SCARS: Prologue
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No amount of physical or emotional scars left behind could ever actually reveal true heartache. The evil from which they were formed cuts so deeply into your bones that it seeps into your bloodstream and pumps through your veins until it’s ringing in your ears. The scars never truly show themselves… Never reveal the brunt of their true force. While they are a symbol of survival, they are also reminders of things we would much rather forget—of pain that cannot be shed.
I have become an orphan … left to pick up the pieces of a broken heart which can never be fixed. I am incurably and irreparably hopeless.
Time stood still the day my family was ripped away from me. I lost myself—my very identity. I was chosen to live. I was chosen to carry with me the burden of being the one who survived. I was left with the question which haunts me endlessly:
Why me?
Why me?
Why me?
And now, I lie in a small room. Four walls are what welcome me day after day. No sharp objects, no ropes… Not a thing I could use if I wanted to end it all. He took me. That’s why I’m here. He will never let me decide my own fate. He will never let me choose my own destiny.
He will never let me go.
It was he who chose me. It was he who had been stalking me for the last nine months. And it was he who pulled me from the car on that fateful day—two, maybe three weeks ago. He won’t leave me in peace… He will never leave me in peace.
He is forever waiting in the wings, watching me. I am his, he tells me. As long as I have breath in my lungs, I will always be his. He rules my head, my body, and my heart. But the most frightening thought of all is that … pretty soon … he will rule my soul as well.
With that last thought, I clutch the duvet to my chest.
I would have expected to be alone with my family gone, but he’s certainly made sure that my situation could have been worse.
Far worse.
I get fed three times a day, provided with refreshments on a regular basis, and a little later, I get treated to hearing his voice over a speaker in the corner of my room. He talks to me. He wants me to tell him about my life, my fears, my longings, and my dreams.
He has not once entered my room, but now, I long for it. I long for the contact so much that my insides burn. I am relieved to hear his voice, but now his voice alone is not enough.
I want more.
I need to see him. Need to be with him… I need to touch him. I crave the contact. To feel skin on skin.
He has started to invade my dreams so much that I cry out during the night. He knows they’re about him; he tells me so. I talk in my sleep, apparently, and he likes that. He also tells me that he likes the sound of my voice. For some reason, that makes me smile. I have no idea why.
He abducted me and is holding me prisoner against my will. I didn’t ask for this. He forced me. So, why do I long for him the way that I do? Why do I seek out his company? It wouldn’t make any sense to a normal person… I guess that means I’m not normal.
Despite it all, I still feel that frisson of excitement every time I hear his voice. I still smile the minute I hear the thumping of the speaker. And my heart still beats a million miles an hour every time I hear the sound of his velvety voice.
Six days ago, I began asking him to come visit me, and I’ve repeated my request every day thereafter. All I hear from him is the same response: “It isn’t time yet.”
“Why isn’t it time yet?” I would ask.
“For now, I can’t say. I just need you to trust me… To realize that this is for your own good.”
His response both frustrates and angers me. It’s been that way for days, but today things suddenly changed. I have become desperate for his contact, so I altered my request.
“I want you to come to my room… I need you to come to my room… I’m desperate for you to touch me… To hold me like you did that night in the little house… Please make it happen, J. Please?” All has been silent from that moment on. I have been sitting here, feeling my heart beating erratically for the last hour—ever since I pleaded with him.
My heart aches.
My body quivers.
My mind races.
My pulse speeds up more when I hear a noise coming from my door. Maybe he is just coming to feed me, but I know from the patterns to which I’ve grown accustomed that it’s too early for that. He has taken my watch from me, so I have no concept of actual time, but I have gotten used to relying upon my internal clock. And my clock is telling me that it is too early to be fed, so what could it be?
I gasp when I hear the tapping. That sound—the sound of footsteps—taunts me.
I clutch the sheets even more tightly to me once I realize the noise is getting louder. There is nothing I can do but sit and wait to see what will happen next.
Silence falls, and I watch the door like a hawk. I stare at the handle, which, for now, remains still. I swear that it, too, is taunting me. I swear it knows of my trepidation and is deliberately staying still just to tease me.
I hold my breath—biding my time—as I sit here, rigidly clutching the bedclothes. It feels like hours, but it’s only been mere seconds since the total silence began.
And then, it’s happening. I gasp again, clutching the sheets more tightly still as the handle on the door moves down, and the door pushes forward. For a fraction of a second, nothing happens. Total silence fills the room again as the creaking door comes to a stop. My heart starts hammering in my chest, and my body trembles as anxiety ripples through my insides and prickles my skin.
Nothing is there apart from the door—which is now ajar—and the slight shadow of his body as the light shines on the bedroom wall.
I remain seated, waiting in earnest to see what will happen next. Involuntarily, a sharp intake of breath floods my lungs and pains my chest when I see the shadow of one foot moving forward … then two. My eyes widen as I tighten my grip with both hands this time. My breath escapes in little wisps as the shadow increases its density. I gasp as I see a foot … followed by a hand.
And then…
He emerges.