Teller
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Her almond eyes revealed a series of unbridled emotions, each one seemingly underscored by the same pressing question that I, myself, had pondered for over half a decade;
How much could the person you've always known truly change?
Perhaps there was a lingering part of my once sweet Leslie that remained adamant that I would never hurt her, that I possessed the same limits as before, and I ruminated this possibility as I shifted my knees so that they dug into her upper arms, restraining their potential mobility as I presented a roll of duct tape into her line of sight.
Her eyes widened and mouth parted where she was pinned on the ground. She wanted to say something, to scream again.
I needed that part of her thoroughly dispelled from her fragile being as swiftly as possible.
The echoes of what happened the last time she carried out her instinctive desires clouded her expression and made her silently shake her head in protest instead. But it didn't matter; I ripped a sizable length of the tape with a quick sound of torn adhesive and plastered it across her mouth, sealing each end against her cheeks with my fingers as I mimicked the motions of an exaggerated smile.
In the cloak of the evening and dense cover of trees, if I pictured it intently enough, a terrified grin could very well inhabit her beautiful face behind the tape.
But I didn't possess an eternity, or even all night, for that matter; I simply had whatever precious moments were allotted to me from a temporary blackout and false implications of a rewarding conversation. It was my intention to make them count, and it wouldn't be particularly pleasant for anyone but me.
Beneath me, Leslie's body made strained and fruitless efforts to wiggle free, even as I moved on to her wrist, bringing her hands together and taping around the space where the hems of her coat sleeves ended, going over both wrists and her signature bracelet. With six tight circulations, her arms were effectively rendered useless.
"I know this must truly suck for you," I acknowledged, watching her press her bound hands against her chest, as if she was both shielding herself and seeking any form of comfort available to her. "I'm sorry I can't reassure you, Leslie." I lightly stroked the deepening color on her right cheek with the back of my knuckles, and she instantly flinched. I'd have slapped her again if that's what it took.
"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't envisioned you just like this, just as helpless as you are now, for so many years." I observed her processing my words, smartly contextualizing them with what's happened to her thus far and perhaps what she thought might happen next. "In all honesty, there were entire days when the prospect of seeing you again was the only thing that kept me...well, that kept me going."
Sighing deeply, I shifted. I wasn't done. I exchanged the duct tape from my bag for rope, tying her feet together around her boots and finishing it with a butcher's slip knot. There were more protests from her; small, muffled noises from the back of her throat.
"I know, I know." I secured the knot tightly with a grunt. "I've missed you too, Leslie."
Had we still been children and I'd accidentally tied her too tightly while showcasing the latest ropework I'd mastered, she would've called me "rough" or "mean". I doubt those were the only words circulating her brain as I lifted her up and pressed her back against our ponderosa tree, tying the extended length of the rope around the thick trunk, over her shoulders, her stomach, her upper thighs, until I'd completely restrained most of her body with each wraparound.
Eventually, the thick bundle of nylon rope came to its end and I tied it around one of the loops near her left shoulder.
I took a small step back, and as I surveyed her, she reminded me so much of the wild game that would have the misfortune of stepping into one of my traps; chest moving in frightened breaths, eyes wide and pleading. Like them, she was even a bit bruised from previous, futile efforts at escaping, and there was, admittedly, a dark satisfaction in the knowledge that she now felt a fraction of what being imprisoned was like.
Though it would never be enough, it would always be far too fleeting in stark comparison; inexcusable, as I only strived for total fulfillment. An apodictic finish no matter how long it took.
For Leslie, this was just the beginning.
I took out a dwindling pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my slacks, watching her forehead start to glisten with anxious sweat in spite of the chilly air. I tapped out a stick and pocketed the pack for a lighter.
Poor Sheriff Carson was dead, and for a day or so, I'd fatuously considered if grief was enough, if it could be as exacting and painful as what Leslie had done.
I placed the cigarette in my mouth and lit the tip, taking a long drag as the burning end created a small, orange glow between us in the clearing.
