Lily
Already tired of being carried around like an unwanted sack of potatoes, I cringe when this behemoth reaches into the backseat of his car and throws me over his shoulder yet again to carry me up three flights of stairs to his apartment. It’s like he’s a Cro-Magnon man and this is all he knows to do.
“I can walk, you know,” I say as I bounce off his back with each step he takes.
He ignores me and doesn’t respond, which to be honest, isn’t a horrible thing. He’s cruel and has spent nearly every minute since we met threatening me. It’s just that I hate this thing he has with carrying me like some meaningless, inanimate object.
We pass a woman on the second floor with strange blue hair and a round face. Her eyes open wide as we walk by, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. I’m right there with her. I can’t believe this either.
My instinct is to make a joke of the whole thing so I don’t look like pathetic prisoner of this guy’s, but then a flash of brilliance hits me. If she thinks I’m in danger, maybe she’ll call the police.
So I quickly whip up some tears and begin to sob while I stare directly at her. “Please help. Call someone and tell them I’m not here of my own volition.”
His reaction is to spin around so fast I nearly throw up and snap at the woman, “Tell anyone about this and it’ll be the last time you’ll see anything. Understand?”
And with that little bit of viciousness from him, my one sure chance of getting help disappears as quickly as it presented itself. I watch the woman hurry into her apartment and slam the door on me and my plight, my hopes dashed completely when I hear her lock her deadbolt.
Still, my captor doesn’t say a word as he continues to march up the steps with me slung over his shoulder. By the time we reach his apartment, my ribs are killing me, and all the blood has rushed to my head.
He practically kicks the door open, and once we’re inside, he slams it so hard I expect it to come off its hinges. I take a quick look around my new temporary home and see he clearly doesn’t spend much time at this place. No pictures hang on the bland white walls, and other than a couch and a TV tray, there is no furniture in the living room. A heavy bag hangs from the ceiling in the corner of the room, not much help when it comes to relaxing. Then again, I don’t get the sense this guy relaxes. There is a TV, though, so at least I won’t have to sit in silence the whole time I’m here.
As I’m studying his apartment, he plants me onto the floor. Dizzy from hanging upside down for three flights, I sway left and then right before falling backward into him. My problem only serves to irritate him, and he once again stands me firmly on the floor, in the process squeezing my arms so tightly he surely leaves marks.
“Ouch! That hurts!” I cry out as I attempt to rub the pain out of my biceps.
His dark eyes flash pure rage at me. “Stand up straight. I’m not your fucking nursemaid. You’re lucky I didn’t toss you over the stairs onto the ground after that stunt you pulled with that woman. I swear to God you have a death wish, little girl.”
“My name is Lily. What’s your name? Maybe we could call a cease fire and start by using our proper names.”
He hesitates, and I have the sense that he doesn’t intend on telling me his name, so I force a smile and do what I can to smooth things over. “If I knew your name, I might not be so terrified and want to accost strange ladies on the stairs. I know you’re all about threatening me with bodily harm, but I am just a way to make my father pay up, right? Your boss doesn’t get what he really wants if it’s anything but money.”
His expression so full of rage morphs into something that resembles confusion or disgust. Or maybe a mixture of both. At least it’s not that pure anger that terrifies me.
“Do you ever shut up? You talk more than anyone I’ve ever met,” he asks in a tone that tells me it’s disgust he’s feeling at the moment.
I can maneuver around disgust better than rage, so I answer, “I just want to know what to call you. At the moment, all I have is Cro-Magnon since you’ve spent nearly every moment with me carrying me on your shoulder.”
He explodes for some reason I can’t figure out, his face contorting into a monstrous look that instantly makes my blood run cold, before he bellows, “Cason! Are you happy now? My name is Cason! Now shut the fuck up or I swear I’m going to end up killing you.”
Okay. The whole thing with him yelling so loud that the walls shook wasn’t great and him threatening to kill me another time wasn’t terrific either, but at least now I know his name.
Cason. I’ve never heard of that name. My curiosity makes me want to ask him about it, but after he quickly unties my ankles and wrists, he storms away toward the kitchen and I decide against it.
Maybe later.
I stand there in the middle of his barely furnished living room considering what my options are. Fighting him doesn’t seem to have worked very well. He appears to be someone who approaches every situation with anger as his base emotion, so fighting likely won’t get me far.
Crying hasn’t worked well with him so far either. That’s not surprising since he’s so angry. He’s probably been the cause of so many people crying that seeing tears doesn’t even affect him anymore.
