First Night
He opened his eyes to darkness. Clattering sounded all around him. He couldn't feel his hands or feet. His open mouth was as dry and parched as an empty well.
The gag wasn't helping.
The rope-burns were agony.
All he could remember of the past two days was black.
It'd been black when he'd gone out walking, black had covered his eyes, black had witnessed his hurts and black had finally claimed his brain.
The banging was getting louder. Dragged – unwillingly – back to full consciousness, his ears began to understand what they were hearing.
. . . clatter . . . bang . . . crash . . . sigh . . .
"Yeah, I can hear that,"
. . . crash . . . creak . . . bash . . . bang . . . drip . . .
"Dammit, would you shut-up!!"
. . . crash. . . .
A female voice. An obviously irritated one.
He tried to shout. Not even he heard the muffled squeak over the incessant noise. Damn the gag in his mouth!! The fledgling idea was there to kick and stamp the floor until he was heard. The first attempted shuffling of his feet reminded him why he wanted nothing more to do with movement.
The rope burns were agony.
He tried to listen to the muttering voice over – or maybe under – the crashing sounds coming from a room beyond. What was that . . . a growl?!
It was getting louder. And closer.
Another muffled squeak managed to get past the gag; his pitiful excuse for a scream. The growling turned into a vicious bark into a howl into silence into another series of growls.
"FUCK!" the loud footsteps even drowned out the growls, which turned into plaintive canine whimpering. "FUCK IT TO HELL MUFFIN I FUCKING TOLD YOU TO LEAVE HIM ALONE!!" the same obviously irritated female voice.
Hands impatiently worked at the back of his head. The blackness fell away in her hands; the white forced him to close his eyes against it. Too bright.
"Excuse me?" gradually, he allowed his eye-lids to lift, adjusting to the excess light in the room. After all the screaming, he strained to hear. Once more, a muffled squeak was his only method of communication.
"Huh?" what? Did she expect him to be able to talk with this gag stuck in his mouth?
"Can't you speak?" he nodded.
"You can?" he nodded again.
"Then why don't you?" inwardly he rolled his eyes.
'Great! Kidnapped by someone mentally inferior to a child of three!'
As exaggerated as possible, he bit down on the gag, trying to get this girl's attention on it. The watery hazel eyes glowed with a strange light, and she never stopped moving her hands, the fingers red and swollen with chilblains.
"Oh," he cringed as she undid the gag; did she have to pull so hard? Letting it drop to the ground, she sat on the dusty board floor, staring up at him with those strange eyes. His stiff jaw refused to move for a few seconds; his tongue felt like sandpaper.
"Now can you speak?"
He managed to rasp one word,
"Water,"
"Oh," she walked out into the room beyond. The Doberman, Muffin's eyes followed her. And slowly turned back to him. The soft beginnings of a growl were coming from its throat.
"MUFFIN SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" she shouted at the dog, kicking it swiftly. Whimpering, Muffin scampered away, to huddle in the furthest corner. "Here," she held out the glass. He just looked at her.
Honestly, couldn't she see his hands were tied?
"Oh," as if she'd read his mind, she untied his hands, surprisingly gently. "Ow," obviously she must have seen the lacerations. And she poured the water over them.
He winced at the sting, but was grateful all the same.
The rope burns were agony.
Again she walked into the next room, presumably to get more water. Even though his shoulders were screaming, he brought his hands to rest in his lap. And winced again. The skin was raw and blistered, bleeding where she'd been too rough in undoing the knots. No wonder it hurt so much.
He didn't want to see his ankles.
Until the low growl caught his ear, he hadn't realised Muffin had walked over. Rigid, he glanced from the corner of his eye at the snarl of bare teeth.
"Muffin won't bite, not if you don't move," seeing his master, Muffin made a quick retreat to the corner, fear overruling the presence of the stranger. Without ceremony, she tipped the glass to his lips. Considering the state of his hands, he mentally thanked her; maybe she wasn't as stupid as he'd thought.
"Enough," he managed to say, his throat still hoarse. Immediately, the glass was thrown away; he cringed as it shattered against the wall. Muffin whimpered.
Unperturbed, she sat down beside his chair, with no intention of untying his ankles. Her watery stare was making him uncomfortable.
"What?" he said, finally having worked up the courage to speak.
"Can I be you for a while?"
"What?!"
"Can I be you?" he just shook his head, incredulous; she actually looked sincere!
"No,"
"Oh," and still she stared, "I was hoping you'd let me,"
"Why?"
"Because,"
"Because why?"
"Because I've got something to say,"
"Well, say it then,"
"But nothing ever comes," could she see his confusion? Anyone else would have, but not this one.
"Um. . . ."
'Change the subject, quick!'
"Because my voice is stuck. I hear it, but no-one else can. It's right here," was she pointing to her elbow?!
"In your elbow?"
"Can you hear it?" and she lifted her elbow to his ear.
"No," shying away as far as the chair and his tied feet would let him.
"Neither can anyone else," cradling her elbow as 'anyone else' would a small child.
