Love You Always (15 page)

“Oh, yeah, you can’t leave the house.” He then gazes at me with a look so evil it makes me shiver. “Maybe it’s time for you to experience a good fucking.”

Oh God, here he goes—Mr. Hyde is surfacing again. How many times do I have to go through this hell? What happened to this guy to make him like this?—so sadistic and . . . creepy.

He moves in towards me and holds my face in his hands. He kisses me, but it’s hard and rough, not soft and tender as I had always imagined my first kiss to be.

Then, he pulls me down to the bed so I’m lying on my back.

“Please . . .” I beg, but he kisses me again. I don’t kiss back; I keep my lips tight, unyielding. He repulses me and I want to throw up.

“You aren’t supposed to hurt me or . . . or . . . you won’t get your ransom,” I try to convince him as my chest heaves with fear.

He laughs at my attempt at reason to save myself.

“Oh, we’ll get the ransom all right. Your brother will pay.” He’s all over me again.

“I wanted you last night, when I cooled you down. I wanted to fuck your sweet body, then,” he says with his mouth to my ear, in a voice deep and raspy.

“Please”—my arms try to push him away—“Don’t.”

I squirm, trying my best to get out from under him, but the weight of his body holds me down.

How can this be happening again? He stopped the last time; will he stop this time? Is he just playing with me again? God, what is his problem? He’s freaking crazy!

~* Angela *~

“Stop! Please!” I gasp for air and cease my struggling. “Please . . . please, I’ll do what you want, but I have to go to the bathroom . . . please.”

He looks at me with squinting eyes, then gets off me and stands to the side of the bed.

“You shittin’ me?” he eyes me curiously.

I sit up. “No, I need to go.” I give him a sincere look, but my mind is racing, wondering what the hell I’m going to do next.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me into the bathroom.

“Okay, go,” he says, staring at me, not making a move to leave.

“I need to do number 2,” I say, my eyes pleading with him. “I can’t do it with you watching.”

“Shit,” he says as he turns around.

“I can’t do it if you’re in here with me.”

“Goddammit, you better hurry it up.” He leaves, closing the door behind him.

I scramble through the medicine cabinet looking for the razor. I find it. Damn, it’s not the kind of razor that I can take the blade out.

What am I going to do?

I open the drawers under the sink and I find a pair of scissors. My heart thumps hard and fast, knowing that I’ve got one chance to use it, but if I miss, I’m done for. He’ll not only rape me, but he’ll kill me too, or at the very least, beat the crap out of me.

But I have to take the chance because he’s going to do it, he’s going to rape me, I know he’s not going to stop this time, I can feel it in my bones—my chilled bones.

The door opens abruptly, and I spin to face him, he’s standing there, seeing I’m not seated on the toilet. My hands are behind me as I lean against the sink, the scissors hidden from his view.

“You
were
shittin’ me,” he says. He isn’t yet making a move towards me, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Get out here,” he commands.

He’s going to make me come to him. I’m shaking, my mind reels with thoughts of how I’m going to stab him, and when to do it. Should I do it as I pass him, or when we get to the bedroom? I’m going to chicken out if I don’t do it now. Yes, I have to do it now.

I walk over to him, but his eyes look at my arm, the one partially hidden behind my back. Oh God, does he suspect? As I get closer, I ready myself, but he grabs me, and forces the scissors out of my hand.

“You little bitch. You were going to stab me, weren’t you?” And instead of getting mad, he laughs.

I’m panicking and before I can even think of the consequences, I knee him in the nuts.

He yells and doubles over, holding his crotch. I run, I run to the door, I don’t look back, I keep running for my life until I’m outside on the porch, and I scramble down the steps, almost stumbling, my heart pounds and pounds, and as I run a few more steps, I feel my head jerk back, it hurts like hell, and I fall backwards.

He’s caught me, and as I lie flat on my back, my ears are buzzing, my mind whirling as I look up and see his face. He’s fuming and his eyes—they look crazed. Oh God, what have I done?

“No more Mr. Nice Guy, princess,” he says as he straddles me. “I’m going to fuck you right here, in the dirt, so you feel grimy and soiled.” His eyes scan down my body. “But it’ll be so sweet for me.”

