Two

TWO

Ionce read somewhere that predators conduct something called the interview with their potential victims so they can determine if their intended prey is worth the risk. Of course they don’t call it the interview; that’s criminal profiler talk.

I wondered if I’d been interviewed. I was known to give several talks a month. Had he been at one of them? Pulled me aside? Asked me charming, disarming questions? Pegged me as a lamb? A Red Riding Hood?

I didn’t know. But surely I would have remembered those eyes. And if I hadn’t seen him for the predatory animal that he was, I would have noticed his good looks. Would I have gone to dinner with this man if he’d looked at me a fraction less coldly?

I wondered how long he’d stalked me and how easy I’d made it. Had I been careless with door locking, thinking no one was watching and just this once it was okay? Had he been in my home, rifling through my underthings? Making a checklist of all the items in my cupboards?

I had a lot of time to think about these things but not that first night. After being left alone in the cell, I escaped to dreams. I could feel the drugs still swirling around in my system, so despite the circumstances, it hadn’t been that difficult.

I dreamed about the luncheon, that he’d been there. We’d made eye contact, and he’d flirted with me. I don’t remember if in the dream I flirted back.

When I woke, it took me several minutes to separate fact from fiction. Waking in the cell was the real nightmare. The dream had been so vivid. Colors, sounds, and smells more alive and immediate than I’d ever remembered them in life. I drank them up to hold onto them, somehow knowing it was the only sensation I would get for awhile.

The cell was kept at a steady temperature, never too hot or too cold. There was a vent in the ceiling, but it was too high to reach even standing on my toes or jumping. I stood under it a few days in a row, just waiting for some temperature fluctuation, anything that felt like something.

Everything was too constant here. The vent existed only to taunt me over what I couldn’t have: a simple brush of air on my face.

The second day set up what was to be the routine. I’d been up for what felt like several hours, pacing back and forth. Part of it was the fact that I had no idea what was in store for me. This man held the power of life and death and everything else in his hands, and he wouldn’t even make verbal threats I could psychoanalyze.

I decided this was by design. If he’d stalked me for any length of time, he knew how I craved social interaction. To speak to me would be to give me something he didn’t want to give. Toward what purpose, I didn’t know. If his intention was to drive me insane, he had a winner of a plan.

It wasn’t until the second day that I noticed the lighting. It wasn’t bright or super dim; it was this monotonous low illumination that stretched evenly over the ceiling. Like fluorescent lighting, but not quite bright enough for that. Maybe fluorescent lighting that had dimmed some. I couldn’t begin to guess at the psychological makeup of someone who would buy lighting and run it constantly til it had dimmed to just the right level to torment me. Maybe that part was all in my head, and I was already going crazy.

Finally, I drifted to sit in one corner of the room, farthest from the exit. I pulled my legs up against my chest, resting my chin on them, and watched the door like it was going to do a trick. It was. Eventually it would open. Some part of me wanted it to because then at least whatever fate awaited me could happen and then be over.

When the door opened I changed my mind, silently begging for more time alone. My heart hammered in my chest so hard I was sure it was going to burst out. I took slow, measured breaths, trying to keep a level head. I’d considered rushing the door, but I had no chance of getting there quickly enough.

The door shut behind him with finality. That was it. Game over. That shot was gone. Not like I had any real shot, but when you’re in no-win situations, you have to play this imaginary game in your head, the fantasy where you beat the bad guy and escape.

The bad guy stood watching me with a metal tray in his hands. For a moment, I imagined beating him to death with it. But then I was back to how I would get his finger and eyeball up to the keypad. Plus there was the combination. I could starve to death trying to figure it out.

He smiled at me––not a friendly smile––as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. He probably did. I’d always had an incredibly expressive face; it’s hard for me to mask my emotions even under the best of circumstances. If I have a nice fantasy, my lips curl in a smile. If I’d done that, I was sure he knew what it meant, that I was running through various grisly murder scenarios that didn’t feature me as the victim.

He crossed the floor and sat Indian-style across from me on the very edge of what I’d always deemed my personal bubble. Chicken noodle soup. Again. I stared at the bowl trying to determine what his game was. If it was time for breakfast, shouldn’t he be feeding me something breakfast-like? Or was this another effort to confuse me on the time of day?

