It was impossible to see him objectively. A reflexive surge of adrenaline turned her vision to TV static and there would only be a few short seconds to decide which course of action, if any, could be taken to escape. It could just be a coincidence, and he a lookalike, but the part of her brain that had learned to anticipate failure longed to recognize his brown hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, and his eyes so dark they were almost black. He was approaching fast, close enough that she could see the shadow of stubble across the hollows of his cheeks.
Victor had something square and black in his right hand – she thought it was a cell phone – and he sat next to her, shoving her close to the glass of the window and touching the device to her naval in one swift motion. Octavia had opened her mouth to scream when all of her muscles seized in a giant, excruciating cramp. She couldn't speak. She could barely breathe for a second. There was only the low crackle of electricity and a burn spreading over her abdomen like dozens of throbbing wasp stings.
Before she could recover, Victor had hooked his arms under her knees and back. Scooping her and the album into his arms and heading downstairs to the exit before the doors closed. Under his breath he said, "I bought you something new. What do you think?"
Octavia stifled a cry, gulping in air. There were only seconds left to ask for help. She scanned the train, where other passengers slid bags under their seats or talked on cell phones or read. She was afraid to cause a scene. A scene might not have helped her.
"The man who sold it to me," Victor continued, "warned that after too long, it causes permanent nerve damage."
She got one last glimpse of the little girl with pigtails, and her mother. Her stuffed unicorn was flying in controlled bursts from seat-top to seat-top, and the little girl crooned in her chipmunk voice, "We're going on an adventure!"
#
Once Octavia was seated in the passenger seat of Victor's truck, he chucked the album under her feet. There was a long, uncomfortable look at her sandals before he slammed the door and came around to his side to start the engine. They sat in silence as he pulled out of the commuter lot. He was going to drive her back the length of her victory lap, but much faster than she'd originally taken it, and she feared it would crush her for good.
"Where were you going?" He'd asked it like he was catching up with an old friend, though the red cast of taillights ahead made a demonic silhouette.
There were no right answers. This was not a hopeless or sarcastic thought; it was the result of months of study. After much trial and error, Octavia concluded that silence resulted in the same treatment as outright defiance. There was only one thing that brought additional or prolonged punishment, and that was honesty. She turned in the cab to study him, though she already felt what was coming before that. It was a small pull, like static cling. Sometimes she thought it was a sound, or a scent. It was something intangible, only Octavia knew it each time it happened, because after six long months with nothing else to do, she was an expert on Victor's behavior.
She lunged for the door handle and managed to pop it, but Victor's hand was already digging in his coat pocket. He struck her in the ribcage with the stun gun and her body leapt involuntarily. He pressed it to her armpit, then a spot above her hip, and she jolted and bucked against the seatbelt, door swinging away and back while drizzling rain splashed her exposed arms and legs. She still couldn't scream, though she wanted to.
Victor's anger was not yet spent and he seemed so bitterly dissatisfied. She couldn't even struggle against him. He threw the device out the open door past her, cursing. Octavia heard it crack against the street just before the door swung back enough to latch. The dome light went out, plunging them into more darkness.
"Did you see how everyone was dying to help you?" His voice boomed inside the cabin of the truck, so loud she covered her ears. "Was everyone as compassionate as you'd hoped?"
Octavia curled, weak and panting, into the crook of the door. Outside, the lights of distant houses swirled past. More betrayers.
"They don't care about you. I care. You don't appreciate it, but I care. When you weren't at home, I went looking. Do you think those people will come looking for you?"
"You left it unlocked on purpose," she said.
Victor swung the car into a lot underneath their apartment building and parked. "I am teaching you a valuable lesson. Now, give me the shoes."
There it was – that feeling of electricity in the air. He wasn't done yet. Octavia felt it like a chill across her neck, which could easily have been mistaken for the chill consuming her whole body despite the blasting of the truck's heater. She didn't look directly at him. Instead she remained slumped against her seatbelt, hoping he could see how fiercely she was learning this lesson. "I need shoes," she said, and clenched her teeth.
He lunged, tearing the sandals from her feet. She yelled as the thin plastic whacked her forearms, her hands, the top of her head. Hot tears rolled down her face, a salty mix of pain and embarrassment. It was over in seconds, then Victor got out of the truck and threw her new shoes into an overflowing dumpster at the edge of the lot.
He opened her door and his hands came out, gentle again. He helped her out of her seatbelt and onto the ground, steadying her on her bare feet. Everything was sore and aching. She was afraid she might have peed herself, but she was so drenched that she no longer cared.
"I can carry you," he said.
Silence. She shook her head, long hair a stringy mess.
"I'll carry you."
She pulled away, backing into the passenger door with a clang.
He stopped. Waited. "I got a job offer."
Octavia looked up, confident that the worst was behind them. They stood close enough to the edge of the lot that rain still drizzled on one side of them, running harmlessly in tiny rivers under her feet. If she looked over Victor's shoulder, she could still glimpse her pretty blue sandals at the top of the trash.
"This job is different, though. We have to move for a while," he continued.
There was something disconcerting in the tone of his voice. It wasn't easy to pinpoint: a waver, a note of sadness perhaps. One big hand clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed on the frame of the truck's bed.
"I won't be able to do this job if we don't trust each other. I have sheltered you. I have kept you safe, but I can't do it forever. Where we're going – I mean, I'll bring the handcuffs and whatever I can, but I can't promise it's safe. It's a lot of money though. We need this job. And because there are only so many ways I can protect you, I need to give you this now, before we move." He fumbled in his pocket for something and she prayed it wasn't another device like the one he'd used earlier.
A soft black box. A ring box. She looked down and past it, eyes glazing over for a moment. On the asphalt, a wimpy little worm inched its way back up the ramp toward grass, a journey that would take a lifetime in worm years. Most didn't make it, in Octavia's experience, which created a sad post-rain graveyard of dried husks, curled and paralyzed. A handful of other worms, all ejected from their homes by the rain, had already been smashed by Victor's tires.
"Open it," he said, a hopeful warmth in his cheeks. Octavia had never seen this look on him before – nervous.
Her fingers were slippery and her muscles shot, but she snapped it open. There was a gleaming silver band with a single, modest stone in the center. Beautiful. She didn't have to glance up to feel the weight of Victor watching her.
"What do you think?"
Victor lived in a land of his own logic – if he doubted his nonsense about protecting her, rather than holding her prisoner against her will, he never betrayed it. His fantasy was water-tight, enough to cause her an occasional slip, a moment of hesitation. She imagined Victor lived for it: that brief second when she asked herself if he was right. If she was crazy. There was a term for that kind of domestic abuse, and Octavia only knew it because she loved old black-and-white movies. Gas-lighting.
But there were small comforts, despite Victor's abuse. She had a place to sleep and a roof over her head. She had food and 'protection,' and why couldn't she handle just one more night of it? Had sitting on that train ruined her? Had the deep, coughing breath of gas station hot dog air?
One more night. Something would come along tomorrow. Octavia spread the idea like a balm. She couldn't imagine what she looked like to Victor right now. She couldn't conjure a thing in response, and if there was a punishment, she would take it. The box tilted awkwardly on her flattened palm, as if it poisoned her to touch it.
"Just think about it," Victor barked. His hand came down hard, snatching it away and stuffing it back into his pocket.
Octavia retrieved her album before Victor locked up, and when he turned to head upstairs she quickly bent to scoop up the scrawny worm, who wriggled and coated her hand in slime. She started up the ramp and deposited him safely back in the yellow grass, undetected.
Victor waited at the highest stair, holding the security door for her. "If you ever pull a stunt like this again," he said, "I'll fucking kill you."