As much as I hate to admit it, giving him the silence he wants seems to be my only option. The problem with that is I can’t make him consider me a person and hopefully not want to hurt me, or worse, if I can’t get him to talk to me. I’ve seen enough movies with bad guys who take hostages to know it’s key he sees me as a person and not just some thing to be traded for something else.
The clanking sound of pots and pans banging against one another pulls me out of my thoughts, so I poke my head around the wall into the kitchen to see what he’s doing. Cason is standing at the counter with enough cookware to make a meal for an army spread out in front of him, but he’s shaking his head.
“Excuse me, Cason? Can I help?” I ask in a tiny voice I hope won’t send him into a rage.
He shoots me a nasty glance and shakes his head. “What did I tell you about talking?”
Most people would walk away and give up around this time, but the mere thought of getting something to eat makes me more desperate than I should be, so I take a step into the kitchen and stop a few feet away from him. He glowers down at me with nothing but hatred in his eyes, so I force another smile I hope might melt at least a tiny bit of that hate in him.
“I’m a great cook. Whatever you want to eat, if you have the ingredients, I can make it for you,” I offer as sweetly as I can possibly get my voice to sound.
He lets out a heavy sigh, so I quickly add, “Having me cook will keep me from talking. It’s a win-win for you, it seems.”
I don’t get the pleasant thank you most decent people would give in response to such an offer, and he storms past me as he snaps, “There are eggs in the refrigerator, along with ham, onions, and peppers. Let’s see if you know how to make a Denver omelet.”
Silently, I answer his challenge. I can not only make a Denver omelet, but I make an incredible Denver omelet, Cason. Prepare to be blown away.
Ten minutes later, two omelets better than anything he could get served to him in a restaurant are ready. He seems to have disappeared, though, and when I look around for him, he’s nowhere to be found.
“Cason? Your omelet is ready,” I call out toward what looks like a bedroom.
Silence.
As much as I want to see the look on his face when he takes the first bite of my delicious meal, I can’t help but wonder if this is my chance to escape. If I could get down the three flights of stairs before he caught up with me, I’d be home free. I saw a neighborhood grocery store about a block away as we drove here, so all I’d have to do is reach there to get to a phone and call the police.
“Cason?” I say far more quietly than a minute ago and wait for any response.
Again, silence.
So I take the chance and move to leave, but he appears out of nowhere in the doorway to the bedroom just in time to see me reaching for the doorknob on the front door. I freeze, my fingers still on it, as he stomps toward me in all his terrifying glory.
Bracing for him to yell again or even finally hit me, I’m surprised when he stops next to me and simply stares down at my hand on the doorknob. No yelling. No lashing out. Just a simple question I don’t know how to answer.
“Planning to go somewhere, Lily?”
“I called for you to come to eat. I made the omelet you wanted. It’s probably cold now, but I can make another one. There are more eggs. Maybe not so heavy on the peppers, but I think it would still be okay,” I say, my thoughts quickly tumbling out of my mouth because of utter terror.
“Then let’s eat,” he says in a low voice tinged with impatience, still staring down at where my fingers remain on the doorknob.
Lifting my hand, I nod and follow him into the kitchen. This Cason is even more frightening than the Cro-Magnon version I’ve experienced up until now, if that’s possible. I don’t know why he isn’t screaming at me or threatening to kill me again. At least with that Cason, I thought I knew what to do. This one unnerves me to the core.
So I do what I always do when I don’t know how to act. I do the one thing he hates most.
Talk.
As he picks up his plate and begins eating standing at the counter, I say, “I hope you like it. I had to learn to cook very early in life after my mother died, so I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Omelets aren’t my specialty, but I have to say that I make a pretty good one. I’m better with meats than I am with eggs, but I think you’ll enjoy it. Do you use ketchup on yours?”
He doesn’t say a word in response but turns to look at me after taking his second bite. I know I’m aggravating him, but it’s almost as if I can’t stop myself.
“No, I guess not. I don’t use ketchup on eggs either. It sounds really disgusting, to be honest,” I continue to ramble while reaching around him to get my own omelet.
Maybe if I stuff the whole thing in my mouth I’ll be able to shut up. Cutting a piece off, I quickly start chewing, hoping he likes his food and hasn’t decided to kill me already.
The two of us stand there in silence while we finish our Denver omelets, him focused entirely on his food and me focused entirely on biting my tongue so more words don’t come flying out. When he finishes, he sets the plate and fork in the sink and runs some water to rinse them off. I expect him to finally say something, but when he does speak again, I’m shocked.
