The two cabinets above the kitchen sink held boxes of cereal and Saltine crackers. There were no dishes. No stove. The drawers didn't contain any silverware or anything sharp, just paper and sanitary napkins, tampons and an odd assortment of makeup. The refrigerator was stocked with cartons of milk, orange juice, yogurt, plastic bottles of Poland Spring and almost every type of soda – Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, Dr Pepper and Slice.
Hannah's attention shifted to the centre of the room, to the white roses in a plastic vase sitting on top of the small, circular dining table. The petals had started to wilt.
A rapist wouldn't leave flowers for her. A rapist would come in and have his way with her.
Walter hadn't come into her room (yet, she reminded herself). Every time he brought her meals (three times a day) he placed a plastic tray in the food carrier and slid it through without saying a word. For lunch (or was it dinner?) he had made chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.
Hannah rolled over in her bed and shut her eyes. Her roommates had to be wondering why she hadn't returned home. Monday morning she was scheduled to work the early shift at the deli. If she didn't show up, the owner, Mr Alves, would call her at home and leave a nasty message on the answering machine. Robin or Terry would hear the message and call her parents. Her parents would call the police. People would start looking for her. She needed to find a way to hold on and survive until she was found.
What if they couldn't find her? Wouldn't there come a point where the police would stop looking?
She couldn't think about that. She needed to stay positive, as impossible as it seemed, and keep her head clear so she could think.
Yesterday, after breakfast, Hannah searched the room for something she might be able to use as a weapon. No microwave or coffee pot. The small colour TV was bolted to its small wooden stand. No hot water in the sink, only cold. The refrigerator's produce drawers had been taken out. Apparently Walter was afraid of her using one of the drawers to try and knock him over the head or something. He had used chains and padlocks to secure the two dining chairs to the table legs. She could move the chairs out to sit but she couldn't use them as weapons. Walter had foreseen that option. The table legs were too thick and sturdy; she couldn't break one off unless she had a saw.
At some point Walter would want to have his way with her and she needed to be prepared. Taking a deep breath, Hannah forced herself to look at the room again.
34
Okay, Hannah thought. What places haven't I searched?
The mattress and chair cushions.
Needing to do something, Hannah got out of bed and moved her hand between the mattress and box spring. Failing to find anything, she moved to the leather chair, removed the seat cushions and searched the dark crevices with her fingers. They bumped up against something hard. Please God let it be a knife, she thought, and pulled the item into the light.
It was a small spiral memo pad, the kind that could easily be tucked inside a shirt pocket. Hannah opened the notebook and saw pages written in faded pencil. She read the first page. I found this notebook on the floor under the bed. A small pencil was tucked inside the spiral. Walter must have dropped it – when, I don't know. Maybe during one of the times we fought. The notebook must have slipped out of his pocket or shirt and he forgot about it. He was using it as a grocery list. Now I'm using it to write down my thoughts. If I don't do it, I'll go insane.
I don't know how long I've been here. After three months, I stopped tracking time. Time has no meaning down here, and thinking about it fills me with terror.
I can't fight him any more. I don't have the strength. Now I've decided to be polite. I do everything he asks. When he brings me gifts, I always thank him (he loves bringing me nice clothes). Walter brings me anything I want (except the phone). All I have to do is ask. Walter, my ugly genie. One time, early on, I must have been here a month, we were talking about Christmas and he asked, 'What was the best gift you ever received?' I told him about the platinum chain and locket with the picture of my mother. My father gave it to me last Christmas. He asked me where it was, and I told him. I didn't think much about it. We were just talking.
A week later, he gave me the necklace. I was shocked.
'I borrowed your keys – they were in your purse,' Walter said. 'Do you now see how much I love you?'
Walter never appears upset or sad or angry – he doesn't appear to feel anything, which is what scares me the most. It's like there's nothing living behind his eyes, at least nothing any normal person would recognize. I picture his mind as a dark attic full of cobwebs and nasty, crawling things that bite if you get too close. Walter talks like we're the best of friends. I share everything with him, making up stories, whatever, so he'll feel close to me. I pretend, just like I did in the acting classes. I pretend I care. I pretend to understand him while taking in my surroundings, looking for the perfect moment to escape.
I've convinced him to give me a bath twice a day. He always stands outside the door, which he leaves open a crack so he can talk to me. HE NEEDS TO TALK. That's what feeds him – talking, human contact. I know this now.
Walter has just left my room. We watched a movie together, Pretty Woman. He likes to watch romantic comedies every night after dinner. He brings wine (always in a plastic container, never glass; he knows, if given the opportunity, I'd smash the bottle across his head). This time he sat with me on the bed. I was wearing a dress and shoes he had picked out (Walter insists on getting dressed up every night, like we're a couple going out on the town). I styled my hair the way he likes it and put on nail polish. He even gave me a small bottle of the Chanel perfume I love so much. I wore it for him. I'm his doll – his personal, private living doll. During the entire movie, I could tell he wanted to hold my hand.
When the movie ended, Walter went to remove the DVD (keeping a close eye on me, of course) and the idea I've been nursing for weeks came to mind.
'Don't leave yet,' I said.
Walter looked pleased. He loves it when I ask him to stay.
I smiled and swallowed back my fear. As revolting as it was, I had to go through with it.
I stood. This was my last chance.
'What is it, Emma?'
I unbuttoned my dress.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
I let the dress drop to the floor and stood in front of him, naked, except for the chain with the locket holding a picture of my mother. I had to wear it for courage.
'What are you doing?'
I tried hard to keep the hatred and disgust out of my voice. 'I want to make love to you.'
Walter didn't answer. He looked away, embarrassed.
When I touched him, he pulled away.
'Don't be scared,' I said.
'I'm not.'
'Then what is it?'
Walter didn't answer.
'Are you… a virgin?'
'Having sex with someone when you're not in love, it's a sin,' Walter said, 'an abomination in the eyes of God.'
But kidnapping someone and keeping them prisoner apparently wasn't. 'How can it be a sin if I want to make love to you?'
Walter didn't answer, but his eyes moved up to my chest. I grabbed his good hand and placed it on my breast. He was shaking.
'Make love to me.' If I got him on the bed with me, he'd be vulnerable. Get on top of him and poke his goddamn eyes out with my thumbs. I was nursing enough hatred to know I could go through with it.
'It's okay,' I said, moving his hand across my breasts. He was breathing hard but he wouldn't stop shaking. I moved his hand down across my stomach and he yanked it away and stormed out of the room.
He came back later and gave me a small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. It's on my nightstand right now. He made me pray with him for strength. We pray together every night, kneeling on opposite sides of the bed, and give thanks to HIS Blessed Mother. Walter never shuts his eyes. I pray along with him, of course. I don't tell him I don't believe in those things any more.