Prologue
853 Words
Prologue
On Truman Lake, Sunday Morning
The girl awoke in a fog. She was disoriented, but she didn’t panic. It wouldn’t be her first hangover, although this one was a doozy. She wanted to scratch her nose, but she quickly realized both of her wrists were bound with soft cloths. And so were her ankles. She could feel bedsheets on her back. So she was prone, her hands and feet lashed to the bedposts.
She’d been tied to a bed before, but it wasn’t for s*x. Sometimes the nuns or the nurse would restrain her so she couldn’t hurt herself. And then there were the clients, who had their own reasons. But if this was a s*x game, she wouldn’t expect to be wearing much of anything. She could feel the tickle of cloth against her breasts, her stomach, her hips — flannel pajamas! And she wasn’t cold. The room was quite warm.
Could it be whoever put her here wanted her to be comfortable?
Her vision was still blurry. The light was dim. A bedroom. Despite what she already knew of her situation, she didn’t panic. She’d put up with kinky types before. The comfortable clothing and the warmth of the room made her hope it might all be a game. She had no choice but to go along. Maybe he would get off quickly, then go.
As her eyes began to focus, she felt the bed sway under her. But there was no hot breath on her face, no urgent heaviness hunched over her languid body. And besides feeling she was alone, Melissa noted no accompanying dizziness. This wasn’t like any morning-after head she’d ever experienced. The floating sensation could be the drugs wearing off. What had they given her?
She remembered she’d been taken forcefully back to the convent — again — and not being at all happy about it. But perhaps having to live there might be a whole lot more pleasant than whatever was about to go down here. And maybe it was the stress that had brought on another fit. And, yes, the nuns had tied her down to a cot. But the episode had passed, and they’d given her over to that brutish fellow, who claimed to have paperwork.
She wasn’t in pain. In her body, a feeling of numbness. Also probably the drugs.
Was this some new kind of drug for her fits? If so, it was something powerful, because she couldn’t remember a thing about how she came to be here.
Except — where had they taken her child?
A pang seized her stomach as she remembered how they’d taken him from her. Was that yesterday? She’d have to play their game, give them whatever they needed, and maybe it would all work out.
She had to hold to the belief he’d be safe. Baby Buzz was no good to them dead.
And she convinced herself, which gave her space to worry about her own safety. It wasn’t just the threat of being raped. She’d dealt with that before. But what if, now, in this place which must be filled with danger, her body suddenly spasmed?
What if she had another fit? Would they freak out like the nuns had done?
She lifted her head slightly off the pillow — yes, there was an overstuffed pillow, another deliberate comfort — and she caught a chill as she could make out a shadowy figure seated at the foot of the bed. No facial features for her to study. But he was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt.
He sat very still, with a kind of icy patience.
“Where am I? Who are you?” she asked him.
“In safe hands. And almost home,” he said calmly.
It was a mature, confident, deep, resonant voice.
She knew the voice! How could she forget? But after that one time, she never expected to see him again.
“It’s you! Vasili! Why am I tied up? Is this your idea of —?”
“You never knew my name,” he insisted.
“Who are you, then?”
Maybe it was okay after all. Did he have her bound because he thought she’d hurt herself? Without her pills, she could have another fit.
“I am everything to you now. Without me, nothing,” he said.
She didn’t have the energy to scream. It was more of a plaintive whimper, fraught with sobs. “Where is my baby? What have you done?”
“He is safe, for now. I’ll ask the questions. And if you can give me satisfactory answers — honest answers — you will do very well — for him and for you.”
“He could be yours, you know. We can change his name when I know yours.”
“It is of no concern to you now. Listen carefully to what I am asking you.”
“So it’s a game, right?”
“No, it’s quite serious. Your son’s life — and yours — could depend on the answers.”
She sucked in a deep, panicked breath. Kinky or homicidal, this guy. See where this goes.
“So… ask away.”
He waited for a long moment. Then he asked simply, “Why?”
“Why? Why what? How am I supposed to know what you’re even talking about?”
He took another long moment. The stiff tone of his reply signaled a flash of anger.
She could only submit — what else?
That was how he must want this game played.
“Use your imagination,” he snapped.
- Writer
