Stained (5 page)

Brian pushes me forward into the darkness. “Come on.”

I'm not going anywhere with you!
I start running blindly, not knowing where I am going, just knowing I'm going away from him, my wrists held awkwardly behind my back, keeping me off balance, feet tripping over the uneven ground, but running still. And then I am falling onto icy gravel, sharp stones piercing my face, my arms, biting through my jeans, drawing blood.

Heavy hands grip my arms. “Did you really think you could get away? You belong to me now.”

5:00 P.M.

 

SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH SARAH; I'm sure of it. I wish I knew what. She ran off too fast for me to catch up with her, and then Mr. Simmons called me back.

I stare at my cell. In all the time I've had Sarah's number, I've never had the guts to call her. I can't believe that now, when I finally screw up the courage, she isn't picking up.

I speed dial her number again. No answer. I'm starting to get that skin-crawling feeling that something is really wrong. I know I'm being silly. Sarah would never hurt herself, no matter how much pain she's in. But she looked so upset today, like someone had died. I have to know that she's okay.

I grab my bike. I'm going over to her house. Even just a glimpse of her will reassure me. I'll figure out what to say when I get there. The cold wind stings my cheeks as I pedal, the wheels of my bike hissing against the wet asphalt.

Something big was bothering Sarah today—and I wasn't brave enough to ask her what. But I'm ready to ask her now. I bike faster.

 

I pace up and down the sidewalk in front of Sarah's house. This is stupid. I came all this way just to chicken out? No. If I want to be worthy of Sarah, I have to be willing to look stupid. Stupider than I usually do.

I stride up the walkway and ring the doorbell.

I hear running footsteps, then Mrs. Meadows yanks open the door. “Sarah?” she says breathlessly. She looks over my shoulder, craning her neck, then fastens her gaze on me. “Are you a friend of Sarah's? Do you know where she is?”

I stare at her. “Isn't she here? I thought—”

“She's not with you?” Her face falls. “She's not with Charlene, either. Sarah hasn't called in, and she's not answering her cell . . .”

A hard, tight pit forms in my stomach. “She hasn't answered my calls, either. Something upset her at school, but . . .”

Mrs. Meadows rubs her hand over her face. “And we gave her bad news this morning. I hope she hasn't . . .” Her voice trails off unsteadily.

I'm suddenly aware of how pale she is. “Do you need to sit down?”

She grips my arm. “When did you last see her?”

“Just after the final bell.”

“Something is wrong. It's not like her. She always calls us if she's staying out late. And she wouldn't want to worry her father, not today.”

Why not today?
I wish I knew what was going on. But Sarah wouldn't run away. Not my Sarah. No, something has happened.

“It's not like her,” Mrs. Meadows says again, dread in her voice.

I stand there helplessly, cold seeping into me, right to my bones. I see the fear stretched around Mrs. Meadows's eyes, see it in the way her throat convulsively tightens, and I know I'll remember this moment forever.

Mrs. Meadows bites her lip. “I'm calling the police.” She turns away.

“I'll bike down to the comic store and see if she's there,” I say. I pray I find her.

BRIAN WRENCHES ME UP off the icy gravel, his words echoing in my head:
You belong to me now.

Numbness spreads through me, dulling my thoughts. I wonder if my mind is trying to protect itself, to keep me from feeling the terror before I die. Or maybe it's whatever drug he shot into me. I need to stay alert.

A whimper escapes me.

No one knows where I am. I clench my stiff hands. I'm not ready to die. I've got so much I still want to do. I want to know what it's like to walk down the street and not have anyone stare at me. I want to get my comic books published. And I want to have a family someday. A family of my own.

My eyes burn.

Let there be someone around to see us. Please, let someone save me.

Brian shoves me forward. “There's a step up,” he says. “Three steps.”

I hesitate. I don't know where he's taking me, but I know that wherever it is, I shouldn't let him.

His fingers dig into my collarbone. “If you don't move, you won't like what happens next.”

