The next few weeks are nothing but tense. Like, really tense.
Ellis is sure to announce his presence every time we happen to find ourselves in the same room, and Mason has shown me exactly where they hide the gun they keep in the house. Tucked under the loaves of bread in the breadbox.
They even took me to a shooting range so I would know how to use a gun effectively if I ever need to.
The very idea makes me feel sick to my stomach. I suppose a gun is the best thing for me to have in close proximity. It gives me a bit of an advantage should my former captor ever come for me and Robin.
Of all the weapons Michael would choose to use on me, I do know that he is least likely to use a firearm. A gun is way too boring for him. He's more likely to use a knife or a drill or something more original. Something more intimate.
I spend a number of days meeting with detectives and experts. They have me look at various photos of missing girls to see if I remember any of them from the basement.
It's been so long... I only manage to recognize one of the girls from the basement. And that's only because that one girl had a very distinctive mole on her face, right above her eye and just below her eyebrow.
It's easy to remember a face when there is something unusual to notice. While I was there, all the girls Michael brought in were so similar. They all had the same slight build as me, and almost none of them stood out.
Hell, I think I may have even forced myself to forget some of the horrible things I've witnessed.
The whole time I'm answering questions for the detectives, I'm mentally kicking myself, wishing I could do more to help.
But so many of the memories I have are just gone. Vanished. I forced myself to forget.
Forget those poor girls. Forget their faces. Forget their blood. Forget their screams. Forget everything.
At least I can remember what Michael looks like. His dark hair. The scar I gave him. Those cold blue eyes that have the power to make my blood turn to ice. The detectives have a realistic sketch to go off of.
They'll find him. They will. I'm sure of it.
But then there's therapy. I go a couple times a week. Sometimes three. With no job, I have nothing better to do with my time. Might as well try to fix what has been long broken.
I really don't like talking about everything that happened while I was being held captive. But my therapist encourages me to talk about whatever I do want to talk to talk about. Literally anything.
So I tell her about my pregnancy. About how the morning sickness is so much worse than it was when I was pregnant with Robin. How I got my first ultrasound and carry the picture around with me. How Robin keeps asking when the new baby will finally be here.
At least he hasn't asked about his father.
There have been a couple of times where I think I glimpse Michael in the crowd. But each time that happens, I manage to stare long enough that the faces fade back into ones that are unfamiliar.
Just the way they should be.
Maybe he really is gone. For good. Never to be seen again.
Again. As it should be.
If I never see him again, I'll be happy.
But I think- way back, in the back of my mind- I will always worry about the people he might be hurting in my place. Knowing Michael- remembering all the vile things he has done- he might be killing innocent girls, all the while pretending that each and every one of them is me.
I can imagine him doing things to me that he always saved just for his murder victims. The tiny details that would take hours- even days to inflict.
The idea plagues my nightmares every night. I'm always back in the basement. Chained up and helpless. Completely at his mercy.
The fear keeps me in place long after I wake up. I usually just lie there with my eyes wide open, my body refusing to move no matter how much I try to force it to do so. It takes me forever after waking to fully wrap my head around the fact that I'm no longer trapped down in his basement.
No amount of therapy can make me forget five very recent years of my life. But I suppose that's not what the treatment is really for.
It's to help me find a way to live with myself. With all the memories of everything that has happened to me and countless others, and still create a life for myself and my children after all of it.
I suppose that is a tall order when there is a child- well, two children- included in the mix. Robin's memory might fade enough that he has the chance to just... be a kid; but I'll have to figure out a story to tell the new baby when they're old enough to wonder why they don't have a dad.
I will never lie to my child. But that does not mean I can't prepare myself for the inevitable.
Your father did some very bad things. He hurt mommy badly, and a lot of other people too. Now he's gone. But there is no need to worry because it's okay. Really, it is. We're all better off without that man.
At least he won't be around to traumatize this child. This new baby will grow up and have a normal life.
And Robin will build a better life for himself too. My baby boy will make friends, and go to school, and learn bad words from all the people around him who are not his parents.
He will know a world beyond the woods. Beyond that old house. Beyond the basement.