Don't Say a Word (Requested Trilogy - Part One) Read online

  The chains rattle with my trembling. But I don’t scream this time. By now I know there is no point. If anyone else was here, they would have come to help by now. Either that, or they are in on it too.

  And one dose of evil is enough.

  I expect his hands to come back. I expected them to brush against my skin and take what they desire. But the only thing that greets me is the clunk of the chain as it starts to lower.

  The room grows colder and darker. Colder and darker than it was when he was present. That’s how I know I am alone.

  That’s how I know he is gone.

  For now.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MIA

  My body jerks. It is only then I realize I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t think it was possible. But there’s something heavy that keeps dragging me back to that oblivion. Surrounded by silence and darkness, time has become a meaningless concept. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It must be hours. But how many, I don’t know. There is nothing to measure the time and time doesn’t exist if it cannot be measured.

  No light.

  No sound.

  Nothing.

  My body is numb. It hurts to move. Every time I attempt to shuffle across the cold floor, or roll my shoulders, or try to stretch out my legs, a sharp jolt of pain reminds me it is pointless. My muscles and bones are nothing more than a memory of my captivity.

  I’ve given up yelling for help as there is no one here to listen. I imagine myself in a room with a large wall of one-way glass. Maybe I’m in some sort of social experiment to measure the levels of terror of people in captivity. Maybe they are watching me, scribbling notes, silently observing. Maybe someone took me in error. Any explanation other than the obvious.

  I have been kidnapped.

  Summoning what little strength I have left, I test the boundaries of my chains. They haven’t changed. There is still a wall behind me, a floor below me. Nothing else I can decipher.

  My thoughts remain thick as syrup, though some are pushing their way to the fore. Like saying goodbye to my mother. Walking to the front door, waving goodbye with her blowing a kiss like she always does. But I don’t know if it’s a memory of yesterday or a memory of two thousand yesterdays ago. I’ve said goodbye to her a million times over the years. A thousand times she’s blown me a kiss. A thousand times she’s watched out the window, frantically waving, a smile plastered on her face. A thousand times I hopped into my car and drove away.

  So what memory was I recalling?

  The last time I saw her, or one of the thousands of times before?

  Was that my last memory before I was taken?

  What happened next?

  I push through the fog, trying to remember how I ended up here. Who put me here. But it is pointless. The harder I try, the harder I push, the thicker the fog gets.

  I’m brought back to reality by the beeps of a keypad and the gush of air signaling the opening door. It’s not a creak or a groan, more of a sigh.

  It is him. I know this because of his scent. The same as before. Musk and wood and dirt. His footsteps are still padded. I can’t feel the heat of him so I know he isn’t close. My skin prickles. I wonder if he is watching me, if his eyes are roaming my naked flesh. Panic ignites and I push the thought from my mind.

  “Hello?” I say.

  He clears his throat. It’s a deep sound and my head automatically twists in the direction it comes from.

  “Hello?” I say again. Only this time it is more desperate.

  “Don’t say a word.” His voice is a command.

  “Please,” I beg. “There’s been a mistake. I—” But before I can finish a hand clamps to the back of my head and something soft is shoved in my mouth, muffling my startled scream. Further and further he forces the material until I can’t make a sound. I can barely breathe as it pushes against the back of my throat and I gag. Tape is stretched across my mouth to hold it in.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  My tears can’t fall; instead, they soak into the material covering my eyes. My screams can’t echo; instead, they get lost in the material shoved in my mouth. So I stay still, pressed against the wall, waiting in terror for what will happen next.

  Then I hear it, that same mechanical clunk of before, and the chains begin to rise. I struggle to get to my feet before I am dragged. My body cries out at the movement but the chains keep lifting until I find myself, once again, stretched on my toes, swaying to balance myself.

  A whimper gets caught in my throat as he touches the skin below my right wrist. Just a single finger that slides slowly along my arm, the tip of it rough and calloused. It trails down my forearm and over the bump of my elbow. I resist the urge to cry as it slips lower, brushing over my armpit and just missing the swell of my breast. He stops when he reaches my hip and changes direction, drawing a line across my belly. And then he repeats the action in reverse, up the other side of my body.

  I attempt to suck in air and material scratches the back of my throat. I gag again. I am suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. My lungs scream as I retch over and over, desperate for anything to stop this nightmare.

  “Breathe.”

  I barely hear the word as panic engulfs me.

  “Breathe through your nose.” His words are clipped and short, almost as though he’s annoyed at my terror.

  I’m trembling. The chains rattle. I struggle for balance.

  “Through your nose,” he repeats. “There is nothing blocking your nose. You are okay. You are safe. Just breathe.”

  If I wasn’t so filled with fear, I might laugh. Safe. No part of me feels safe. But strangely enough, his voice brings some sense of comfort. No, that’s not the right word. A sense of calm. My toes steady on the floor and I begin to breathe through my nose.

  He waits, watching me. I can feel it as sure as I can feel my lungs filling with air. The chain lowers a little and my heels embrace the cold ground.

  “Next time,” he says, “don’t say a word.”

  Then there is the hushed whisper of air as the door opens and closes, the keypad beeps and I am left alone again.