I remember his knife in my side. I climb the creaking stairs, each of my steps getting slower and heavier. Maybe I should just run and take my chances. But I can't see which way to go. And how long could I survive in this cold with my hands fastened behind my back?

I stand there, trembling, not knowing what the best thing to do is—the thing that will keep me safe.

Brian pushes me forward.

The air stinks of piss. Not human; animal or rodent. There is a scurrying, scrabbling sound close to my feet. Rodent, then. I stiffen, trying not to react.

Brian presses up behind me, his cologne like a fog clouding my mind. “It's not as crowded as your room is with all those faces staring out at you, but that's part of its charm. Right, Sarah?”

He's seen my bedroom. Maybe even been
in
my bedroom. There's no other way he could know about the faces taped to my walls. It's a private thing, something Dad wouldn't talk about.

I shudder and twist away, but Brian pushes me forward. A door slams shut behind us, echoing hollowly.

Without the wind it's warmer, but not by much.

“Keep still,” Brian says, his breath hot against my ear. The gag tightens, pulling at my mouth, and then it jerks back and forth as he saws through the cloth.

My breath quickens.
He's going to let me go!

But no, that doesn't make sense. I can't let myself think that way.

The sawing stops, and then the cloth is ripped from my sore mouth.

I open and close my dry, aching mouth, run my tongue over my roughened lips. “Let me go,” I say hoarsely.

“Don't be absurd.” He tightens the strap beneath my chin, and I hear a scape, then a click.

Tears burn at my eyes.
Don't let me die, don't-let-me-die!

He tugs at the back of the blindfold, jiggling my head. Metal rasps against metal, and my hope fades. I hear another click, like a lock snapping shut, and then he lets me go.

Brian turns me around to face him, drawing me closer. “There. All done,” he says, his voice eager and fast, pitched higher than usual.

He's excited. Excited and afraid.

“You could just let me go, and no one would know,” I say, my voice trembling.

Brian laughs. “You think I would go to all this trouble and then do that? No, I brought you here to help you.”

“Help me?” I stifle my anger and fear.
How is this
helping
me?
“I don't need your help.”

“Of course you do.” He touches my stained cheek with his sweaty fingers.

I jerk away.
Don't touch me!

“Don't you want to know what it feels like to be normal? To be happy?”

“I
am
happy!”

He trails his fingertips across my cheek. “Are you?”

“I want to go home!” I gulp, choking back the tears.

“Really? But you weren't happy there.”

“Yes, I was!”

“Is that why you acted like a spoiled brat when your parents canceled your treatments this morning?”

I suck in my breath. How does he know that? Unless Dad told him. My heart aches. I wish Dad were here with me now.

There's a scrabbling sound again, like mice in the wall.

Brian rubs his face against my cheek. “You don't know it, but you're beautiful.”

I want to scream at him to get away from me, but I can't let him see how much he scares me. I wrench away and slam back against a wall, my fingers crushing painfully beneath me.

The floor creaks. He's close to me, still; I can feel it. I try to breathe normally, to not show my fear.

“I'll bet you've waited your whole life just to have someone tell you that,” he says.

“My mom's told me a thousand times! I don't need to hear it from you.”
From a sicko.

“You don't really think your mom was telling you the truth? She feels sorry for you, that's all. Just like your father does.”

I turn my face away from his voice. I'm not going to let him mess with my mind.

“You know I'm telling you the truth. They feel sorry for you because of this.” Brian strokes my purple cheek again.

“You don't know anything!” I slam my knee upward and connect with soft flesh.

He gasps.

I feel cool air against my skin instead of his heat. I run toward where I think the door should be, run with my hands still taped behind my back.

I smash into a wall, my nose crunching, pain bursting through me, hot liquid gushing from my nostrils. Blobs of orange light ooze in front of my eyelids, and I stagger.

