I don’t know when the next time a hot shower is going to be happening in my life, so I figure I might as well take advantage of that while I still have the chance. As I go to turn the shitty handles of the faucet one last time, I notice a ring of water around the drain.

This place really is going to shit. Everything’s constantly breaking and leaking. Good thing I’m getting out now. I squeeze out what’s left of my shampoo and begin to lather up as the warm water instantly turns to cold on me.

Seriously, fuck this place, I think. It makes the thought of using truck stop showers for the next three months sound like a luxury day at the spa. I dance around the stream of water, just aiming to rinse the lather out of my long hair, trying not to blind myself in the process.

“Hey, Sloan,” his voice rings from the doorway. “Sorry about that. Want me to get you a towel?”

I try not to breathe, try not to make a sound. I don’t know what good it will do me, but I need to be very careful about my next move. I eye every corner of the tub for anything I can use as a weapon, but that crusty pink razor couldn’t even harm an armpit hair, let alone a 6’ 3” escaped felon who just might be here to finally finish me off.

He pulls back the shower curtain before I even have a chance to cover my body with my hands. Not that it would make a difference.

“The door was unlocked so I just let myself in. I used your shower; I didn’t think you’d care.”

He’s acting like this is a normal casual conversation, that there’s nothing out of the ordinary here.

“Are you eating? You look really thin,” he says, handing me a towel.

“Arthur, you look so different,” I finally stutter. I’m stalling. I’m trying to act cool—trying to figure out how to play this situation to the best of my advantage. I need to get to my cellphone. Or even a window or a door. I need clothes. I need him to get out of my way. My teeth are chattering and I’m sure it’s not because of the ice shower I just took.

His hair is much shorter than I’d ever seen it in all the years we dated, black with streaks of salt and pepper gray running through it, a stark contrast to his formerly long blond locks. Something about his nose looks different, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Once we get to where we’re going I can have it changed back, but this was the only way I could lay low for a little while. We’ll have to get you a disguise too.”

“I thought they found you in Mexico, Arthur. This is quite the surprise.” I’m speaking as calmly as possible, trying not to let my voice waver, trying not to make any sudden movements. Something about him is so serene. I expected him to roll in angry, to want revenge like a normal human being. Instead, he’s smiling at me, scaring me even worse than if he was waving a gun in my face.

“And I thought you’d be happier to see me. It’s been so long, Sloan. I’ve been counting down the days.”

“I just… sorry…” I stumble for words. “I’m just not proper,” I tell him, motioning at the towel wrapped around my body. “Let me get dressed so we can catch up.”

This can’t be happening. This nut job definitely has the wrong impression, but that is typical of him. He always assumed he knew what was best for me, and if I didn’t fall into that role submissively, he had other ways of making me comply.

“You don’t have to be shy, Sloan. It’s me, love.” He moves in on me, planting a kiss on my cheek. I’m completely repulsed, my body rejecting anything he has to offer. I try to fight the look of disgust but my skin is crawling. If I can get us out of this windowless closet, I have a lot better chance of getting out of this situation unscathed.

“I know,” I say. I catch the gun bulging out of his waistband and I take a deep breath. “I just missed you so much, I’m kind of speechless. Can we go in the bedroom so I can get dressed?”

“You’re right. We’ll have plenty of time for all that on our honeymoon.”

I go into my empty bedroom, and grab a pair of boy shorts and a t-shirt for sleeping in that I had laid out on top of my duffle bag along with clothes for tomorrow.

“I’ve noticed over the past few weeks you’ve been getting rid of all your stuff. What’s going on? You moving or something?” he asks, wandering around the completely empty bedroom. All that’s left is my bag and a sleeping bag.

God, this timing couldn’t be any worse. I already told the only person who cares about me in this world that I’m leaving on a road trip for three months.

“I’m moving in with Olive,” I lie. “My lease runs out tomorrow. Most of my stuff is at her house.”

Where the hell did I leave my cellphone? There’s really not many options. Kitchen counters? Bathroom sink? Ever since the incident where it was stolen from me months ago, I’ve guarded that sucker like a hawk.

“So we have to move fast, then. That’s ok, I have everything you need here ready to go.” His blue eyes are staring right through me as I try to maneuver my clothes around under this towel. I don’t want this man seeing my body. He took it away from me once, and I’ll die before I let that happen again. “Our trip is all set up. Just gotta give you a little makeover.”

“Our trip?” I stutter.

Where did I leave my cellphone? My best option, my best chance at saving grace.

“Sloan, why are you acting so weird? I thought you wanted this. I got all your letters while I was in prison, about how you were sorry and that the police forced you to turn on me and how you were just scared. I knew it all along. I knew you would never do anything like that unless it was completely out of your control. I forgive you, Sloan! I know you got my replies. Are you drunk or something?” he asks, coming in closer and closer, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the top of my head.

I’m going to be sick. It takes everything in me to suck back the bile forming in my throat, to casually hug him back. His gun presses into my hip. I gulp and just let him play with my hair, let him enjoy the closeness to me that he feels so entitled to.

I’m really fucking confused.

I never once wrote him in prison, and I certainly never apologized to him.