“Lily, do you have a death wish?” he asks so earnestly that I can’t mistake how honest the question is.
After swallowing my bite of omelet, I shake my head and fight back tears as terror courses through my brain. Did he just have me cook him a meal that he’s decided is my last one before he kills me right here? Did I finally push him too far with my talking?
“N-n-no. Why?” I stammer out.
Cason shrugs. “Just wondering. By the way, you make an incredible omelet. That might be the best one I’ve ever had.”
A sob escapes my mouth as the realization that he doesn’t plan to actually kill me right there in the kitchen at the counter where we’ve just shared a meal settles into my brain. He stares at me like he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with me, and for possibly the first time in my life, I can’t explain what I feel.
When he leaves me standing there in shock at the first kind words he’s said to me, I can’t stop myself from crying. I muffle the sound of it, but whether it’s because of all that’s happened or how I’ve never felt more terrified than I did at that moment when he asked me if I had a death wish, I can only cry.
I hear his phone ring and quickly finish my meal before the next shock comes at me. The running water to wash the dishes drowns out his conversation, and when I’m done, I turn around to see him standing there behind me.
“Time to get settled in. Come with me.”
The relief I felt a few moments before when I believed he wouldn’t kill me evaporates as I follow him into the living room. There waiting for me is a single orphaned wooden chair from some dining set long gone from his apartment. It’s placed in front of the TV, but just the sight of it makes me feel like I’m going to throw up my eggs.
“What’s going on?” I ask, unable to stop the words from coming out.
“I have to go back to work, but you’re staying here,” he explains as he steps behind the chair. “Come here.”
Staying here? Alone? He trusts me to stay in this apartment alone? For how long?
I do as he orders and stop next to the chair, still not understanding what he’s got planned for me. “How long will you be gone?”
Pointing down at the seat, he answers, “A few hours. Sit down. I won’t be gone so long that you’ll be uncomfortable.”
Now he cares about my comfort level? What’s going on? He hasn’t cared one bit about me being comfortable since the moment he hauled me out of my home hours ago. Why now would he care?
My hands begin to shake, but I do as he says and sit down on that old wooden dining room chair. It creaks when I put all my weight on it, and then I realize he’s leaning over the back of it so his face is next to mine. In his expression, I don’t see anger or rage or anything I’ve usually seen in it up until now, further confusing me.
“Cason, what’s going on?”
I hate how scared I sound, like a frightened little girl being forced to do something for the first time and not sure she can handle it. I want to be brave. I want him to think I’m strong. But at this moment, I’m anything but and feel like I’m going to burst into tears at any second.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the rope for the first time. All of a sudden, everything makes sense. The chair. Where it’s positioned in the room. His concern about my comfort.
Terror races through me, and then faster than I could ever imagine a person could move, he wraps the rope around my wrists, my ankles, and my chest, restraining me to the chair even worse than he did to ride in the car. His large hands move deftly, proof that this isn’t his first time tying someone up.
“Cason, I swear I won’t do anything. Please don’t tie me up like this. What if I have to go to the bathroom? Please,” I beg, but to no avail while I tug against my restraints.
All he does is shake his head and smile. “I won’t be gone for long.”
And just as I think this couldn’t be worse, he pulls out a red bandana. Holding my head still, he stuffs it into my mouth. Looking down at his handiwork, he moves his hand next to my face and gently caresses my jawline. I want to shake my head so he can’t touch me like that. I want to cry out past the piece of fabric pushed into my mouth.
But more than anything else, I want to cry.
His hand slides down so it circles my neck, his fingers pressing just hard enough into my flesh to be an unmistakable warning. “Be good, Lily, and I promise you’ll be happy you behaved. Try to scream or cry out for help, and I swear to God what I do to you will be beyond your wildest nightmares,” he says in a low voice that sounds almost like a lover’s.
If he wasn’t threatening me.
His expression is emotionless, but in his eyes, I see something I can’t place. It’s not anger or even unhappiness. If anything, the look in his eyes is one I’ve seen before in men.
The look they get just before they get off. That’s it. He’s enjoying this. This thrills him some way.
Sobs overwhelm my urge to tell him to fuck off, and he walks over toward the TV to turn it on. How nice of my captor.
Pointing the remote at it, he flips through the channels and says, “I’ll put something on for you to watch so you don’t get bored. I won’t be long. Remember, be good, Lily.”
He leaves me sitting there tied up to that chair with his words echoing in my head. Be good, Lily.
It’s all I’ve ever been, and look where it’s gotten me.
