Legacy

Chapter 5: Trying to Adjust

Michael pushes my head hard against the table until my face is plastered against the smooth wood. His breath is hot against my neck as he plants kisses firmly on my skin. Those long cold fingers of his creep up my shirt and grope at my breast.

"Please," I whimper, tears streaming down my face, "please stop."

"Stop what?" His hand lets go of my breast and travels down my stomach. I cringe as he sticks his hand into the warmth of my shorts. "This?"

~~~~~

The sudden click of the lock pulls me out of my nightmare in a cold sweat.

Michael comes in carrying a bulging trash bag. "Here're your clothes," he says tossing it at the foot of the bed, "and here's your pillow," he chucks it at my head, but I knock it down into my lap. "I'll be right back with your books." He turns and leaves the door wide open as he exits.

When I hear the basement door shut behind him I bound up from the bed and make my way to the other room with the chained doors. My fingers trace over the cold steel and grip tightly around the lock. A lock that requires a key...

Shit!

I squeeze the lock hard between my fingers in frustration until my knuckles turn white. Hot angry tears pool behind my eyes and all I want to do is scream.

The clopping of Michael's footsteps upstairs make me drop the lock and bolt back to the room.

I kneel down and open up the trash bag with my clothes and start laying everything out on the bed. Michael enters shortly, with a large cardboard box filled to the top with my books. He eyes me fondly and places the box down on the floor next to me.

I reach into the bag and remove a faded tie-die shirt. As I fold it neatly and set it on the bed, Michael plops down next to me and helps me with my clothes.

We continue pulling and folding in complete silence. It takes a while to go through the entire bag.

I stretch my arms up and scan the neat piles on the bed. Michael had brought me plenty of shorts, pants, t-shirts, skirts, panties and tanks... But I don't see any socks or bras.

"Is something wrong, September?" Michael's voice makes a lump in my throat harden.

I swallow hard. "You didn't bring me any socks," I manage to choke out. Michael arches an eyebrow, as if to challenge me to say more. "Or bras..." I cross my arms tightly over my breasts.

"You won't be needing socks." He clears his throat. "Because you won't be leaving this house." His eyes drop down and linger on my chest before he raises them back up to meet my eyes. "And I didn't think that bras would be necessary for you. Some of my female friends say that the best part of their day is taking them off." He shrugs. "Thought I was saving you a lot of trouble."

I give him a slight nod and start stacking the clothes together to put them in the dresser. I freeze as Michaels hand covers mine.

"Listen," he lightly circles his thumb around my knuckle, "if you want a bra, I'll bring you a bra." I raise my eyes. "But it's gonna cost 'ya." His fingers glide gently along my arm and send a chill running up my spine.

I shake my head, not wanting to even know the price of a bra. "Never mind," I mutter. "Forget I said anything."

Michael sighs. "Okay," he mumbles, scratching his head.

I stack up all my clothes and stuff them into the empty dresser drawers. Michael dumps the big box of books onto the bed and lays them out, whistling cheerfully as he does so.

The melody of him whistling makes all of this seem like normal couples' shit. Like we just moved in together and were unpacking our things. Maybe adopting a pet. Getting married soon. Hopelessly in love and planning to spend the rest of our lives together.

But no. Just a psychotic man and his little teenage captive, sorting through her pile of clothes and books.

The realization finally dawns on me. I will never get the chance to meet anyone and have a real relationship like that. The kind that you see in the movies. I'll never see my friends again. Never have a first date. Never go to prom. Never graduate. Never make stupid college decisions like weed or sex. Never get married.

I'll end up losing my precious virginity to this man; bear his child... Or worse, children. All to fuel his sick terrifying fantasies. Who knows? He might kill me when he's done with me. Once I've lived out my purpose.

I don't realize that I'm sobbing like a baby until Michael comes over and wraps me tightly in his arms. He shushes me and rubs my back. The bruises are still there from when he beat the crap out of me. They ache and cause me to wince beneath his touch.

I bury my face deep into his t-shirt and try to forget who he is and what he has done to me. His strong arms and tall frame are so alien to me; but it's more relaxing than any hug my dad ever gave me. My dad...

This man killed him. He took care of him... the last of my family. My mom died in a drunk driving accident about three years ago. We never talked to the rest of our family. Dad hates his siblings and I didn't care for them or my stupid cousins either.

His arms loosen around me and I squeeze him tighter, not wanting to pull away and see his face. I don't want to get the feeling you get when you watch the news, and see a mugshot of some random dude who just snapped and shot a lot of people. Michael's face is like that. It's so plain, yet still strikes fear into the very depths of my soul.

I don't even realize he's digging in his pocket for something.

"What was my first rule," he quizzes me, with a sharp inhale against my scalp. When I don't answer, Michael sighs and I feel a tiny prick in the side of my neck. My body begins to numb and I slump in his arms. He flips the hair away from my face and his lips brush against my ear. "No crying."

That's the last thing I hear before I drift off.