“I know it took me a lot longer than I said it would, but I dreamed about this day from the moment I escaped. It was nine months of sheer torture knowing I just couldn’t come by and scoop you up in my arms and take you with me. But now, now everything is going to be ok! I have passports, IDs, the whole nine. Totally new identities for the both of us. It’s time for chapter two, Sloan.”

Fucking Officer Scott Brighton, corrupt asshole. It makes perfect sense that he would bait him here so he could scoop in and rescue me, looking like the hero cop. Unfortunately his stupid plan backfired and I’m face-to-face with this crazy asshole who is now brandishing a box of blonde hair dye and a pair of scissors.

“Arthur, I can’t use that dye,” I tell him, trying to buy some time. “My hair is damn near black. A box won’t work on me. It’ll take a month of trips to the salon to get me that color. Why don’t you just let me run out and grab a wig?”

He shakes his head, and for the first time in six years I see that look. The look that screams “You think you’re so smart”. It’s disappointment mixed with amusement. It’s enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Getting cold feet, are ya?” he sneers.

“No. I just know how much you like my hair. I don’t want to ruin it. What if it grows back all weird? What if it all falls out?”

“Let’s just try the dye and see what happens. Worst-case scenario, we’ll just chop it all off. You’ll be fine. Once we get across the border, you can do whatever you want. I just need to make this work.” He holds up a passport. Vivian Jordan. She looks like a nice girl, but only a little bit like me. This could work out to my advantage. There’s no way in hell I’m going to make it across the border with that ID. If all else fails, I just have to keep myself alive until then.

“Alright,” I agree. “Let’s do that.”

Dying my hair could potentially mean buying some time. Time to find my phone. Time to figure out what I can use as a weapon. Maybe if I leave it on long enough he’ll fall asleep. Or get hungry. I’m grasping at straws here, and I might end up bald, but I’m better off hairless than headless.

“The light is better in the kitchen, plus the sink is higher,” I insist, not wanting to go back into that dungeon of a bathroom with him. He has the upper hand. Gun, scissors, bottle of dye. I’ve seen what the creative fucker has managed to do with a teakettle and I imagine prison has probably only enhanced his ability to figure out ways to maim me with everyday objects.

“I’ll be honest, Sloan; I have no idea what I’m doing. What comes first? Cut or color?”

“I don’t know, Art,” I tell him. “I haven’t dyed my hair in years, and I usually just trim it myself while it’s wet.”

“I’ve always loved that about you,” he says, touching the small of my back. “You’re just a natural beauty. You don’t need anything to get a man’s attention. Love that about you, and hate that about you. I bet you’ve had a hard time keeping them off you while I’ve been gone.”

I just try my hardest not be visibly disgusted by his touch, even though everything in me wants to kick him in the balls and make a run for it. Not a horrible idea if that’s what it comes down to.

“You have been pure since I got locked up, haven’t you, Sloan?” he growls in my ear, cupping my chin in his face from behind.

“Of course,” I say.

“You promised you’d wait for me. I hope you kept your word.” He’s tracing his hand up my inner thigh, resting his fingers just below my crotch. “There’s ways I can find out if you haven’t been, you know.”

As a doctor, I can attest to the fact that that’s absolutely false, but I’m not going to try and wait around and see what kind of exam he plans on subjecting me to. I brush his hand aside.

“Sorry, I’m on my period,” I lie. It had always worked in the past for me. He’s a scary drug trafficking thug, but afraid of a little menstrual blood. Then he started monitoring my birth control and things got bad again.

“That’s ok, love. We don’t have time for that right now anyway.”

“Right,” I say, breathing a secret sigh of relief. “My hair. Let’s get my hair taken care of so we can get out of here. I think we should cut it first. I don’t think one box of dye will be enough for my whole head if I keep it this length.”

There’s not a chair for me to sit in, so I kneel on the floor in front of him while he takes his time butchering my locks with a pair of common household scissors. Just the sound of the chomping on my locks is mortifying.

Just keep him happy, just play pretend like you did all those years, I keep reminding myself. It’ll all be over soon. As soon as we leave this apartment, I can easily get away. I just need to go to my happy place, my place of freedom, and ride this wave as long as I need to. The clumps of my brown hair scatter across the floor and I can’t fight back the tears. It’s like a huge part of my identity is being stripped away from me.

“You think that’s enough, Art?” I ask him. “Once it dries, it’s gonna be a lot shorter.” He tousles it between his fingers and gives it a hard tug, wrenching my head back towards him.

“Why are you crying?” he growls.

“I’m just so happy, I guess.” God, it sounds ridiculous. Even he has to see right through that. But he doesn’t. He kisses me on the lips and I shudder. Trying to pretend like I want to kiss him back makes me want to throw up in my mouth.

“That’s my girl.” He smiles, his blue eyes clear and frightening, taking me right back to the place he used to keep me. That place where I just shut down and drifted along with whatever was happening. “Let’s get the dye mixed up.”

I nod and join him at the sink. He pulls his gun out of his waistband and makes sure I see that it’s just out of my reach, pointed right at me on the countertop. I help him put on the gloves and we follow the directions to mix up the platinum blonde dye. I have tried to go lighter in the past and it’s always resulted in some nasty washed-out bright orange. The more attention I can draw to myself the better when we do actually leave this apartment.