For Vince it was something else entirely. From what Ronnie could hear, Lance had tried using various tactics when Vince became loud. Vince was often furious and who could blame him. She felt the same way, though her anger was internalized. Yelling and screaming about it wasn’t going to do anything to improve her situation, no matter how good it might feel to get some of this out of her system. Eventually Lance would do something to Vince and he would start screaming and even whimpering, which was terrible to hear. That, in addition to Lance cutting himself, was enough for Ronnie to keep quiet most of the time.
Vince didn’t like keeping quiet though. She could only imagine what lance had done to him. Sounded like a regular POW torture camp next door. That’s why when Vince spoke to her during the times Lance went out for food she rarely spoke back. Ronnie was terrified to find out what Lance had been doing to cause Vince such pain. When Vince wouldn’t shut up she feared that he would bring her into his world of pain as some kind of accomplice. Once or twice she almost yelled at him to shut up, dammit, shut up!
It took two days before Ronnie said anything to Vince. Lance left for food twice a day. They could hear his car start up each time, which turned into the signal that it was safe to communicate, though Ronnie kept herself reserved, always listening for Lance’s return. Best to keep quiet so he didn’t expect anything, not that Vince seemed to think in those terms.
“My name is Ronnie,” she had said one time, just after Lance’s car took off.
“I knew you were there, but I was beginning to wonder,” said Vince. “You’ve been so quiet.”
“I don’t want him to hurt me,” she said.
“What? Sorry, I can’t hear you. Can you speak up?”
Ronnie didn’t want to speak up, but she would have to for her voice to rise above the drywall barrier.
“I don’t want him to hurt me,” she repeated.
“How long have you been here?”
She thought about that. There were no windows or any real indication of what time it was. The overhead lights were always on. “Two days,” she’d said.
He had grunted and said, “I’ve been here a few days longer, I think.”
There was a moment of silence that whined in her ears. “Is he hurting you?” she asked.
“Sometimes. But I’m going to escape.”
A glimmer of hope. “How?”
His delayed response killed that small bit of hope. “Not sure, but I’ll try. One of these times when he goes out for food.”
“If you do, will you come get me?”
Another delayed response that didn’t exactly fill her with the hope she’d glimpsed. “Yeah.”
After that they were quiet until the next time Lance went out for food.
Over the course of the week they spoke to one another over the partition each time Lance left.
“What do you think he wants with us?” Ronnie asked.
“Don’t know. There must be something going on with all this artwork. I’ve never heard of a psycho artist kidnapping people to paint and draw and sculpt. Doesn’t make any sense.” After a moment of silence, Vince asked, “Has he… done anything to you? I mean, has he…?”
“Raped me,” she said. “No. Nothing like that. He hasn’t even laid a hand on me.”
“Strange. I can’t figure it out, and that bothers me. I feel like any moment he might just snap and finally kill us.”
“Yeah, me too.” Her voice was as delicate as thin blown glass.
“I’m working on loosening the straps,” said Vince, “but he keeps tightening them.”
Just then a door opened. Ronnie couldn’t see, but knew it was Lance.
“You planning to escape?” said Lance. “That what I just heard?”
Vince backpedaled and stuttered out a plea. There was a commotion, the sound of chair legs scraping on the ground. Vince was sniveling.
When Lance spoke his voice had a hint of good cheer. “You aren’t getting away from me. I’ll be sure of that.
“What the fuck are you doing with that?” said Vince.
“Just hold still and it’ll be over in a flash. It’s not as bad as you think. I kind of like it, just for fun, you know.”
As Vince’s pleas became shriller, Ronnie fought to keep it together. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic in her restraints. Vince’s panic was catching.
And then the loud banging plowed over the partition, a succession of five blows followed by agonized screams
“See, when I do it I don’t bleed,” said Lance. “I’ve been conditioned to like it. But I tell you, you’re pinned down now. Ain’t gonna be sneaking away anytime soon, that’s for sure.”
Lance appeared on Ronnie’s side of the partition with a hammer and a greasy bag of food. “Hungry?” he said with a grin.
Ronnie had been crying. Her eyes were sore. She shook her head.
“Me, I’m fucking starving.”
“What did you do to him?” she asked. Her voice came out all congested.
“Him?” Lance gestured toward the partition. “Nothing I wouldn’t do to myself. You know what my mom always said? Don’t do something I wouldn’t do, so I didn’t. In fact, I’m gonna do it to myself right now.”
Lance set the bag of food on his desk and jiggled the hammer in his hand. “You ever heard of Bob Flanagan?” he asked.
Ronnie shook her head.
“Oooh, well then you haven’t heard of shit. Bob was a goddamn revolutionary in the art of masochism. What that man could do with nails and a hammer would blow your fuckin’ mind.”
Lance set the hammer down and retrieved a nail. He scoured through boxes of tools in the corner of the room and came back with a rubber mallet.
“This’ll do,” he said. “I’ve gotta make sure you’re gonna cooperate with me now more than ever. Can’t have you squirming around and fucking things up, you hear?”
Ronnie nodded. She was becoming increasingly nervous about what Lance had in mind. The hammer and nails and now a mallet. Vince’s whimpers and cries had subsided, but only a little bit. Clearly he was in a great deal of pain.
Lance dropped his pants and Ronnie thought for sure he was going to rape her. She’d feared this since being kidnapped, but maybe it would be her only chance at escape. He would surely have to unfasten her restraints, and then…
Then he pulled off his underwear. Ronnie felt embarrassed, but when someone does something like that the first thing you do is look at them, and what she saw startled her. His penis was limp, much to her surprise, and it was awkwardly kinked. Lance slapped his prick on the desk. He held the hammer firm in his other hand. He grabbed a thick wooden ruler and slipped it beneath his member. When he placed a nail on his penis Ronnie winced. She didn’t have the same equipment, but she could imagine what it would feel like to…
Thwack! Lance brought the hammer down in three consecutive whacks, nailing the ruler to his penis. He clenched his teeth, but didn’t cry out or show much pain at all. If anything, he seemed quite pleased with what he had done to himself, as shown in the tightlipped grimace and the absurd glint in his eyes.
“Alright,” he said in the voice of a man holding back a great deal of pain, “now we’re going to get down to business.” Lance took a deep breath, tilted his head back and closed his eyes tight.
Ronnie’s eyes kept darting downward, shocked at what he’d done to himself. The ruler dangled between his legs like some crude method to stretch out his prick. There was little blood, which may have been the most disturbing part of it all. She’d heard of Indians who could stab needles through their skin without pain or blood. They believed it had to do with deep faith and mind power. She wasn’t sure what Lance thought he was pulling off, but apparently he had Bob Flanagan to thank for it.