With her here now, I knew I'd made the right decision; the razor sharp blades of terror were a different kind of affliction, one that was debilitating and unsettling coming from someone you once trusted.
It fucked up your mind, it deprived your soul.
"I hear the Hatchet Killer is on the loose again," I muttered, blowing the smoke in her face and watching her pretty nose scrunch up and eyes water. "I hear it might be me."
I pocketed the lighter, recalling the desecrated house and piles of threatening letters that had awaited me upon my release from the state. Each had demanded me to leave town, to seek spiritual penance for what I'd done.
I'd partially listened; I started joining Mass, began frequenting confessionals and Sunday Service, silently reveling in the disquieted townsfolk who now possessed a level of fear to accompany their former disdain. It was a compelling hold to have on Elk Point, an interesting insight at their deepest fears as many became pregnable and utterly disarmed at my mere presence.
They were right about one thing; it wasn't in my best interest to stay. But that wasn't why I remained.
"If I am the killer, do you think I should butcher you right now?" I kicked my hefty, black duffle that laid on the forest floor and cocked my head curiously. Leslie shook her head 'no' over and over, her gaze shifting from the bag to me and back again.
She was petrified.
"You're right. I should keep you here instead, I should keep you trapped and torture you until you've felt every bit of what I've felt these past five years."
She stilled, the back of her head pressing against the rough bark of the tree trunk as I watched her slowly swallow.
I breathed deeply, exhaling more smoke. "I will keep you in Elk Point, until I feel like I've fulfilled my promise to you, and you will stay. You won't dare to leave, in fact, you won't even tell Deputy Sullivan, or anyone for that matter, what happened here tonight. Because if you do, I will kill your Mom."
There was an urgent whimper and now more shaking of her head, stray curls sticking to the sides of her face.
There was a yearning in her desperation, a fervent yearning that I once craved on a very debased and very intimate level.
"Mrs. Carson is a nice enough lady, so I would hate for you to find out the hard way, but if you don't believe me; her window is the third one on the second floor to the left, she likes to visit Riverside Roast most mornings and sometimes she takes the long route through Pinecrest Grove on her way home. She reads and drinks tea on the back porch on the weekends, and sometimes she forgets to lock the sliding door on her way back in."
Leslie had tears in her eyes, and her dark brows were furrowed in concentration, as if desperately gauging how serious I was.
The answer was very, and it didn't take long for her to recognize that my observations were not only accurate, but intentionally revealing of every opportunity that was at my disposal to carry out my threat.
Slowly, I placed a finger underneath her right eye, and she blinked, shifting her head to the side as the tears she'd been stubbornly holding back oh so marvelously fell, and I only just managed to catch a stray, shiny droplet on my index.
As long as I'd known her, Leslie hated crying in front of others. She always fought so hard to hide it.
I couldn't resist my small smile as I rubbed the droplet between my index and thumb.
"I can explain to you what state prison was like, but you know I've always been a hands-on person." I grabbed her face, almost gently, turning her back to me. It took awhile, but eventually her lids fluttered open and her glossy eyes met mine. "I'd much rather show you. I want you to experience the full extent of my suffering, I want you to be isolated in your plight, and I want you to always remember that, amidst your anguish, the person you once trusted the most is who inflicted this."
I flicked the dying cigarette from my other hand and lowered my head next to her ear.
Her face had grown slick with sweat and tears, and I could feel it beneath my palm, my lips now so close that, if I turned my head slightly, I could also taste it.
I breathed in deeply instead, recognizing where every scent that lingered on her originated, remembering and momentarily relishing how often I'd still smell her as I returned home everyday after we'd hung out.
"I'll make you one more promise, Leslie." I closed my eyes at the memory of her, and after a long while, I finally opened my eyes to who she had ultimately become. "I promise I will let you leave Elk Point if you catch the Hatchet Killer. You've done it once already, I really want to see you do it again."