That was the god-knows-how-many-times-th she'd looked sharply over towards the next room.
"What is it?!" she didn't hear – or didn't take any notice of – the exasperation in his voice.
"The fucking Anti-Christ's in the kitchen aga– YEAH, I CAN FUCKING HEAR THAT!!" the last shout directed at the empty next room. Or at least, empty from what he could tell.
While she cursed under her breath, he saw what she had in her hand. A wooden stake.
'Don't tell me I've walked onto the set of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"!'
The white knuckles stood out from the red hand.
"Um . . . wha–"
"Ssshhhh!"
Total silence.
So he wouldn't have to face what he didn't understand, he stared at her knuckles.
Slowly, they relaxed their grip on the stake.
She sighed in relief.
"What happened?"
"Saved by the garbage truck," not knowing what else to do, he nodded.
"You know, I don't even know your name," the strange light in her watery eyes soured. When she spoke, her voice was soft and sharp.
"I know what you think of me,"
"What?"
"I know what you think coz you never fucking shut up,"
"I don't know what you mean," he shrugged with shoulders as confused as he was.
"You would if I were a mermaid,"
"If . . . you were a mermaid? Okay, whatever,"
"What's wrong with mermaids? I'm gonna be a mermaid when I grow up,"
"Oh? Well why not be a mermaid now then?" he almost laughed out loud at the incredulous look in her strange eyes. Like she was the one humouring him!
"Are you kidding? In these jeans?!" a tiny smile lit up the corners of her thin, misshapen mouth.
"What's wrong with your jeans?"
"Not mine, his,"
"Well, what's wrong with his jeans then?"
"They've still got her name all over them!"
"Where? Who's name?"
"Hers!" and she pointed to a stain on the pocket.
"Why should it matter?"
"It doesn't; I don't care,"
"Oh, okay then. Look, you still haven't told me your nam–"
"YEAH I CAN FUCKING WELL HEAR THAT!!" if his hands weren't so painful to move, he'd have clamped them over his ears; her screaming at the empty kitchen was really starting to hurt.
He was really starting to wonder whether this girl even realised that she'd kidnapped him. All she seemed to do was sit there and talk nonsense. What was she saying now? Something about losing a scream in a paper cup?
Yes, he thought there probably was a heaven where screams went. (Anything to shut her up!)
No, he didn't think twenty-five bucks and a cracker would be enough to get them there.
How much money did he have with him anyway? Would it be enough to catch the nearest bus out of this place?
Minding the burns, he pulled the wallet from his pocket, instantly regretting it when his hand brushed against the rough wood of the chair.
The rope burns were agony.
He hadn't even realised that the girl had shut up until she spoke again.
"Who's that?" the voice was strangely venomous.
"Who?" she pointed to the photo, "Oh, that's my sister,"
"No it's not,"
"Yes it is,"
"It's your girlfriend,"
"What?!"
"I'll bet she's really deep," the spiteful animosity was beginning to scare him.
"This is my sister, not my girlfriend! I think I should know,"
"Does she think really deep thoughts?"
"She's not my girlfriend!"
"What's so great about really deep thoughts?!"
"I don't know!" fast as a serpent, she had him by the collar, her watery hazel eyes inches from his own.
"You better start praying that I bleed real fucking soon; there's a thought for you!" the words were low and menacing. He was trying not to shudder. And she pushed him away so hard he thought the chair was going to tip over.
'Lord help me! I have to get out of here or this girl's going to kill us both!!'
She wasn't talking to him.
She sat behind his line of vision, in the corner with Muffin, alternately stroking and cuffing his ear. It amazed him that even a dog would put up with that kind of treatment. In her right hand, she held a notebook; in her left, a pen. With the chilblains, he was surprised she even felt like writing.
"What are you writing?"
Nothing.
"Hmm?"
Nothing.
"You're gonna have to speak up, 'cause I can't hear you,"
Nothing.
"Oh come on, don't be like that!"
Nothing.
"What did I do?"
Nothing.
"Hmm? What?"
Nothing.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
Nothing.
Even the sound of her voice was better than the heavy silence; it was almost creepy. It was straight out of a scene from a cheap horror movie, but he sure didn't feel like laughing right now.
"Please?"
Nothing.
Sighing, he gritted his teeth and tried to undo the first knot in the ropes around his ankles.
"Bloody hell!" he swore under his breath, the raw flesh rebelling with the smallest motion.
The rope burns were agony.
"Don't bother," the voice behind him was curt. He heard the notebook slide along the boards to come to rest beside the chair leg. She had surprisingly good aim. He glanced at the wall, in her general direction, for a second or two longer than necessary, then turned his attention to the notebook.
The script was awful, the spelling even worse, but he could make it out. Barely.
He twisted around in the chair, as much as he could without aggravating his ankles, and stared at her. She gazed at the wall opposite her, her strange eyes dry,
"We're too easy," was all she said, "We're too easy," was all she could say.
"You know, I love the way we're communicating," she said, in that offhand manner that he'd come to recognise as a backward compliment.