Did he seriously think soup was going to make me forget he had me locked up in what was basically a sensory deprivation tank? Or was this just a way to deaden the sense of taste so it was as deprived as my other senses?

He crumbled the crackers and lifted the spoon to my mouth. I’m not sure where my courage to speak came from. I was far past scared, but I was also angry, probably as much at myself for sitting and doing nothing as I was at him.

“I can feed myself!” As soon as I’d said it, I flinched. So much for bravery. I guess I expected him to hit me. Your average psychopath isn’t known for his restraint. I braced an arm over my face as if it would stop any blow he decided to deliver.

Nothing happened.

With slow wariness, I lowered my arm. He sat mildly waiting with the spoon in his hand. I looked for anger in his eyes, but all I saw was calm, and the slightest tinge of amusement. I amused him. That made me angry enough to stop being scared again.

I wanted to lash out, fight. At that moment I didn’t care if he killed me. I’d gotten it into my head that whatever he had in store for me would be worse the longer it took him to mete it out, and I saw no escape. If he killed me quickly, that would be better.

I was also more clear-headed than I’d been the day before. The drugs had worked their way for the most part through my system, and I wasn’t so hungry I’d do anything. I cringed as I remembered letting him touch me through my clothing just to eat. There would be more of that and much worse if I didn’t act now.

I slapped the spoon out of his hand and threw the bowl across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, breaking the silence. My mouth followed suit. “I don’t want fucking chicken noodle soup! I want you to let me go, asshole!”

I was sure that would do it. Someone as anal as he appeared to be would snap under the strain of my rebellion. I was adorably naive. He stood with the tray in one hand, picked up the spoon, and left the room.

That was when it occurred to me how unbelievably stupid I’d just been. Yes, he was anal, and yes my little outburst would likely make him angry. But the amount of restraint he’d shown so far made me realize it was unlikely he’d offer me a quick death no matter how many outbursts I displayed. He’d spent too much time on this plan.

He was only gone a few minutes, but during those few minutes, I ran through at least twenty possibilities of what he might do next. He might starve me was one option. I’d managed to get some bravery due to the fact that I’m not usually that hungry when I first wake up, but starving wasn’t something I wanted to do. I was reminded of this fact because I’d just the day before allowed him to fondle me once for each bite of soup.

He could kill me. A part of me wanted him to. It would be easier than living with what I would no doubt become if he kept to the same MO. He could have gone to get some dramatic implements of torture, or just the knife he’d used the day before to cut my bonds. I shivered at the last option and scooted back into the corner as if I could press myself through the wall to freedom on the other side. Maybe he would be quick about it.

The door creaked open again and my eyes shot up to meet his, terrified to see anger, but afraid not to know the status of my situation. He still had that calmness. He shook his head and grinned. If he hadn’t been a sociopath, he would have been appealing. He had one of those boyish lopsided grins that tried to inch a little way up his face and made him look safe. It didn’t fit with his eyes.

Instead of knives or guns or a million other nasty options, he had a broom, a mop, and a pail. He dragged a small trash can into the room behind him, and the door slammed shut again. I watched as he swept up the solid pieces of the soup and the glass from the bowl and dumped them into the trashcan. Then he mopped the floor, and without a word, took everything he’d brought into the room out again.

A few minutes passed before he returned to the cell; this time he wasn’t carrying anything. He strode too fast across the floor toward me, causing me to cower in the corner like a wounded animal. He stopped just short of reaching me and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a parent disappointed in a child, as if I had been petulant and not within my rights and the bounds of normal human behavior to react in the way I had.

His cold gaze compelled me to speak. “I’m sorry.” My voice trembled and sounded foreign to my ears.

Could this weak, helpless creature really be me? I’d spent the past five years giving speeches on empowerment and self-improvement and here I was, reduced to this. And so quickly.

I looked up at him, and he continued to regard me with something like interest. I could practically feel the violence curling within him, waiting like a viper to strike, but it never did. Instead, he stared at me as if he expected me to continue speaking. So I did.