  This time I don’t have the luxury of sitting. He’s lowered my chains so I can stand firmly on my feet, but my body is still stretched and my hands are high in the air above me. I am neither hot nor cold. I cannot feel the air around me nor can I feel the parts of my body. Everything has melded into a single lump of existence.

  Nothing but panic and terror.

  Possibilities of why I am here begin to race through my mind, elevating my panic to uncontrollable levels. Again, I struggle to find air and it is only the memory of his voice, instructing me to breathe through my nose that brings me down again.

  “Breathe,” I chant internally. “In. Out. In. Out.”

  Panic is not my friend. It will not help me.

  I need to figure out why I’m here, so I turn back to my memories, determined to unravel the mystery. Mentally, I scroll through my life. My parents, safe at home in their red brick house. My best friend Roxy. The residents of my small town. Nothing out of place. Nothing different. Nothing that would land me here.

  I’ve led a life of quiet innocence. I have no enemies, no jealous lovers or ex-boyfriends. I surround myself with a small circle of family and friends and live in a town where things like this simply don’t happen. We only have one police station. One doctor. One church. Two bars. Everyone knows my name. I am Mia Cooper, daughter of Abigail and Samuel Cooper. They own the local bakery and I work there too. This must be the work of a stranger. An outsider.

  There’s an itch between my breasts. Something is tickling me. Not literally but it may as well be. It’s driving me insane. I twist and turn against my restraints but it’s no use. No matter what I do the itch is there. All other parts of my body are numb. Nothing else exists. Just me and the itch. And it is about to be my undoing. Not the chains that hold me, the darkness that surrounds me, my nakedness, the unknown. No.

  It is an
itch.

  I let out a groan or a moan or a whimper that gets muffled by the gag. I try to scream. I fail.

  Saliva pools under my tongue. I try thrashing my body but only succeed in creating fresh drips of blood that roll down my arms. At least I can feel them. At least they are something other than the itch.

  And then another sensation starts. One that scares me more. I need to use the bathroom. Desperately.

  I attempt to ignore the feeling by thinking of something else, anything else but the burning sensation of needing to relieve myself and it is only then that I remember walking away from the bar, the feeling of terror as a hand clamped over my mouth, the eyes gleaming in the darkness and a needle pressing into my skin. I remember fighting, scratching, clawing.

  Then nothing.

  Nothing until I woke here with panic prickling my skin.

  The sharp pain of needing to go to the toilet twists in my lower gut. I cross my legs, pressing my thighs together and willing away the need. It doesn’t help. The need only intensifies.

  I don’t want to pee myself. Somehow it seems more humiliating than being chained naked. But the need has increased to blindingly painful. Tears fall at the same time as relief floods my body and warmth trails down my legs. I draw in a giant sob, letting my head flop and my body relax, pulling against the restraints around my wrists.

  Then the beeps sound again. The door opens. That rush of air. I whip my head in its direction, desperation and terror filling me.

  And shame.

  I am ashamed I pissed myself. Ashamed that a puddle of urine surrounds my feet even though I am facing a monster.

  For who else could he be other than a monster, an animal?

  His footsteps are clipped this time. He has shoes on. Panic swells my chest as he draws closer.

  “Don’t say a word.” He tugs at the tape that runs halfway across my cheek.

  I nod. Eagerly. Desperately.

  “Speak and you will be punished. Do you understand?”

  I nod again, anything to get the gag removed from my mouth, anything to breathe. The tape sticks to my skin as he slowly removes it. The material spills from my mouth. I swallow first, swallow the pool of saliva, swallow the tears at the back of my throat, and then I suck in gasps of air, allowing them to coat my lungs.

  I hear the splash of water, the squeak of shoes as he kneels before me. I don’t know how I know this. It’s as though without my sight, my awareness has increased. But I long for vision. I long to be able to see the man before me and face my monster.

  He is wringing out a cloth. I hear the splatter of water falling back into a bowl. I imagine hands, hard and calloused, twisting the material.

  “I am going to clean you.”

  I nod again, the memory of being gagged too fresh to risk speaking. I flinch when he touches me.

  “Don’t,” he warns. His voice isn’t as filled with evil as I want it to be. It’s deep and it’s dark, it ignites terror within me but from fear of the unknown, not because of its tone.

  I will myself to stay still as the warm cloth is pressed to my thigh again. Even though my eyes are bound shut, I close them tight as the cloth slides between my legs. I tense, but I resist the urge to squeeze them closed.

  “Open,” he instructs.

  This time I shake my head. It’s an involuntary movement. It happens before I can stop it. There is a whistle in the air and then something smacks against the back of my knees, buckling me. As I fall, the chain grips the flesh around my wrists. The pain of the lash was sharp and it stings, but it was the surprise of it that caused me to buckle.

  “Open.” His voice is firmer this time, allowing no disobedience.

  I steady myself and shift my legs further apart. The cloth is pressed to my inner thigh and moves upward. A whimper escapes. A silent plea. Warmth brushes over my sex then falls down my legs, wiping me clean. The floor is next. The cloth makes a swooshing sound as it mops up the puddle of urine. Then there is the squeak of his shoes as he rises to his feet again.

