Even after Michael leaves I'm afraid that he is watching me from behind a corner, ready to pounce. Even after I take my bath, I still feel so dirty from what Michael made me do. Even after I slide my own clothes on, I still feel the hard chill of his touch.
His lips pressing hard against mine. His tongue taking over my mouth. His hands pulling at my hair and gripping me like I'm his possession. His eyes. His cold blue eyes that always fix on me with hunger.
Every part of him scares the living shit out of me, and I'm afraid to see any more of him.
I have to find a way out of here. For my dad. Who I've seen get tortured to death. For Michael's other victims, whom I don't know, and will never know. For me. Because I can't think of anyone who deserves this hell.
I comb through the kitchen for something, anything, to use as a weapon. I hope to find a steak knife or corkscrew, but I have no such luck. Michael obviously thought of everything. The best I can find is a butter knife, but what good will that do me in a struggle for my life?
I slide the knife back in the drawer and heave a sigh.
Testing the door is the next logical step. The knob turns without a fuss and the door opens. I guess Michael just has the door here for privacy purposes.
After testing the basement door, and finding it locked tight, I take a seat at the bottom of the stairs. I burry my face between my knees and scream at the top of my lungs. My fingers claw through my damp hair as my screaming dies down a little.
My mental breakdown is cut short when I get the idea of trying the lock.
I make my way over to the locked cellar doors and pull hard on the chains. The cold metal barely budges from the doors.
The only way to get out is to pick the lock... which I don't know how to do...
I rub my neck in frustration and feel a tiny sting.
Of course! A needle could work! I guess a used needle would be in the trash...
I go back to the kitchen and pull the bin from under the sink. I dump its contents onto the floor and spread everything out. There's the hamburger helper box from earlier... A couple of bloody paper towels... Used tissues... Gross...
I heave a sigh and begin shoveling everything back into the trash bin one by one. Tissues, box and finally the bloody- ouch!
I stick my finger on something wrapped in the paper towel. Whatever it is, it just might work on the lock.
I toss the bin back under the sink and shoot back to the locked doors. My fingers rip the towel open like a Christmas present and remove a used needle.
Gross, but I hope that it'll work on the lock.
I stick the end of the needle into the lock and wiggle it around. Nothing.
The wiggling grows more frantic as I panic. My tool slips right out of the hole and rips into my thumb, deep and hard enough to draw blood, and causing a jagged line going down, starting right on the edge of my thumbnail.
After a tiny shriek and sucking on my stinging wound, I return to my work.
After what feels like hundreds of carful twists and jabs in the hole, the lock at last clicks open. My breaths are shaky as I remove the lock and slide the heavy chains off the doors. I bite my lip in anticipation for what waits outside.
As I push the doors open, the bright light of the sun nearly blinds me. How long have I been locked down in this basement?
It occurs to me that I don't care. I lift myself out of my prison and feel the soft dirt beneath my feet.
There's nothing to see besides a myriad of trees. Great. The house is located in the middle of a forest. Just my luck. If I ran, I'd probably die before really getting anywhere; especially if it's already been a couple hours since Michael had left.
I drop to my knees and run my blood-free hand over the dirt. The basement is so white and pristine, that anything earthy feels like a blessing. I pick up a small handful of the dirt and let it crumble between my fingers. It feels so peaceful... Despite the metallic taste of blood on my thumb. I hadn't even realized I'd put it back in my mouth.
The smell of the trees brings back so many memories. Mason taking me out to go fishing and camping after my mom died. Lord knows dad didn't care about it, anyway. The soft breeze feels so nice beneath the summer heat. The sun beaming down at me only makes me want to get home more.
I have to be smart about this. If I leave now I won't get far before Michael catches me and brings me back. I don't even know which way to go. To get back home. To get back to... To... To what, exactly?
My dad is dead. There's nothing to go back to. Except, maybe Mason. But even if he did help, I'd eventually go into foster care.