“Please talk to me. Why won’t you speak to me? Are you going to hurt me? Are you going to kill me? Please . . . ”

He smiled. I don’t know why I asked why he wouldn’t speak. I knew why. It was becoming increasingly clear. I didn’t know exactly why me, but I had a good idea why he wasn’t talking.

He’d studied me, stalked me, knew everything about me. Human contact, speech, words, music. I needed stimulation. And he wasn’t giving any of it to me. I was pretty sure he was trying to break me, and considering my lack of escape options, I was pretty sure he was going to succeed.

People always think they’ll never break. They’ll never give in. CIA operatives somehow crack, but not them. We live in this world where everybody watches so much TV, it makes them think they’re superheroes. I’m strong, but anyone can be broken. I knew this. It’s only a matter of opportunity, will, and persistence.

What prevents it from happening most often is most people sociopathic enough to break and condition someone properly don’t have the level of self-control required to do it. Most with the control aren’t big enough sociopaths. This was why I feared this man so much, not because I was his prisoner, but because I saw in him the blending of these qualities, which made the possibilities of what could happen endless.

He continued to watch me, cruel amusement curving his features, as if this was so much more fun than he’d ever anticipated the long nights he’d probably jerked off to the fantasy. Then he turned and left. The room felt quieter without him in it, as if his presence could somehow equal words for me.

Several hours passed, during which I paced the floor, and danced. I know that sounds insane. It is insane. It was day two, and I was flitting across the floor like a prima ballerina. But you don’t understand how desperately I needed sensation, any sensation to make me feel like something rather than nothing.

When I was a little girl, I took ballet. I was pretty good, going all the way to acceptance at a major dance academy in New York. But in the end I decided against it. A ballerina’s career is often over by twenty-five. By the time I was imprisoned in the cell, it would have been over for five years already.

I was glad I hadn’t made a career of it. It would have ruined my feet. Although, I couldn’t help but think ruined feet was better than being the prisoner of a sociopath.

So I danced. To distract myself, to move myself out of this plane of existence and into another, one where I was free. The cell was a perfect stage, plenty of room to pirouette and tour jete across it.

Even though the room was a static seventy-something degrees, I could feel the air move on my face as I whipped around and spun in circles. I felt my feet touching the floor with precision I’d never lost since giving it up. I heard the music in my mind as memories of old skipping records from the dance studios of my childhood played inside my brain.

I believed I’d won a round. I’d beaten the system he’d so carefully set up. When I couldn’t dance any longer I sank to the floor. I was thirsty and getting hungry, but I wouldn’t scream for him to feed me.

Screaming would have been normal; I knew that. But I’d already seen the way he didn’t react when I’d smashed the bowl. Everything would happen on his timetable according to his wishes, and anything I did to try to goad him would make it happen that much slower. Of that I was certain now. Besides, my throat was too parched to scream; it wouldn’t help.

I didn’t know when he would return with more food for me, or water, and I needed to conserve energy. Within minutes of my sitting on the floor in my corner, the door clicked open, and a bottled water was placed on the floor next to it.

It was cold, fresh out of the fridge, and I was profoundly, indescribably grateful for it. I was also suspicious. Had he been sitting outside the door listening to me? Were there listening devices? Something else? As I drank the water, I scanned the top of the walls.

This was an area I hadn’t paid much attention to. After all, I couldn’t reach the ceiling. What was the point of lying on my back all day analyzing it?

Then I spotted them. In the ceiling, at various points, were what appeared to be smallish black dots. On first glance, from the distance I was from them, they would look like random markings.

Pinhole cameras.

The son of a bitch was watching me. For all I knew, he had sound attached. He’d watched me dance and brought me water afterward. What the fuck did that mean? One thing was becoming clear, though. He’d entered the room three times since I’d been conscious. Each time I’d been sitting in the far back corner. That probably wasn’t a coincidence.

If I was right, he wouldn’t enter the room unless I was sitting in that spot. How could I use this information to my advantage? Obviously I had to eat, so I’d have to sit in the corner at some point, but I might be able to prevent extra unwanted visits by staying closer to the door when I wasn’t hungry. Sleeping closer to the door was probably a good idea too.

