"That's it? You just want me to roll over? What are you going to do to me if I roll over?"
"I've asked you nicely two times now." His hand caressed the gun.
I rolled over.
"I don't understand why you're doing this." My voice cracked. Damn. I had to stay calm. "Have we met before?"
He was behind me, one hand on the middle of my back, pinning me down.
"I'm sorry if I did something to offend you, David. I really am. Just tell me how I can make it up to you, okay? There has to be some way.…"
I shut up and listened. I could hear small sounds behind me, could tell he was doing something back there, preparing for something. I waited for the click of the gun being cocked. My body shook with terror. Was this it for me? My life was going to end with me face down in the back of a van? I felt a needle stab into the back of my thigh. I flinched and tried to reach back to touch it. Fire crawled up my leg.
Before we wrap this session up, Doc, I think it's only fair I fill you in on something—if I'm going to climb aboard the no-bullshit train, I should ride it to the end of the line. When I said I was screwed up, I actually meant royally fucked. The I-sleep-in-my-closet-every-night kind of fucked.
It was tricky as hell when I first got home and was staying in my old bedroom at my mom's, slipped out in the morning so no one knew. Now that I'm back in my old place, some shit is easier since I can control all the variables. But I won't set foot in a building unless I know where the exits are. It's a damn good thing you're on the ground floor. I wouldn't be sitting here if your office was any higher than I can jump.
Night…well, night's the worst. I can't have any people around. What if they unlocked a door? What if they left a window open? If I wasn't already waltzing with crazy, then running around checking everything while trying not to let anybody see what I'm doing would guarantee me a dance.
When I first got home, I thought if I could just find one person who felt the same as me…Dumbass that I am, I looked for a support group. Turns out there's no such thing as SAAMA, no Some Asshole Abducted Me Anonymous, online or off. Anyway, the whole concept of anonymity is bullshit when you've been on magazine covers, front pages, and talk shows. Even if I did track down a group, I'm willing to bet one of its wonderfully sympathetic members would be cashing in on my shit as soon as she walked out the door. Sell my pain to some tabloid and get herself a cruise or a plasma TV.
Not to mention, I hate talking to strangers about this stuff, especially reporters, who get it ass backwards often as not. But you'd be surprised how much some of the magazines and TV shows are willing to pay for an interview. I didn't want the money but they keep offering it, and hell, I need it. It's not like I could keep doing real estate. What good is a realtor who's scared to be alone with a strange man?
Sometimes I go back to the day I was abducted—replaying my actions up until the open house scene by scene, like a never-ending horror movie where you can't stop the girl from answering the door or walking into the deserted building—and I remember the cover of that magazine in the store. So weird to think that now some other woman is looking at my picture, thinking she knows all about me.
Copyright Chevy Stevens Publication Date: July 6, 2010