Frayed Rope (4 page)

“My boy Danny has been looking after your identification. The name and birthdate you chose to use, along with a social security number, have been established. Everything’s a go once we get your picture for a driver’s license.”

That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.

We couldn’t take my photo last time I was here due to the welts and bruises, and definitely not before I had the surgery. One photograph and this will be over so I can be on my merry way.

“I appreciate that Tiny. When and where for the photograph?”

I’m not trying to be rude, but short and sweet is how he met me and I’m not about to change now.

“Here and now, if you’re good with your appearance sweetheart. Danny’s got a room upstairs where he can take it.”

He lowers his eyes in thought, sadness takes over his features.

“You know, I sure do miss that pretty blonde hair, girl.”

I miss my blonde locks too, but I’m a different person now.

“Blonde hair could get me killed, Tiny.”

He looks at me with his sad but kind grey eyes and nods his head. We both know he meant nothing by it, but that doesn’t mean we’re not mourning the loss.

“Alright girl, let’s get you set up with Danny.”

* * *

I punch the number into the panel beside my storage unit. No cheap lock and key business here. I paid a pretty penny for this space with such high security. With a full-time front desk guard, a passcode to get into the lot and another to enter your unit.

8675309.

Clever, I know.

When you’re leaving an old life and trying to start a new one, from scratch I might add, your memory tends to get a little bogged down with all the new info you’re supposed to retain. 8675309 is easy and so annoying it’s unforgettable.

The locks disengage and I slide the door open. I’m greeted by one big empty shell that contains an old military issue ruck sack I picked up at a flea market and a lone box sitting on the back wall.

Not just any box mind you, it’s the box that holds my past life, the box that contains flash drives of my family memories, as well as numerous notes and information from my attack (much of which went unheard of by the authorities). Not because I didn't tell them, more like they didn't believe me. I know I’ll prove them wrong, but today’s not that day.

Today I need to get back to Blacktop and hook up with Tiny so I can pick up my new wheels before the dealer closes.

* * *

Tiny is standing on the front stoop of the bar when I roll in. He’s not one to waste time, much like I’m not one to waste his, seeing as he probably doesn’t have much of it left. I roll down the passenger window when I come to a stop.

“I’m ready when you are old man.”

Tiny ambles down the steps and into my truck. Well, his truck I suppose. Last time I was here I paid him cash for a year’s advance on the insurance and use of the vehicle. I got wheels without needing to use my name, and he got a significant tip that I’m sure has funded his upcoming funeral.

“Have a look at these before we head out girl. Danny does good work and I think they look plenty fine. But we’re not leavin’ here until you’re happy with ‘em.”

He hands me an envelope containing my new I.D. First up is my new social security card.

Elle Davidson.

I’ve been preparing for this; we’d chosen my name months ago. I suppose it’s just going to take some getting used to on paper. The driver’s license shows me from yesterday. Grey long sleeve top and hair pin straight around my face. I wore little makeup and put in my fake colored contacts to mute the bright green in my eyes. My birth year is the same but I’d chosen a different month and day.

“These turned out great old man.”

I can’t say much more than that because my mouth is dry. This is it; I can finish the move and start my new life.

“Like I said before girl, I ain’t got a passport for ya. So long as you don’t plan on leavin’ the country, the stuff in that envelope should get you by. Social security check would show you worked as a waitress and bartender most of your life. It ain’t much but it covers your ass if you need it.”

He knows as well as I do that I’ve no intentions of working any day soon. I have enough to get me by for quite a while. A good chunk is in my rucksack waiting to be handed over for the smell of leather and shiny new paint.

Tiny knows the owner of the dealership where I’m picking up my new BMW, a sleek black SUV with plenty of room and a great safety rating. After a few hushed words and a stack of cash later, it’s time to part ways.

I’ve loaded up the truck with my gear and folded the seats down to make room for Norm. It’ll take us a few days to get to North Carolina at the pace we’ve been travelling. I give one last look to the old man. Without him a lot of this wouldn’t be possible; I’d still be struggling with fake names and no identification to get around with.

“You take care of yourself out there sweetheart. Don’t forget, you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

I reach my hand out and rest it on his chest on top of his worn leather vest. Other than a handshake, it’s the first time I’ve really
touched
anyone since the attack. I reach up on my toes to plant a chaste kiss on the old man’s cheek. His eyes are closed and I’m pretty sure that small sentiment of gratitude means more than all the money I’ve given him these past few months. In fact, I know it does.

“I won’t forget old man.”

I pat him on the chest then climb into my SUV and turn over the ignition. I could’ve said thank you, but this moment was the perfect parting for both of us. He knows what I just said with my actions will mean more than any words that could’ve come out of my mouth. I put on my sunglasses, give one last nod, and make my way out of the lot.

Elle Davidson.

I can breathe again.