Now I was back to trying to figure out the water. I had a clear enough idea of what was going on; thank you Psych 101. Behavioral conditioning and studies of Stockholm Syndrome had not gone to waste. Though I was aware that even with knowledge of what he was doing, it wouldn’t stop him from succeeding, eventually. Or sooner, rather than later, since he’d known my weakness going into things.

I should have learned to be alone with myself, to not have to have noise or company or stimulation. I should have learned to meditate, taken up yoga or deep breathing practices.

I had fleetingly thought earlier about masturbating. I know that sounds wildly inappropriate. When you’re in this sort of situation you don’t want to do anything even vaguely sexual; it looks like an invitation. But it wouldn’t have been sexual to me, not really. It would have just been comfort, stress relief, so I could avoid having a panic attack.

But there were cameras, and I knew it now. So no matter how much I wanted that release, I wasn’t going to do it. It was tactile stimulation of the best kind, a weapon in my arsenal against the insidious plans already set in motion against me, but the risks weren’t worth the payoff.

After I’d finished the water, I placed the bottle back beside the door and went to sit in the corner. I wanted to see if he was watching me closely enough to take the bottle right away, or if he’d wait. He was studying me, but I was also studying him.

I wondered if he’d tie me up to keep me from dancing, or doing yoga, or just plain moving in any way that had meaning besides mindless pacing. Tying me up would require violence on his part, something he didn’t seem willing to bring into the equation just yet. Of course, he could always drug me again.

I stared at the empty bottle, my eyes widening. I couldn’t remember if the safety seal had been on or not. I’d just unscrewed the lid and drank; I’d been too thirsty to think about it. Most mundane safety issues weren’t concerning me right now.

Several minutes of paranoia passed, and I didn’t feel myself getting sleepy. Finally, I relaxed and slumped against the wall.

I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I knew I’d slept when the sound of the door creaking woke me. The dream had been loud and colorful, my subconscious mind flooding me with the sensations I needed to keep me reasonably sane, to help me hold out through my waking hours.

I panicked for a second, thinking I’d been drugged and tied up, but my arms were free. I was alert, and sitting up, watching him warily as he came into the room. I could smell the chicken noodle soup coming out of the bowl and found I was hungry, much hungrier than I’d thought.

He placed the metal tray on the ground and sat across from me in the same manner as before. He arched an eyebrow as if questioning whether I’d learned my lesson or not. Would I throw my food again and be sent to bed without supper? My mouth remained shut but my eyes told him I understood. Throwing the soup was pointless. It wouldn’t result in a reaction; it would only make it longer before I could eat again.

He crumbled the crackers in and lifted the spoon to my mouth. It was still soothing, despite everything, a microsecond of safety and warmth in every bite, my mom taking care of me when I was sick. I tried to shut out those thoughts.

The soup wasn’t for my benefit. It was for his, to more easily break down my defenses. The water had been the same. Small kindnesses. So I would come to trust and depend on him. I couldn’t forget what he was, that I wasn’t his guest.

I’d been afraid he would fondle my breasts again, but he didn’t. Instead, every few bites he trailed his finger down my cheek. I fought hard not to flinch and equally hard not to lean into his touch. I tried not to react at all. I just sat there and let him do it, and then it was over and he was feeding me again.

Every few bites he’d do that same comforting gesture as if I were a wild cat he was trying to tame. As if he were rescuing me. Sometimes he stroked his hand through my hair, and once, in a moment of weakness, I leaned into the touch. It was stimulation, connection, communication. It was something. But every time I leaned in, I hated myself just a little more.

When the bowl was empty, he left the room. I sighed, leaning back against the wall, trying not to hold onto memories of his hand on me as if it were a good thing. A few minutes later, he was back, and I tensed again. Was this when it would start?

He held a strip of black cloth in one hand and moved slowly toward me. I struggled to my feet and backed away to a different part of the room. He advanced. Finally, I was backed into another corner and had nowhere left to go.

My eyes pleaded with him not to do it, but I didn’t fight him. I didn’t waste words because I knew he wouldn’t answer them. I was shaking as he tied the blindfold around my eyes.