Oh God, no, no, no, please, nooooooo.

As he stands over me, he undoes his button, and unzips his jeans. My head hurts so badly, I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I’m heaving every breath I take. Terror courses through every part of me, causing my heart to pound with intensity, not only in my chest, but in my temples, behind my eyeballs, in my neck. My senses are screaming, anticipating the horror and atrocity that awaits me.

My mind yells at me to fight, to scratch him, to get up and run, but my body won’t listen. Am I in shock?—it’s how I felt the day of the accident.

He tears open my dress and I hear the buttons snap off, then his filthy touch is on my hips as he pulls down my panties. He spreads me, and I–I–I lie here, paralyzed, while the weight of his body presses me hard against the ground, and oh God, he’s . . .

I scream in my head, but no sound leaves my lips—no one will hear me anyway, no one is going to save me—not even Marcus, this time.

My horrified eyes look up into his contorted face. It hurts, God, it hurts. Stop, please stop, my mind screams out, but he doesn’t hear my cries, nor would he care. Tears spill from my eyes as my body heaves with every thrust he makes. He’s grunting and I don’t want to look at him, this animal, who’s hurting me, this inhumane creature who’s enjoying my torture, so I turn my head to the side, and my eyes cast upon a broken branch. Without any reservation, or fear of his retaliation, my hand moves towards it, my fingers inch their way until I grasp it, clenching it tightly in my palm. And with all the strength left in me, with all the repulsion I have for this man who so violently invades me, violates me as though I’m not a person, with feelings, with emotions, treating me like a piece of meat, flesh for his taking, leaving me scarred for life—I plunge it into his side.

He wails out in pain, and before he can move, I pull out my weapon and plunge it into his back. He rolls off me, groaning, moaning, lying next to me, bleeding, trying to move, to get up, but I must’ve stabbed a vital organ, because he’s unable to recover.

His breath huffs hard, fast, now he’s coughing and sputtering. I flinch at the pain as I push myself to sit upright. I gaze unsympathetically onto his face. There’s blood on his lips and his eyes stare up into mine, glazed, and if I had to guess, I imagine he can’t believe what I’ve done. I can’t believe what I’ve done. But I’m alive, and he’s going to die.

I just sit here, and the tears come again, so I sob and sob, feeling relief that it’s over, that I’m alive, but still feeling the intensity, the trauma, of what just happened.

After a few moments, I try to gain my composure so I can think of what to do next. My instinct is to run, to get far away from here, but my rationale takes over and I pause, to think more clearly and assess my situation, as I catch my breath.

How far is it to the highway or the next cabin? They could be in any direction and there’s no way I’m going to make it out there in the wilderness alone if I get lost. If that happens, where would I be? Dead in a few days if nobody finds me.

A chill runs through me when I realize that now I know, they weren’t going to let me go. This dead kidnapper, after what he did, is proof of that.

I’m being given a second chance to live. This thought brings a flood of tears to my eyes again.

While I sit here, staring at the dying young kidnapper, watching his breath slow until there’s no breath left in him, I realize my panic attack didn’t come over me. Maybe fighting for my life was bigger than my phobia. I guess there’s hope for me with battling that too.

As much as I loathe touching his dead body, I reach into his pocket and pull out his cell phone.

I dial Marcus’ cell.

“Hello?” I hear my dear brother’s voice on the other end and I lose it.

“Marcus,” I manage to say between sobs. “Please come get me.”

“Angela! Oh God!” His voice cracks as he says this. “Do you know where you are?”

“No. I’m in some woods—” I look around me “—and I–I–I can’t see anything that will help you.” My voice is shaking as much as my body.

“Are you using the kidnapper’s cell? The caller ID didn’t give me a name, only a number.”

“Yes. He’s dead. One of them. Not the other. The other one may come back at any time.”

“Oh God, Angela. Okay, I’m going to call the FBI and get them to track that cell so they can come for you.”

“Don’t hang up, Marcus, please, I–I–I don’t want to lose you.” Hearing his voice is the only comfort I have.

“It’ll only take a minute to call them, and I’ll call you right back. Okay?” His voice is calmer now, probably to try to calm me.

I can’t get rid of the shakes, and my heartbeats won’t slow down. Even if I’ve killed this kidnapper, my fear and anxiety continues to hang with me.