Chapter Four

His hands squeeze tighter around my throat. My eyes roll back into my head. My lungs are on fire.

“Say it you fucking cunt, say that you’ll be better! Tell me how fucking sorry you are!”

I open my swollen eyes as much as I can manage and look him in the eye before speaking,

“Fuck you,” I hiss, blood pouring out of my mouth.

He slams my head back against the wall and starts pacing like the fucking madman he is. I can feel blood running down my neck from the uneven cinderblock that my head just made contact with.

I take in the shrine on the far wall that’s been mocking me for days. Photos of me getting out of my pickup truck. Photos of me at the local waterhole with a beer in my hand and older photos of me having dinner with an old flame. How the fuck didn't I notice this psychopath following me? It’s a small town for Christ’s sake!

I don’t show him my fear at how well he knows my life, how much he’s documented me. Sick fucks like this feed on fear. I’ll leave him starved.

His pacing begins to slow which means he’s got something to say to me. Or, he wants to torture me again.

Both are hell.

His screechy voice always sounds like nails on a chalkboard. The beatings usually happen when I’m hanging from the beam across the ceiling. He lowered me this time to use to the washroom, which is nothing but a piss bucket in the corner. I know there’s a real bathroom outside this room. I’ve heard the toilet flush and the constant drip from the tap.

Maybe he wants me to feel humiliated.

If he let me use it, he’d have to undo the ropes that are still wrapped around my wrists, a rope leading to a giant ring bolted to the floor.

I’m led around this room like a dog, only dogs have the pleasure of seeing the sun rise and set. This windowless tomb gives me nothing. He begins to gather up the slack which means it’s time to stand up. I hate to give him the satisfaction when I help. Days without food and very little water hasn’t helped much in terms of my energy level.

He yanks on the rope and I drag my bloody feet across the cold concrete floor. I make my way toward the middle of the room where I am to hang like fucking mistletoe on Christmas, but he surprises me by moving around so he’s facing my back. This is new, I’m not hung up yet; the eye bolt in the floor to my right is where he’s been tying the rope off, where he pulls the slack through to hoist me off the ground.

Not today.

Quick as lightning he wraps a loop of the rope around my neck and begins to pull it tight. I’ve barely recovered from his hands around my throat and now I’m struggling against the frayed rope’s harsh abrasiveness.

“Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you’re SORRY!” He chants, over and over again into my ear.

I can’t breathe

I can’t fucking breathe!

My vision is going blurry. My lungs are burning from a lack of oxygen.

I give up, I fucking give up!

* * *

I wake with a start and I’m gasping for breath. My hands clasp my throat. I hear whimpering from Norm beside the bed. She’s used to these, my nightmares and the screaming. I pat her on the head and climb out of the sweat-soaked sheets. I strip off my clothes on the way to the bathroom for a shower. It’s one of the few things that clear my head after the evil invades my sleep. A glance at the clock tells me that it’s almost five in the morning.

This is what I like to call a good night. I went to bed around eleven so the fact that I got six hours of solid sleep that wasn’t alcohol induced is a small miracle.

We’ve been in our new home for over a month now, and things here are starting to look better. I rented the house from an older man named Tom Morgan who used to live here with his wife until she passed last year. After that, he took up living on his large fishing boat in Singer Harbor.

“
This place is not much of a home without her,”
he’d said about my new abode.

So now it’s mine to do with as I wish for meager rent which I paid a year in advance (It was that cheap). Tom was more than happy to rent it to me long term since the few weekly rentals he had became more of an inconvenience to him than a gain. He promised to let me know if anyone else inquired about renting the small, cottage-style home on the water because I don't plan on leaving any day soon. I would advance him more rent to secure my spot.

Tom assured me he cancelled his contract with the rental agency, so I’m good and clear to stay as long as I like. He never asked for a credit check or prior references (which the rental agency would have pushed on).

Apparently, Tom didn’t sense any threat or bad juju from a thirty-year-old single woman who travels with her dog and pays in cash. I asked him if I could upgrade a few things while I’m here. He said,
“don’t care what you do, so long as when you leave, it’s still rentable.”
The decor was old and the upgrades keep me busy.

The moment I saw the photo on the rental site I knew I’d love it here. The rugged features with whitewashed wood accents gave it a lot of curb appeal. Wooden steps lead up to the home that’s built up off the ground. A small porch with a bench welcomes you before you open the squeaky screen door; I never lubed the hinges since I consider it a security feature.

The home interior has slowly transformed to my liking. The dark wood floors are a nice contrast to the tan colored L-shaped sofa I bought last week. I had a more modern fireplace installed underneath the television on the wall in front of the sofa. The kitchen and living room are one open space but there’s a long island that separates the two rooms, much like in Phoenix, but this one is home to four deep red leather bar stools that I picked up in Jacksonville last week.

