Fear gets louder and begins to tap on my eyes, creating black spots in my vision.
Death! Death! Death!
It sings loudly and vibrantly. It wickedly chuckles after its chant is over.
I need to get out of here. I fight with the lock, attempting to get my hands free. The more I try, the more it chafes my wrists. I begin to cry out in my panicked daze.
“Fuck!” I continue to try to let myself free.
The handcuffs rattle against the bed causing an incessant noise. Through the shaking, I can’t hear his heavy footsteps come up the stairs. He begins to open the door and my breath catches in my throat.
When I see his face, a shudder comes over me.
“Kane,” I beg, “let me go!”
CHAPTER THREE: THE WAVE
“Now, that would be too easy,” he grins, “wouldn’t it, Ana?”
I continue to fight with the handcuffs.
“Maybe if you loved me, I would let you go.”
I look at him in pain. I do love him. I look at his face as closely as my watering eyes will allow. I have been trapped in his reflection since the moment I saw his face for the first time. The memories grow around me like a tidal wave.
I put my hand up against it. I refuse to let it crush me. The wave obeys. My heart beats. The weight of the water grows and my soul splits in two under the pressure.
Let go!
My conscience cries into my ears.
Keep holding!
The voices demand.
Tears start to fall down my face.
“Kane,” I say softly, “I will always love you.”
He looks at me. He reads my face like a book.
“Bullshit!” He yells, “you were going to fuck him, weren't you?”
I look at him pained.
“No,” I plead, “of course not.”
“If I hadn’t sent people looking for you, you would have.”
I lower my head, tears running down.
“I am empty without you.” He melts with his words. His face fills with faux happiness. It is at these times that I can physically see his addiction manifest.
I wipe my face of my tears. All of the emotion in me comes to a standstill when I think about the reality that I am in. I cannot keep coming back to him. I am nothing to him. I look up at him. He expects me to fall back into my loving glance but instead I greet him with a blank stare.
Stop! No!
The voices yell at me. I turn my head trying to distract myself. I cannot stop listening.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
He reads my facial expression and he realizes that faking love won’t get me in bed with him this time.
He grits his teeth. We momentarily combat each other with cold looks.
As our eyes meet, the dark, unforgiving reality of romance is unshed. Truly this is the end as we know it. When lovers look with hate and abusers greet with smiles. How am I to tell who is sincere?
The tension breaks as he raises his hand above my face. I know what is about to happen but I want to convince myself that maybe it won’t.
His hand swipes down and strikes me across the cheek.
“You are mine.” He spits.
He walks to the doorframe.
“All of the doors and windows are locked. Don't even try to get out.”
He slams the door behind him.
My face stings but I try to ignore it. Why am I so horrible? Every part of me knows that I deserved that.
You love him. You are loyal.
The handcuffs are for your own safety.
The voice are loud and clear.
No. I need to get out of here.
I need to escape. God, help me!
Stop! Don't fight it!
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
I fight with the handcuffs. I need to get out. I drown out the overwhelming voices and focus on getting out. It seems impossible. I am stuck here.
Haha! Death! Death! Death!
They laugh at me.
I stare at the ceiling. There is nothing left to hope in. There is nothing left to become. I am me and I have caused this by my mistakes and my mistakes alone.
As I stare at the ceiling, the light placed in the center begins to blink. It starts softly and gently at first but as I watch, it grows faster and stronger.
My eyes glue to it, completely entranced. The light shifts from its position and begins to move around the room. It moves quickly in short spans. It bounces like a magnet on a table.
As I watch, the light turns blue and begins to melt. The glass begins to fall back into the sand from which it was made and the plastic transforms back into the liquid it came from. It slowly slides down the wall and the ingredients combine to make a viscous slime.
My eyes flutter. The slime crawls across the floor. It slithers like a snake. Its contents continually fold over themselves to propel the movement.
It makes its way to the bed and begins to worm its way onto the comforter. Once it has a firm grip, it creeps its way up the bed and onto my ankles.
I try to kick it off and begin to scream for it to leave but my legs have become paralyzed and my voice switched off as if it were a light switch.
My eyebrows contort to match what my voice wishes it could be saying. The slime steadily squirms its way up my legs, numbing them at it moves.
It hits my thighs and begins to solidify. It continues to move up my body. It feels heavy as it grows more solid. It makes its way to my face and drops all of its weight on my mouth and nose. It falls completely into a solid and creates a concrete mask around my face.
I can’t breathe. My lungs begin to flutter, gasping for breath but I can’t respond to its request with the hardened slime over my nose and mouth.
I try to cry out or even move a limb. If I could only get help. If someone would come to my aid, perhaps I’d be saved.
My breath becomes sparse and I can feel myself receding out of my body and into my spiritual essence.
I am dying. I can feel it.
My soul is slipping out of my fingertips. It flows like a river of knowledge out of my palms and onto the floor.
This is the end as I know it.
The last breath escapes my mouth.
My arm twitches and I begin to pant. I look around the room. Nothing had happened. The room is as still as it was before.
Death is pretty, is it not?
I shudder. Part of me wonders if I put the fascination of death into my own head or if it was planted by some sick deity who feeds on my disdain.
As my eyes start to close and relax, I hear the lock on the door creak. The fidgeting continues for a moment until the door opens.
His face peeks out. His grimace hurts my soul. I know it seems ridiculous for me to be emotional about my kidnapper but our history makes hating him so much harder.
He walks in with a sly look on his face. He looks at me trapped to his bed and smirks. He is proud of himself.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice quivers more than I realized it would.
He searches his brain for an answer. As he stays silent, I see his smirk falter. His head begins to hang and he moves his eyes away from me.
After a second of holy silence he raises his eyes to me. He looks at me sadly, almost apologetic. I am immediately confused. Perhaps he has never heard me truly express the pain that he causes.