Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

“Some women are like that, but lots aren’t. My boyfriend is my equal and I love him.”

“Luke?” His eyebrows shot up. “You think Luke is your equal?” He gave a small laugh and shook his head. “He would have been disposed of as soon as a real man came along. You were already growing bored.”

“How do you know Luke’s name? And why are you using past tense? Did you do something to him?”

“Luke’s fine. What he’s going through now is nothing compared to what you’d have put him through. You didn’t respect him. Not that I blame you—you could have done so much better.” He laughed. “Oh, wait, you just did.”

“Well, I respect you, because I know you’re a special guy who doesn’t really want to do this, and if you just let me go, we—”

“Please don’t patronize me, Annie.”

“Then what is it you want? You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

He began to sing, “Tiiiime is on my side,” then hummed the next few bars of the Rolling Stones song.

“You want time? Time with me? Time to talk?” Time to rape me, time to kill me?

He just smiled.

When something doesn’t work, you try something else. I got up, left the safety of my corner, and stood next to him.

“Listen, David—or whatever your name is—you have to let me go.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, facing me. I leaned over right in his face.

“People are going to be looking for me—lots of people. It would be a hell of a lot better for you if you let me go now.” I pointed my finger at him. “I don’t want to be part of your sick game. This is crazy. You have to see—”

His hand shot out and grabbed my face so hard it felt like all my teeth were ground together. Inch by inch, he pulled me close. I lost my balance and was practically in his lap. The only thing holding me up was his hand on my jaw.

Voice vibrating with rage, he said, “Don’t ever talk to me like that again, understand?” He forced my face up and down, tightening his grip with each down. My jaw felt like it was coming apart.

He let go.

“Look around, do you think something like this was easy to create? Do you think I just snapped my fingers and it all came together?”

Gripping the front of my suit jacket, he pulled me over him and pressed me back on the bed. The veins in his forehead had popped out and his face was flushed. Lying partly on top of me, he gripped my jaw again and squeezed. His eyes stared down at me, glittering. They were going to be the last thing I saw before I died. Everything was turning black—

Then all the anger left his face. He let go and kissed my jawline, where his fingers had been digging in seconds ago.

“Now, why did you go and make me do that? I’m trying here, Annie, I really am, but my patience has limits.” He stroked my hair and smiled.

I lay there in silence.

He left the bed. I heard water running in the bathroom. With my photos spread around me, I stared at the ceiling. My jaw throbbed. Tears trickled out of the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t even wipe them away.

I noticed you don’t have a bunch of Christmas junk in here, just the cedar wreath on the front door. Good thing, considering they say the holidays have the highest suicide rates and most of your patients are probably already teetering on the edge.

Hell, if anyone can understand why people go off the deep end around this time of year, it’s me. Christmas sucked when I was a kid. It was hard seeing all my friends get shit I could only look at in store windows and catalogs. But the year before I was abducted? Now, that was a good year. Blew a fortune on gaudy ornaments and sparkly lights. Of course, I couldn’t make up my mind on any one theme, so by the time I was done every room looked like a different float in some weird-ass Christmas parade.

Luke and I went on long winter walks complete with snowball fights, strung popcorn and cranberries to hang on the tree, drank hot chocolate laced with rum, and sang tipsy, off-key Christmas carols to each other. It was a goddamn made-for-TV movie special.

This year I could give a rat’s ass about the holidays. Then again, there doesn’t seem to be much of anything I care about. Like when I used your bathroom before our session today and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Before all this crap happened I couldn’t walk by a store window without glancing at my reflection. Now when I look in a mirror I see a stranger. That woman’s eyes look like dried-out mud and her hair lies limp on her shoulders. I should get a haircut, but even thinking about it wears me out.

Worse, I’ve become one of them —the whiny, depressing people who have no problem telling you exactly how shitty their end of the stick is. All delivered in a tone of voice that makes it clear they not only got the wrong end, you got the one that was supposed to be theirs. Hell, probably the exact tone I’m using right now. I want to say something about how pretty all the stores look lit up or how friendly everyone is this time of year, and they do, and they are, but I just can’t seem to stop spewing bitter words.

Sleeping in my closet last night probably didn’t help my attitude or the dark circles under my eyes. I started off on my bed—tossed and turned until it looked like a war zone—but I just couldn’t feel safe. So I crawled into the closet and curled up on the floor, with Emma just outside the door. Poor dog thinks she’s guarding me.

When The Freak came out of the bathroom he shook his finger at me, smiled, and said, “I don’t forget the time that easily.”

Humming some melody—I couldn’t tell you what it was, but if I ever hear it again I’ll puke—he pulled me up from the bed, spun me around, and dipped me over his knee. One minute he’s trying to break my jaw, the next he’s goddamned Fred Astaire. With a laugh, he pulled me back up and led me to the bathroom.

Tea-light candles flickered on the counter, and the air was filled with the scent of burning wax and flowers. Steam drifted over the bathtub and rose petals floated on the water’s surface.

“Time to get undressed.”

“I don’t want to.” It came out in a whisper.

“It’s time .” He stared steadily at me.

I took off my clothes.

He folded them neatly and took them out of the room. My face burned. One arm was across my breasts, one hand over my crotch. He pulled them away and motioned me into the bathtub. When I hesitated, his face flushed and he stepped closer.

I got in the bath.

With that monster key ring he unlocked one of the cabinets and pulled out a razor—a straight-edge razor.

He lifted up my right leg and rested my heel on the edge of the tub, then slowly ran his hand up and down my calf and thigh. It was the first time I noticed his hands. There wasn’t a single hair on them, and his fingertips were smooth, like they’d been burned. Terror roared through my body. What kind of person burns off his fingertips?

I couldn’t stop staring at the razor, watching it move closer to my leg. I couldn’t even cry.

“Your legs are so strong—like a dancer’s. My mother was a dancer.” He turned toward me but I was focused on the blade. “Annie, I’m talking to—” He sat back on his heels. “You’re scared of the razor?”

I nodded.

He held it up so the light could reflect on it. “The new ones just don’t cut as close.” He shrugged and gave me a smile. Then he leaned back in and started shaving my calf. “If you remain open to this experience, you’ll discover a lot about yourself. Knowing someone has life-and-death power over you can be the most erotic experience of your life.” He stared hard at me. “But you already know how freeing death can be, don’t you, Annie?” When I didn’t answer, he looked back and forth between the razor and me.