I know I don't need four, I have no friends to eat with and I don't plan on inviting anyone for dinner anytime soon, but they suit the space and only buying one stool would’ve aggravated my mild case of OCD. I kept the old solid wood table that Tom left here and use it as a desk for my laptop.

The left side of the house boasts one large bedroom with a walk-in closet and an ensuite bath. The door on the right in the hallway leads into the laundry room, and from there you can continue on into my closet. Beyond the closet is my bedroom. The bathroom also has two doors, one access from the hallway and one access from my bedroom. Full circle is what I like to call it. I can walk into my bathroom, through my bedroom then into my closet and out the laundry room door.

If anyone tried to break in or someone found me it’s highly unlikely they’d assume all the exit points from one of those rooms. It’s a relatively small abode but it’s more than enough space for me, perfect for a close couple or single woman with a dog. I couldn’t have found a better spot to stay.

* * *

I make my way to the kitchen after my shower to start the coffee. Tightening the sash on my robe, I look out the window at the calm water while I wait for my brew. As much as I hate the mornings, this view always brightens my day. The colors on the water when the sun starts to rise are spectacular. It’s the bright orange mixed with a deep red you normally only see at Christmas.  It’s quite spectacular. I’m grateful that the temperature is just warm enough to enjoy my coffee on the deck.

I grab a throw from the back of the couch and stuff my cigarettes into the pocket of my robe. I’ve cut back on smoking significantly since we moved here. I’m by no means close to quitting, but the amount I indulge in has cut in half.

Baby steps.

I work my way out the screen door off the kitchen to the back porch. The double-wide lounger I bought for it out here is phenomenal. The back porch facing the water has an extended roof so I don't need to worry about bringing the double-wide cushion in every time it rains. I set my coffee down on the small side table and curl up in my new favorite resting place.

The porch is about ten feet wide by twenty-five feet long. The lounger is to the left out the door, and the barbecue sits adjacent to a small table to the right of the door. A wide set of steps lead down the middle of the porch and another off the far end near the barbecue. I have gates on both of them so Norma can enter the fenced portion of the side yard at night. I don’t want to have to look for her in the woods at night, not because I’m afraid of the dark itself, it’s what could be in the dark that terrifies me. Through the day she’s full speed ahead where the grass meets sand then fades into water.

There are a lot of trees to the left of my home and close to the water. I’ve seen a few people making a loop to walk around the shore. Homes and cottages are sparse at this end of the lake. The opposite side is mostly marsh so there aren’t any there. There are only a few to the right of mine. Well, I can see one from my porch and another that's a bit further down. I don't explore much since I’ve been too busy trying to settle in and get a handle on my surroundings.

Tom told me it stays pretty quiet here and the man who owns the place closest to me is away more than he’s home. It’s a military town and most of the people here come and go frequently, so my unknown neighbor’s absence doesn’t worry me. I put great thought into moving here. The first thing that drew my attention was the beautifully scenery, the second was knowing there would be people living near, most of whom fight for a living.

This decision was originally made when a man in the parking lot the night of my abduction refused to help me. I was completely helpless and screaming, being dragged toward a van. 

The man just watched, stunned.

Useless.

I’d like to think if something similar were to happen here, that a man, who sacrifices his life for his country and the people in it, certainly wouldn't be such a pussy and come to my aid, unlike the useless fuck that stood by in a washed-up suit with his mouth hanging open, nothing coming out.

I found out after my attack that the man did call the police.

Two days later.

After I was reported missing.

The authorities informed me afterward that he was at the bar that night to meet up with his mistress, after he told his wife he was at work. Calling the cops right away might have caused him a divorce, which apparently happened anyway.

If he just would’ve said something, called for help, followed the vehicle I was taken in!

I remind myself that what ifs will get me nowhere, and simply pray that the new people I’ve moved among have more morals than the idiot who thought saving his marriage was more important than saving a life.

I suppose if my new neighbor is never home, hoping that someone will come to help is a bit of a long shot. Or no shot at all if someone were to attack me at home without anyone around to hear my cries for help.

I try not to dwell on that too much by keeping myself busy around the house.

Other than some paint and new furniture, the house is pretty much complete. I painted the bedroom a deep golden color that looks nice behind the nearly black furniture. I also spent a fortune on a killer mattress with a low bed frame and leather headboard. The cream colored Egyptian sheets and abstract fluffy duvet bring it all together.

Other than that, I don't plan on making any more large purchases. There could come a day when I have to leave at the drop of a hat, and I’m prepared for that. I keep my spare truck key locked inside the vehicle and my rucksack is packed with the essentials, ready to grab and go.

Danny from Denver was kind enough to hook me up with two small handguns for a pretty penny. They make me feel safer at night. I always have one close by and they too are ready to go when I am. I’d like to say the guns are enough but I couldn’t stop there, I needed more protection.