Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

I can't fight him any more. I don't have the strength. Now I've decided to be polite. I do everything he asks. When he brings me gifts, I always thank him (he loves bringing me nice clothes). Walter brings me anything I want (except the phone). All I have to do is ask. Walter, my ugly genie. One time, early on, I must have been here a month, we were talking about Christmas and he asked, 'What was the best gift you ever received?' I told him about the platinum chain and locket with the picture of my mother. My father gave it to me last Christmas. He asked me where it was, and I told him. I didn't think much about it. We were just talking.

A week later, he gave me the necklace. I was shocked.

'I borrowed your keys – they were in your purse,' Walter said. 'Do you now see how much I love you?'

Walter never appears upset or sad or angry – he doesn't appear to feel anything, which is what scares me the most. It's like there's nothing living behind his eyes, at least nothing any normal person would recognize. I picture his mind as a dark attic full of cobwebs and nasty, crawling things that bite if you get too close. Walter talks like we're the best of friends. I share everything with him, making up stories, whatever, so he'll feel close to me. I pretend, just like I did in the acting classes. I pretend I care. I pretend to understand him while taking in my surroundings, looking for the perfect moment to escape.

I've convinced him to give me a bath twice a day. He always stands outside the door, which he leaves open a crack so he can talk to me. HE NEEDS TO TALK. That's what feeds him – talking, human contact. I know this now.

Walter has just left my room. We watched a movie together, Pretty Woman. He likes to watch romantic comedies every night after dinner. He brings wine (always in a plastic container, never glass; he knows, if given the opportunity, I'd smash the bottle across his head). This time he sat with me on the bed. I was wearing a dress and shoes he had picked out (Walter insists on getting dressed up every night, like we're a couple going out on the town). I styled my hair the way he likes it and put on nail polish. He even gave me a small bottle of the Chanel perfume I love so much. I wore it for him. I'm his doll – his personal, private living doll. During the entire movie, I could tell he wanted to hold my hand.

When the movie ended, Walter went to remove the DVD (keeping a close eye on me, of course) and the idea I've been nursing for weeks came to mind.

'Don't leave yet,' I said.

Walter looked pleased. He loves it when I ask him to stay.

I smiled and swallowed back my fear. As revolting as it was, I had to go through with it.

I stood. This was my last chance.

'What is it, Emma?'

I unbuttoned my dress.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

I let the dress drop to the floor and stood in front of him, naked, except for the chain with the locket holding a picture of my mother. I had to wear it for courage.

'What are you doing?'

I tried hard to keep the hatred and disgust out of my voice. 'I want to make love to you.'

Walter didn't answer. He looked away, embarrassed.

When I touched him, he pulled away.

'Don't be scared,' I said.

'I'm not.'

'Then what is it?'

Walter didn't answer.

'Are you… a virgin?'

'Having sex with someone when you're not in love, it's a sin,' Walter said, 'an abomination in the eyes of God.'

But kidnapping someone and keeping them prisoner apparently wasn't. 'How can it be a sin if I want to make love to you?'

Walter didn't answer, but his eyes moved up to my chest. I grabbed his good hand and placed it on my breast. He was shaking.

'Make love to me.' If I got him on the bed with me, he'd be vulnerable. Get on top of him and poke his goddamn eyes out with my thumbs. I was nursing enough hatred to know I could go through with it.

'It's okay,' I said, moving his hand across my breasts. He was breathing hard but he wouldn't stop shaking. I moved his hand down across my stomach and he yanked it away and stormed out of the room.

He came back later and gave me a small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. It's on my nightstand right now. He made me pray with him for strength. We pray together every night, kneeling on opposite sides of the bed, and give thanks to HIS Blessed Mother. Walter never shuts his eyes. I pray along with him, of course. I don't tell him I don't believe in those things any more.

After he left, I held the statue in my hand, hoping it would bring me comfort. It doesn't. I used to think of hell as some dark place full of fire and eternal pain. Now I think of it as a place where you'll be alone forever, a place where you feel a total lack of anything. I know I'm going to die alone in this room. I just don't know when. Hannah heard a beep, followed by the sound of locks clicking back. She shoved the notebook under the chair cushion as the door swung open.

The man named Walter Smith came into the room with his head bowed in either shame or embarrassment, maybe both. Hannah had a chance to look him over in the soft light.

His face had been badly burned. Even under all the makeup, she could see thick, bumpy scars. That's why he's keeping his head bowed, she thought. He doesn't want me staring at his face.

Knowing he was physically damaged made him seem inferior for some reason, less threatening. Hannah felt as though she might be able to reason with him. She could reason with anyone.

Walter held a wicker basket packed with an assortment of muffins and croissants. Tissue paper overflowed from the sides of the basket and the handle was decorated with ribbons. It reminded her of the getwell basket her father had bought on the morning after her mother's hysterectomy.

Hannah felt a sense of unease as she watched Walter place the basket on the table and retreat to the shadows near the sink. His hair was long, wet and messy. It looked too perfect. If it was a wig or a hairpiece, it was the best one she had ever seen.

Walter, his head still bowed, stared at the floor and cleared his throat.

'Your nose is looking better.'

Was it? She didn't have a mirror, but she had felt her nose with her fingers. It was still swollen. She wondered if it was broken.

'I'm sorry about what happened,' Walter said.

Hannah didn't answer, was afraid to answer. What if she said the wrong thing and set him off? If he came at her with his fists, she couldn't protect herself. He was too big, too strong.

'It was an accident,' he said. 'I would never hurt someone I love.'

A cold sweat broke across her skin.

You can't love me, she wanted to say. You don't even know me.

It was as though Walter had read her mind.

'I know all about you,' he said. 'Your name is Hannah Lee Givens. You graduated from Jackson High School in Des Moines, Iowa. You're a freshman at Northeastern University. You're majoring in English. You want to be a teacher. When you can afford it, you like to go to the movies. You go to the library and check out books by Nora Roberts and Nicholas Evans. I can bring you some of those books, if you'd like, and movies. Just tell me what you want and I'll get it. We can watch movies together.' Walter looked up and forced a smile. 'Is there something you'd like to see?'

How long had he been following her? And why hadn't she seen him?

Walter seemed to be waiting for her to answer.

What had the writer in the notebook said? That's what feeds him, talking. He needs to talk, needs to connect.

Hannah wanted him to leave so she could get back to the notebook and read what else this woman had written about Walter. Maybe there was something in there that could help her figure out a way to escape – and she would escape. She would find a way. Hannah Lee Givens knew she wouldn't live down here forever – and she sure as hell wasn't going to be used as a punching bag. She just needed to figure out a way to survive until she was found.