“Look what you've done to your pretty face,” Brian says from behind me. He grips my chin with his huge hand and turns my head. “That has to hurt. But I'll bet it doesn't hurt as much as people thinking you're a freak.”

His voice is raw, too full of pain to be about me. I wish I could see his face to know for sure. I twist my head, trying to get free. “Is that how people treated you? As if you weren't good enough?”

“Don't you try that psychology shit with me. If you can't keep your mouth shut, I'll put the gag back in. Understand?”

“Yes,” I croak.

“Good.” He pulls his hand away.

My nose hurts like hell. I spit salty blood out of my mouth. I hope I get some on him.

“Stop fighting me, Sarah. I promise I'll let you go—when you're ready.”

Why does he keep lying to me? He has to know I don't believe him.

“You and your family have suffered so much. But I'm going to help you.”

“We don't need your help.”

“Ah, but you do. Every day your parents look at you and wonder if they did the right thing, teaching you to accept yourself when they know the world never will. Sometimes it hurts them so much they can't even look at you.”

I take a shaky breath. I am so afraid that what he's saying is true. Deep down, I know it is.

ALL THE TIMES SOMEONE was rude to me, and Dad and Mom were with me—I saw my pain mirrored in their faces. And the times when Dad looked away from me, sadness in his eyes. When Mom would give me her “inner beauty” speech after someone hurt me. Maybe it
has
been as hard on my parents as it has been on me. Maybe they even wished they had a different daughter, a pretty one. A normal one, at least.

No. I won't let Brian into my head.

But how do I deal with him? If Mom were here, she'd try to reason with him, make him see that what he's doing is wrong— but I don't think he cares about that. Still, I have to try.

His breathing is loud and fast in my ears. I can't tell anymore if he's excited or afraid. But I know exactly where he is from the sound of his breath and the stench of his cologne. I turn my face toward him. “You can't hold me against my will. Someone will find me. I'll bet my mom's already calling around.”

He makes a sound deep in his throat, like a dog growling.

I step back fast, wood creaking beneath me. “She'll be worried if I don't get home soon. And my dad—this will hurt him so much.”

“They'll get over it.”

“No, they won't; they love me!”

“They feel guilty about you. That's not the same thing.”

Tears prick my eyelids. I try to open them, but there is only blackness. “You don't know my parents! Not the way I do.”

“I know them better than you do. I've seen it all before.” He laughs thinly. “The guilt that churns inside a mother when her child is deformed. The burden that child becomes. The distance, and then the hatred that grows.”

I can feel his craziness seeping into my thoughts, can feel myself start to believe him. I've got to keep myself from being sucked into his twisted world. “Please, just let me go.”

“I saved you, Sarah. How can you be so ungrateful?”

“You
kidnapped
me!” I edge away from him.

He slams me back against the wall, his sour breath hot on my cheek. A hard lump jabs into the back of my head. “How quickly you forget. Just a few hours ago you were a damsel in distress, and I came to your rescue. Poor little Sarah.”

His voice vibrates through me, loud and mocking. I try to analyze every change in his tone, but it's hard to know whether my guesses are right without seeing his face. I know he's looking for something, but I don't know what it is, or what will happen if I give it to him. “The only one I need saving from is you.”

Brian chuckles and presses himself against me, his cologne burning my nostrils. “If I'd known you were this entertaining, I would have rescued you sooner. The last girl wasn't half as plucky.”

The last girl?
I think I'm going to puke. I turn my face away and suck in the fetid air. “They'll come looking for me. People saw you talking to me. They'll find you.”

“That's what
you
think. Now, stay still; I'm going to cut you free.”

Don't let me die. Please don't let me die.

He gently turns me away from him, then saws at the tape around my wrists, jolting my body with every rhythmic thrust. The tape splits apart, and I ease my aching arms to my sides, my shoulders screeching. My fingers are stiff and cold; just wiggling them sends sharp tingles of pain through my hands.

“I hope you're not in any discomfort,” Brian says. “Now, come, I want to show you where you'll be staying.”