Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

“I’ll spray down all the surfaces myself.” He unlocked the cupboard under the sink and brought out a bottle of house hold cleaner. I noticed it was biodegradable but didn’t recognize the brand.

“The cleaning fluid will be locked up at all times and you’ll never be allowed to handle hot water or any utensils I feel are unsafe. After you’re done with your cleaning duties, I expect you to finish your personal grooming. Your fingernails, which are a mess, must be perfect, and I’ll file them for you. Your feet should be soft and your toenails painted. Women should have long hair, so I’ll rub conditioner in yours to help it grow faster. You won’t be wearing any makeup.

“Our day will start at seven a.m., lunch is at twelve sharp, and afternoons will be spent studying any books I require you to learn. I’ll inspect your chores at five, dinner will be at seven, and after dinner you’ll clean up again and then read to me. After reading hour, I’ll bathe you, then it’s lights out at ten o’clock.”

He showed me a small pocket watch with a timer on it, like a stopwatch, that he kept on a key chain in his front pocket. No other clocks were in the cabin, so I never knew what time it was unless he told me.

“You’ll be allowed to relieve yourself four times a day. These breaks will be supervised, and the bathroom door will be left open. In fact…” He glanced at the watch. “It’s your first bathroom break now.” I took the long way around the kitchen, putting as much space between him and me as possible. “Annie. Don’t forget to leave the door open.”

After I’d been there a couple of days he was outside when I decided to sneak in a pee. He came back in just after I’d flushed the toilet, so it was still running. I stood by the bed, trying to look like I was straightening it up. I thought maybe he wouldn’t hear the toilet, but just as he started to turn on the kitchen tap and fill up a cup he paused, cocked his head, then went into the bathroom. Within seconds he stomped toward me, his face red and lips twisted into a snarl. I cringed in the corner, then tried to dart past him, but he grabbed my hair.

He dragged me to the bathroom and made me kneel in front of the toilet. Then he lifted the lid and shoved my head down, smashing my forehead into the toilet seat. He yanked my head back up by my hair while he reached around with his free arm and filled the cup with toilet water. He crouched behind me, forced my head to tilt back, then brought the cup to my mouth.

I struggled to move my face away, but he pressed the cup so hard against my lips I thought he’d break it. Some of the water went into my mouth and some up my nose. Before I could spit it out, he clamped his hand over my mouth, and I had to swallow it.

Afterward he made me brush my teeth twenty times—he counted out loud—then forced my mouth open wide so he could inspect my teeth. Next I had to rinse my mouth out with salt and warm water ten times. For the finale, he took some soap and water and scrubbed around my lips until I thought at least two layers of skin had been rubbed off. I never tried that again.

Feels like I’m never going to break free of all his screwy rules, Doc. And man, were they ever screwy. It doesn’t matter that I know they’re total bullshit. They’re locked in and I’m locked down. On top of his rules, my psyche has added a few of its own—any little personality quirk I had before has been blown up twenty times and now I’m some weird hybrid of freakdom.

I take the same route to get here and stop at the same coffee shop. I hang my coat on the same hook in your office every session and sit in the same spot. You should see my routine before I go to bed—doors locked, all the blinds down, every window locked. Then I have a bath and shave my legs—left leg first, then the right, armpits last.

Once I’m done with the bath I apply lotion all over, and before finally going to bed I check the doors and windows again, put cans in front of the door, and double-check that the alarm is set—the cans are in case the alarm fails—then finally I make sure the knife is under the bed and the pepper spray on the night table.

A lot of nights when I try to sleep in my bed, all I do is lie there listening to every little sound, so I get up and crawl into the closet, dragging a blanket—I crawl in case anyone’s peeking through the windows. Then I tuck myself in and arrange the shoes so they’re in front of me.

Last time, you said my routines were probably providing me with a sense of security—and yes, I’ve noticed the casual something-to-think-about’s and have-you-considered’s you’ve started sliding in there once in a while. As long as you don’t start asking a bunch of questions, we’ll be okay. But I swear to God, if you ever ask how I’m feeling, you’ll be talking to my back as I cruise right out of here for good.

So, this routines thing? At first I thought you were totally off base, but I’ve been giving it some brain time, and I guess my bedtime ritual does make me feel safe—which is ironic, to say the least. I mean, the whole time I was up there I was never safe. It was like riding a roller coaster through hell with the devil at the control switch, but the routine was the one damn thing I could count on to stay the same.

Each day I push myself a little further, and some shit has been easier to shake than other shit, but certain things? No way. Last night I drank a gallon of tea and spent almost an hour on the toilet, at least it felt like an hour, trying to force myself to pee at an unscheduled time. Almost got a dribble—had this oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-pee moment—but then my bladder seized up again. All that experiment produced was another sleepless night.

On that note, I’ve had enough for today. I have to go home and pee, and no, I don’t want to use your bathroom. I’d just be sitting in there, thinking about you in here, wondering if you’re wondering whether I was able to pee or not. No, thanks.

On the way over here today I stopped at the coffee shop on the corner of your street. Looks dingy on the outside but has killer java, just about makes the drive into the city worth it. I’m not sure what you have in that mug of yours—for all I know it’s scotch—but I took a chance and got you a tea. There should be some perks to having to end your day with me.

By the way, I like the chunky silver jewelry you’re always wearing. Matches your hair and kind of gives you a chic grandma feel. The kind who might still have sex and like it. Don’t worry, I’m not hinting for details—I know shrinks don’t like to talk about their lives and I’m way too self-absorbed these days to listen, anyway.

Maybe I like your jewelry because it reminds me of my real dad, which fits with that whole self-absorbed thing. Not that he wore a bunch of the stuff, but he did have this one claddagh ring of his father’s. My dad’s parents were straight from Ireland, came over and opened a jewelry store. The ring was the only thing he got when they were killed in a fire soon after my parents were married—bank took everything else. I asked Mom for the ring after the accident, she said it was lost.

I like to think if my dad were alive he’d have tried everything in his power to rescue me, but I don’t really know how he’d have handled it. He was a pretty laid-back guy, and in my mind he’ll always be forty years old, wearing his nice fuzzy sweaters and khakis. Only times I remember him getting excited were when he told me about a new shipment of books at the library where he worked.

I thought about him sometimes on the mountain, even wondered if he was watching over me. Then I’d get pissed off. If he was my guardian angel, like I told myself growing up, why the hell didn’t he make it stop?