Tears slide down my cheeks and I wipe them away with the heal of my hand.
I don't know how much time has passed when I hear the thundering of a car engine and the crunch of gravel. My head bolts up and I spot the pickup truck pulling up to the driveway.
Assuming the worst, I leap back down into the basement and pull the doors shut, shutting out my precious glimpses of the sun. The chain is heavy and loud as I wrap it around the handles like I found it. When I finally loop the lock around the respective links, the door to the basement opens.
Shit!
I don't think, I just run back to the room like I did before. Without taking my eyes off the stairs, I slide onto the bed and grab the first book in reach. My fingers flip to a random page and I glimpse Michael's feet at the foot of the stairs.
That's when I actually decide to skim the pages of the book to seem casual. Casual... Well, as casual as I can be.
The blood is seeping from my thumb, onto the page! No! The scratch is still bleeding very badly, so I stick my thumb in my mouth to hide it from Michael.
"I'm back," he announces loudly. I'm so concentrated on hiding my thumb that I don't see Michael wrapping his hand around my damp head and planting an overly perky kiss on my hair. I flinch away without looking at him. "You still suck your thumb?" I'm not quite sure how to answer that, so I just settle for a quick nod. "Yet another thing I didn't know about you." He drops a plastic bag to the ground. "Good toilet paper. Just what you wanted." I don't look up from the pages of my book. "How about a 'thank you', or maybe another kiss?"
I gently pull my stinging thumb from between my teeth and mumble a "thank you." Michael grins and plops down next to me, draping an arm around my shoulders.
I turn the page of my book and scan the print without reading.
"Whatcha reading?"
"Ender's Game."
"I've heard of that one," he says, resting his chin on my shoulder. I assume he's reading over my shoulder, because the thought of him looking somewhere else is very unsettling to me. "Is that blood?"
"Huh?" I forgot to stick my thumb back in my mouth. "Just a hangnail gone bad," I lie.
Michael grabs my hand and examines the bright red line with strong intensity. His fingers squeezes around the cut and blood seeps out until it collects into a huge drop on one end. I freeze as Michael wipes the blood away and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. "Not like any hangnail I've ever seen."
He rises from the bed and pulls me up with him. I drop my book on the pillow and let him lead me out to his torture area. "Sit down," he orders, nudging me into a chair that looks like it came straight out of a barber shop. A set of handcuffs are fastened on either armrest. My spine stiffens at the mere thought of someone struggling against them.
I sit myself down and don't move my eyes away from the handcuffs.
Michael goes to unlock the closet next to the shackles on the wall. My father's blood is still staining the milky white tile. I hear him going through several drawers and removing a few things.
When he turns around all I can see is a first aid kit. He kneels down beside me and takes my hand to disinfect the gash. It stings, but I don't mind the feeling. After wrapping a brightly-colored Scooby-Doo bandaid around my thumb, I mumble another "thank you," and start to get up from the chair only to be pushed back down, causing my blood to freeze in my veins.
"Don't thank me yet, September." He grips my wrist and cuffs me to the chair. I freeze and let him secure my other wrist as well, and my ankles to the footrest of the chair.
"Now, are we going to build this relationship on lies?"
What relationship?
When I don't answer he rephrases his question. "Are you going to tell me the truth? What did you do today?" I glance over his shoulder at the heavy doors and he follows my eyes. He licks his lips and goes to examine my escape route. His fingers curl around the lock and with a slight twist of the wrist, the latch turns without a key to unlock it. He turns back to me, his eyes narrow behind his glasses. "How?"
My knuckles turn white as I grip the armrests. I swallow my guilt and look him dead in the eye as he walks back to me, arms crossed. "I used an old needle," I confess. There's no point in lying to him.
He clamps his hands hard over my arms and narrows his eyes even harder at me. "Look at me." I look up at him. "I think you know what we're gon' have to do now."