The prospect of freedom loomed so close, but with his father just downstairs, it seemed unattainable.

"We go home," I said.

Andrew's eyes fell to the floor. "You go home."

He bit his lip and searched my eyes but couldn't seem to find what he was looking for. Without another word, he left.