My fantasies are all floaty white dresses and woods. Whispered agreements of secret codes: safe words and promises. The scent of earth and the thrill of being a soft creature about to be devoured. Not cold metal and a polyester-covered bed.
Howard reaches out and I’m frozen in horror. No one will hear my cries and come to my rescue because the walls are soundproof.
I’m on my own.
Things I could say flick through my mind as though I’m super-speed reading a book as I thumb over the pages. Safeword. Orange. Red. Stop. Please, no. I don’t want this, and I don’t consent. If you were genuine, you’d have told me from the start that you knew about my anonymous online persona. No. Hard no. Real no.
We’re supposed to agree beforehand.
You’re a horrible monster, let me go.
This isn’t how I thought it would feel.
But as I look into my attacker’s eyes, I see no compassion. No understanding. Nothing that I can appeal to. I glance to the side, sizing up my potential escape routes.
He smirks and shifts to bar my flight. He’s not big and brawny, not like the man who lifted me out of a puddle last week. But I’m a slip of a girl, and he’s a fully-grown man. He doesn’t have to be swoon-worthy to be stronger. He has genetics on his side.
He’s herding me into the corner, I realise. I need to do the thing he doesn’t expect. So without looking, I throw myself across the bed, scrambling and rolling before circling around. But he’s got all the advantages. By the time I’m back on my feet and sprinting, Howard is in the little corridor space to the side of the bathroom, and slipping the security chain across.
“To ensure our game isn’t interrupted,” he says.
Dread pools lead into my stomach, slowing me down. I’m shaking, and tears threaten as he stands with his back to the door, that knife glinting.
“I’ve been thinking about where to cut your pretty body open and where I’ll see the life bleed out of you.” His smile is evil, crazed. “I’ve been looking forward to slicing out my trophy.”
It hits me then, really gets through to my bones. He’s going to kill me. If I can’t get away, I’ll die here.
I could try to fight him, but that knife remains in his hand. I can’t get past him, and yank open the door, even if I could get him away from it. By the time I’d got that safety chain off, he’d have the advantage if he didn’t already.
But beside me, there’s one last option.
I practically fall into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. The lock is a flimsy drawbolt that I barely ram into place before Howard hits the wood with a furious roar, but it’s better than nothing.
“Jenna!” he snarls. “What are you doing?”
I press my back to the door and close my eyes, willing my brain to find a way out of this and hoping my heart won’t vibrate itself to pieces from terror.
“I need the toilet!” I call back. Maybe I can buy time to figure out a plan. There isn’t enough air in this tiny bathroom, and I struggle to draw breath and my head sways.
Acting like an ostrich won’t help, so I force my eyes open and look for… Something. A weapon, perhaps? There’s a toilet, sink, shower cubicle, and a vanity washbasin with a mirror over it.
My reflection gives me all the answers I need. Short of throwing a toilet roll at my attacker’s head, I’m on my own. The only thing to save me, is me.
That and my phone, which I grab from my crossbody bag.
Who can I call? My parents are on holiday in… Actually, I’m not sure which Caribbean island it is this time. I chat with people online, but they’re hardly going to rush to my aid.
I can’t speak to the police. He’s one of them, so they’ll never believe me. And what would I say?
“Officer, your friend assaulted me. No, I didn’t consent. Yes, I do have a social media account full of nonconsent fantasies, but this was non-consensual nonconsent because we didn’t discuss it beforehand.”
Nope.
I really am alone.
I text my flatmate, but I know she won’t be any help. She works in a bar, and it’s a Friday freaking night. She won’t be sitting around, checking her phone for messages from me.
Maybe I can appeal to my stalker’s better nature? He follows my insta account, right? I open it up, and make a quick graphic.
Remember, everyone: it’s all fun and games until you say the safeword.
I’m going to have an avalanche of questions about what I mean, because this is hardly my typical content. I went viral for frisky micro stories about primal play. This is way too serious. Far too much reality, which is just about how I feel now.
Far too real.
I click to post, slide my phone back into my purse and lean against the vanity.
Will my stalker see it and understand? Howard’s better nature is probably non-existent, but I have to try.
There’s a knock at the door.
Silence.
Then another knock, more insistent this time.
“Who is it?” Howard calls suspiciously.
“Sir, there’s an enquiry about your bill.” The voice is male, rough, and low, with a hint of a Russian accent. But respectful.
Something about it drags at my memory.
“I’ve paid,” Howard snaps.
“Sir, I just need you to…”
An impatient sigh, the clink of the chain, a door swooshes, then a thump as a hard object hits the wall.
“Where is she, you blyat?” a man growls, and I’m confused. I’ve never heard anyone sound so furious. The rage boils out of this new man’s voice.
“Get off me, I’m not—”
“WHERE IS SHE?”
Fear streaks down my spine, but muted somehow. I think I’m… My head is swimming.
I need to sit…
I grasp out at the vanity as my knees give way, but end up slumped on the floor.
“Jenna.” The man’s Russian accent is really strong, and I tremble. “Jenna, let me in.”
Even if I was capable, I don’t know if I’d open the door. This might be my home now. Permanent residence on these cold tiles. But as I try to respond, it’s a croak.
“Zayka, let me in!” Pure panic is laced through the demand.
I remember… Something about that voice. The image of the man who rescued the puppy is blurry at the edges of my mind. And fragments fit together into a man I’ve seen repeatedly over the last couple of months.
The door crashes open and a tall man fills the doorway. I peer at him from the floor, and he sways in my vision. He’s tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered, wearing a dark suit.
“Jenna,” he says, falling to his knees before my prone body. His eyes are wild, feral. Winter-sky-blue.
And familiar.
The man I saw in the corner of the restaurant.
I assumed my stalker had deserted me tonight. Then, I realized I had dinner with my stalker.
My eyes roll back in my head.
My last thought before it all goes black: I have two stalkers.