But I let him. I let him because I knew he’d do whatever he wanted anyway, and I was developing a sense of gratitude that he hadn’t physically hurt me yet. He hadn’t hit me, or cut me, or any of a million other things he could have done. He hadn’t raped me, yet. And he seemed disinclined to do those things, at least in the classical way.

When the blindfold was in place, he took me gently by the arm and led me from the cell. We went down what I perceived to be a hallway, and he took me into another room, locked the door, then removed the blindfold.

We were in a large but plain bathroom. All decorations and pictures had been taken off the walls, if they’d ever been there in the first place. The mirror had been removed, and there was a faint outline on the wall where it had once hung.

There was a sink with toothpaste and a plain white toothbrush and a shower with a plain white curtain. On the toilet seat were clothes in my size: gray sweatpants and a white top that buttoned up like an art smock. No panties or bra.

There was a chair in the bathroom where he sat and regarded me.

“Please turn around,” I said. I didn’t believe he would do it, but he did. He turned his chair to face the door, as if he were a gentleman. I thought for a brief moment about wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill him before he could break my arm.

I turned on the water, quickly shucked my clothes, and got under the spray. I drank in each sensation, the hot water spraying over my body, the floral scent of the soap and shampoo. After I’d finished, I rested my forehead against the cool tile and let the water run down my skin. I was afraid at any second he’d jump up and pull me out of there, but he didn’t.

When I stepped out, I noticed he’d taken my old clothes away from me. Of course, I couldn’t keep those. Those clothes would make me feel too much like a person. I slipped into the sweats and shirt, buttoning it quickly, and picked up my towel.

The towel was warm, fresh from the dryer, and it smelled like a spring meadow. Well, not really. It smelled like what we’re told by the dryer sheet people that a spring meadow smells like. But I believed it right then. I resisted the urge to put the towel against my nose and inhale.

“Okay, I’m finished.”

He stood and turned, giving me a once-over before replacing the blindfold. This time I was less afraid because it had become part of a routine, a natural continuation of actions before. He led me back to my cell and then was gone. That was the second day.

This pattern went on for seven days. I knew the time that passed because I used my fingernail to scratch a mark every day into the concrete behind the toilet. Three meals and a shower equaled a day.

He never tried to stop me from dancing. He must have known I’d eventually break anyway. There’s only so much pleasure one can derive from even a well-loved activity when it’s the only thing to do.

On the seventh day after my shower, he returned me to my cell. He removed the blindfold and stared at me, as if he could read my thoughts, or was trying to gauge his progress. He reached out and started to unbutton my shirt.

I pushed him away, but he didn’t try to force me. He didn’t start yelling; he did nothing but shrug and then turned toward the door. I panicked. I couldn’t be left alone like this, in this endless routine of nothing.

“Wait. Please don’t go.” It had been a week. He showed no signs of releasing me. On the first day I’d been willing to trade groping for food. I needed to be touched now.

Dancing wasn’t enough sensation, hot showers weren’t enough. I had started to crave the gentle caresses that accompanied meals. I knew it was sick, twisted, but I needed to connect, to feel some sort of communication with him.

He stopped next to the door and turned toward me. There was something almost like pity in his expression. It was the closest thing I’d ever seen in those black eyes, and I wished suddenly that I could read his thoughts, so I’d know what to do. He pressed his thumb up to the fingerprint scanner.

“Please! Please don’t leave me here. I’ll do anything you want.” I moved to him and reached out and touched him for the first time of my own volition. My hand gripped his arm; I couldn’t let him leave me alone again. I couldn’t keep up this maddening pattern forever. It had to stop, anything to make it stop.

My mind was going down trails I wished it wouldn’t. His soul was ugly, but physically, he was beautiful. I could give in to that. I could let that touch me without feeling the need to vomit. And I wouldn’t be blamed for it. I was the victim here.

He firmly, but gently removed my hand from his arm and walked me to the other side of the room to my corner. He shook his head at me, his eyes serious.

He turned again, and this time I didn’t follow him. He left me alone in the cell, and I slid to the floor and cried.