"Yeah?" God knew how it had happened, but somehow she'd ended up with her head resting in his lap. She'd said she was tired, yet did she stop talking?
Her head was heavy, it was cutting off the circulation to one leg, but there really wasn't much he could do about it. He didn't particularly want Muffin to eat him alive.
Every so often she'd look up at him; those watery eyes held such devotion it scared him. So he wouldn't have to meet her eyes, he focused on her misshapen lips. Crooked and too thin, what should have been smooth was dry and cracked; and bleeding from where she'd bitten too hard.
She moved then. Her hands rested, surprisingly lightly, on his; she stood on her knees, facing him.
"See how your eyes keep looking at my funny lip shape," a gentle finger, with a bitten nail, traced the outline of his lips. What was she doing?
The noise of loud footsteps on the boards above them distracted him. He would have looked up, had her hand not crept behind his head, restricting.
"Now let's hear what you think of me, but don't look up,"
"Why?"
"The sky's falling,"
The door. He'd heard it fly open, and so had she. Yet she didn't move, and neither did he.
"FREEZE!! POLICE!!!" he could see the police, with their guns drawn and aimed at her head. Her hand remained steady. She was calm and still, and she could feel him shaking. Her free hand grasped his, minding the burns.
'Everything's going to be okay' her eyes seemed to say. Did she even realise what this meant?! The cops could shoot her dead without a second thought!
"His jeans, with her name all over them," she whispered to him. Was that her attempt at reassurance? He managed a weak smile. She smiled back.
He saw her lips had started to bleed again.
"Turn around kid!" one of the cops shouted. She didn't move. "Now!"
"You better do what the police say," he murmured to her. He had nothing to be thanking her for, but he didn't want her to get shot either. After all, she hadn't done anything worse than tie him up.
She turned around. Seeing the girl was immediately unarmed, the police moved in. Two cops, with guns still drawn, made her lie on the floor while they checked for any concealed weapons. (As if she could hide anything in the rags she called clothes)
The other two cops came over to him.
"Are you okay son?"
"I. . . ." he was feeling a little dizzy with it all.
"What's your name?"
"Zac . . . Zac Hans– . . . wha–? . . . I. . . ."
"It's okay son, don't try to talk, just relax. We'll have you out of here in a minute," he turned to the second, much younger, cop. "Marcus, we're gonna need the paramedics up here. And notify HQ, tell 'em we found the Hanson kid, make sure they tell his family right away,"
"Right away Mike," Marcus walked away a few paces and pulled out a two-way radio.
Seeing there was no way he was going to be able to untie the ropes without causing the kid to more than likely pass out, Mike opened out the sharpest blade on his Swiss Army knife and managed to saw through the binds.
"It's okay son, the paramedics are here. And we've notified your mother, she's on her way," Marcus smiled. It was as transparent as water. With all the noise, he just wanted to lay down somewhere where it was quiet. Then maybe the room would stop spinning.
Hands helped him onto a stretcher, hands put the oxygen mask over his face, hands held him steady as they lifted the stretcher and carried it down the stairs.
Seeing the girl had no concealed weapons, the two cops managed to get her to her feet.
"Okay kid, you have the right to remain silent, anything you do say may be used as evidence against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand these rights I've explained to you?" she just nodded. Why was she so calm? Did she even realise she'd been arrested? "Come on kid," he threw his jacket over her head, hiding her face from any possible waiting journalists.
"Paul?" the other cop asked, "What are we gonna do about the dog?" Paul looked to where the other cop was pointing. The black Doberman sat passively in a corner.
"Call the pound. They'll pick it up," and a muffle came from underneath the jacket.
"What did you say kid?" Paul took the jacket off her head.
"But what if I'm a mermaid. . . ?" her lip was quivering and she was shaking her head; her eyes were on the dog.
"What?"
"But what if I'm a mermaid?" she pointed at the dog.
"I don't know what you mean. No, you can't take him with you if that's what you're asking. Come on, let's go," and he threw the jacket back over her head.
He lay on the stretcher, waiting for them to pull him into the ambulance, his eyes searching for her. He saw the two cops leading her out.
She couldn't speak as they led her towards the patrol car; she could only blindly turn her head, the jacket covering her eyes. They were taking her away, he knew that for certain. She was what they'd classify 'mentally disturbed'.
He saw her desperately clutch her elbow; she was trying to speak. But she couldn't. He knew her strange eyes would be begging him to speak for her. But he couldn't. Maybe it was self-preservation, maybe it was cowardice, maybe it was the pure oxygen dulling his thoughts; either way his tongue wouldn't move.
"Because I've got something to say,"
"Well, say it then,"
"But nothing ever comes . . . Because my voice is stuck. I hear it, but no-one else can. It's right here,"
"In your elbow?"
"Can you hear it?"
He couldn't. And neither could the cops.
"Come on Zac," the paramedic's voice was kind, but firm. The handcuffs clasped in finality; there was nothing he could do. The ambulance officer squeezed his hand in reassurance. She didn't see him wince.
The rope burns were agony.