“Okay. Please call me back as soon as you can.” I try to calm my voice too, so he doesn’t worry, but it still comes out shaky.

“I will. I promise.”

“Love you,” I tell him, for I need to say the words in case I don’t make it, in case they don’t come for me in time and the other kidnapper finds me.

“Always,” is his reply, as always.

My hand goes to my charm pendant and I hold it tightly. Marcus once again to my rescue, and my good luck charm saves me—at least for now.

I hold the cell in one hand as I push myself up with the other so I can stand. My body hurts inside and out from the force and brutality my rapist inflicted upon me, but my need for survival overrules my pain. Flinching, I manage to get up off the ground and stumble towards the woods.

Oh God, I’m feeling a slight trace of panic attack coming on. I stop. I close my eyes. Go away, I need to get to someplace safe. Please let me get there. I can’t let my phobia hold me back. I open my eyes. Keep walking. Move. I can do this, concentrate on my goal, my destination, don’t think about anything else, just keep going, keep moving. I’m safe now, he can’t hurt me anymore, don’t give up. My feet finally listen to my thoughts, and I’m heading towards the woods to find a spot where I can hide if the other kidnapper comes back and looks for me. God, I hope Marcus finds me first.

I finally find a spot where I can hide safely, so I crouch in the nook of the log and sit and wait.

The cell rings. I hit the key to answer it immediately without looking at the screen.

“Marcus,” I say, anxious to hear his voice.

There’s silence.

“Who the hell is this?” asks the familiar voice, the other one who chills my spine, the one who would chop me up into little pieces.

Oh my God.

~* Marcus *~

“Agent Crowley, Angela just called me on the kidnapper’s cell.”

“Yes, we got it from tracing your call. We’re already on it.”

“Thank God!” I sigh with relief.

“I’ll pick you up so you can be there for her when my guys have her safely.”

“Thank you so much.”

When I hang up with Agent Crowley, I immediately call Angela back.

“Marcus, the other kidnapper called and I answered it without looking at the caller ID. I hung up right away, but he knows something’s wrong.” Her voice is in a panic.

“The FBI are on their way. Hang tight, sis.”

“Tell them to hurry, Marcus, I think the other kidnapper is going to come for me.”

Oh God, her voice trembles, she’s so scared, and I can’t be there for her, to comfort her.

“Angela, how much battery life do you have left on the cell?” I ask her.

“There are three bars,” she answers.

“Okay, good. I’m going to talk with you for only a couple of more minutes, but we may need to conserve the battery just in case. I’m sure the FBI has already pinpointed your location, but if you have to make an emergency call again, we have to make sure you have enough juice for it.”

She hesitates to reply.

“Angela?”

“Yes, okay, I understand.”

I realize that I haven’t even asked her if she’s okay.

“How are you doing?”

“Not so good,” she says.

My heart wrenches with her answer. She mentioned one dead kidnapper, so something happened, but I don’t want to ask her for all the details right now because I need to keep her calm. But also, the battery may go out in the middle of her telling me, and we can’t afford to have her lose the only method of communication she has out there.

“Are you hurt?” But this I have to ask her in case she needs medical attention and I need to let the FBI know.

There’s silence.

“Angela?”

She doesn’t answer but I hear her softly sobbing.

Oh God, what did the fuckers do to her?

“Marcus . . .”

I hold my breath, anxiously, yet warily, awaiting what she has to say.

“I–I–I . . .”

What’s she trying to say?

There’s silence again.

“Angela, what is it? Please tell me.”

She sniffles. “I love you.”

I let out my breath.

“I love you too.”

But I know that’s not what she originally wanted to tell me. She’s holding something back.

“Angela, I hate to have to do this, but we have to end this call.” My heart breaks to have to disconnect with her, to be unable to keep her company while she’s feeling so alone, frightened, and vulnerable.

“Okay.”

“See you soon.”

“I hope so,” she says as if she’s still skeptical of her rescue.

“Bye, Marcus.”

“Hold tight, sis.”

~* Kidnapper *~

As I’m heading towards town to the hospital, my wife calls again and tells me that my son’s in real bad shape, so they’re taking him into surgery immediately.