  “I am going to remove the blindfold.”

  I nod, my breath coming out in silent sobs.

  Footsteps move behind me. His hands toy with the knot. The blindfold is removed but I keep my eyes shut, feeling the light invade even though they are closed. All I see is red. I don’t know if I want to open them. Will sight increase my terror or lessen it? Do I want to see the man who has taken me?

  I blink. Just once. Enough to allow the smallest amount of light to sting my eyes. I blink again, a few times in rapid succession. My vision is blurred. There is a square of light to my right and I twist away from it.

  Slowly, I pluck up enough courage to open them fully. I can make out his figure sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room.

  I expected a monster but there is only a man.

  Blue eyes stare back at me. No. They are green. Blue and green and gray, like the color of the ocean during a storm. He is sitting with his legs spread wide, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped between them. I search him, scanning for familiarity, but I have never seen him before. He is a stranger.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  Getting to his feet, he picks up the lash leaning against the wall. He stands behind me and I feel the sting of the whip again.

  “Don’t say a word,” he growls. He walks around slowly, coming to a stop in front of me. “This is your command phrase. I will use it when I enter the room. You will obey my instructions. Do you understand?”

  I nod again, my punishment bringing anger this time, not fear. I hope he can see it in my eyes. The defiance. The burst of insanity.

  He stares back at me unflinchingly and I search those ocean-eyes for a hint of humanity, a hint of regret or remorse, uncertainty or hesitation.

  There is none.

  His face is covered in a beard. Unkempt and messy. Deep furrows mark his forehead. His hair is thick and disheveled, long enough to tangle on the top yet it is clipped short around the sides.

  I burn his image into my brain.

  I will remember him in detail. One day, I will describe him to the police and I don’t want to miss a thing. His clothing is unassuming, just a t-shirt, a jacket and jeans. His shoes look new, made of leather that squeaks when he walks.

  His gaze is intense and I’m almost quivering with the need to look away. But I don’t. If it were possible to square my shoulders, I would. Instead, I lift my chin and return his gaze. He blinks once and then turns and walks to where he sat before. There is a button on the wall and his finger hovers over it.

  “I am going to unchain you now.”

  I nod once. A short acknowledgment that I won’t try anything stupid. The chains lower and blood floods back down my veins painfully. I take the opportunity during his lack of attention to look around the room. For that’s all it is. Just a room. A room with one square window high on the back wall which exposes nothing but a patch of blue sky. A bed. Two doors. One open, one shut.

  He’s standing before me again, tracking my eyes.

  “The bathroom,” he says when my gaze falls to the open door. He reaches above me, his face coming dangerously close to mine. So close his breath caresses my face. Or assaults it.

  My wrists are released and my arms fall to my sides, causing me to cry out a little at the pain of it. Immediately my eyes snap to his. Will I be punished for that cry of pain?

  He shakes his head at my unspoken question and I want to slump to the floor in relief.

  “Kneel.”

  I drop to my knees without question, my eyes falling to the floor. It is concrete. Cold and hard. Out of my peripheral vision, his hand snakes toward me, cupping my chin and drawing my head upward. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to see whatever is reflected in his eyes, and scared of the proximity of my face to his groin.

  “Look at me.”

  I try, but I can’t bring my eyes up. Tears roll down my cheeks. My eyes are stuck on a pebble encased in the concrete.
It is red, and in stark contrast to the black, white and gray monotony of the rest. I hear the whistle of air and wince as a sharp sting inflicts the bottom of my feet.

  I look up. I expect to see lust, sickened desire, but I don’t. I can’t decipher any emotion in his eyes at all. Maybe he has none. That scares me most of all.

  My heart pounds as I wait for him to move. My eyes dance between his, unsure where to look, unsure if I can keep staring into the ocean of emptiness.

  And then he leaves.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MIA

  Minutes pass before I rise to my feet. I feel like he is watching, studying me, so the first thing I look for is a camera. Sure enough, there’s one protruding from the ceiling above the door. There has been no effort to hide it. It’s there in plain sight, the blinking red light letting me know it is on. Is he staring at a screen watching me now?

  I stretch. Not high into the air, but lowering myself at the hips, letting myself fold over my knees and relishing the strain of the muscles down my legs and lower back. It feels good to move. I twist and turn, forcing as much stiffness from my body that I can.

  Moving to sit on the bed, I allow myself to bounce on the mattress as though I’m testing its softness. As though it matters. Springs groan. There is a single blanket folded at the foot of the bed. No pillow.

  Walking into the bathroom, I take in the shower, toilet and hand basin. Another camera hovers in the corner. There are no shower curtains. No privacy. Liquid soap sits in a bottle off to one side. It looks out of place in the bluntness of the rest of the room, boasting hints of cherry blossom. Its color is offensive. So happy and bright.

  Leaving the bathroom, I consider banging on the other door, the one that opens and closes only to let him in. I consider screaming and yelling at the glass in the little square window. But instead, all I do is lower myself to the ground, my back sliding against the wall as I return to the corner with the chains, hugging my knees to my chest.