Shadow Me

Nine - I Feel Small

Haley

The door slams open. I startle and push myself up on my elbows, my eyes wide, but still fuzzy with sleep. I blink a couple times and stare up into scary looking eyes.

"Breakfast," he says.

After what I did yesterday I can't believe he'd still offer me food. I push myself to my feet and start toward the door. He pushes his hand out to grab my arm, but I slip my arm away before he can get a good grasp on it. I look at him with annoyed eyes. He looks ready to yell.

"I know where the table is," I say, angry.

These people can't just manhandle me and expect me to be okay with it.

He backs away from the door, making room for me to go through. I walk out of the bathroom and march to the table. Before I can pull the chair out myself, his arm goes over mine, pulling it out for me. I pull my arm back quickly, avoiding contact, sucking in a sharp breath and trying to control my growing fear of the man. I don't want him touching me. I look at him blankly and then sit down, swallowing hard. I stare at the table top in front of me, being careful not to make eye contact with him. I'm weak from not having eaten in God only knows how long, and my hands are shaking. Faintly, I can hear the TV. The news is on. I turn in the chair to look at the screen. MVIR1 continues to kill people. It's the same thing every day, and it's so disconnected from my world that it's hard to remember that it exists, or how it began.

As far as I know, it began a few years ago and has killed thousands, if not millions of our population. It's as if the disease jumped out of a birthday cake and announced itself, only to take the lives of everyone around it. Obnoxious. Deadly. Anytime someone close gets the flu, or looks like they're getting a cold it causes an uproar, paranoia. Suddenly everyone is contagious and everyone is a hypochondriac. Thankfully, MVIR1 was only a small issue in the area where I live. Lived. It really was only a major issue in the areas near Yellowstone, but no one knows how.

A clatter sounds on the table again. I look down to see scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. I haven't eaten in nearly two days. I'm so deprived that eating with my hands seems a natural urge and I go to do it, but the boy sets down utensils next to my plate. I grab the fork and scoop eggs into my mouth. I can't eat fast enough to ease the pang of hunger in my stomach. I eat faster and faster until some of the pain subsides. The boy puts a glass of water next to my plate, which I take up graciously. I haven't had water in me since he shoved my head in a tub. I drink the entire glass and continue eating. As soon as I clear my plate he takes it from me.

"Thank you," I whisper, though I'm not sure I mean it.

Please don't let this be my last meal, I'm begging.

"You're welcome," he says, the sound of his voice lingering, "Haley."

I look up and narrow my eyes at him, into him, boring them into his blue ones. He knows my name. Not that I'm surprised, but I never imagined he'd need to use it. Suddenly, I know.

"This isn't going to be short, is it?" I ask softly.

He looks at me, confused, maybe.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"You know my name. If this were going to be short you wouldn't have use to it. And I'm guessing you're not the one pulling all the strings."

Laughter.

"And why would you think that?" he asks, sarcasm in his tone.

"It's not like you're doing a great job beating it out of me." I say.

Then I regret it. I bite my lip. That probably wasn't the best idea. I brace myself for some kind of hit, but it doesn't come. Instead he laughs again.

"You're perceptive," he states.

"What's your name?" I ask him.

He looks at me for a moment, as if teetering on the edge of a building, but instead of deciding whether or not to jump, he's deciding whether or not to answer my question. He stands and pushes in his chair.

"You should shower and get ready. You're going to the council today," he says.

The council? A freaking council?

"What's the council?" I ask.

He laughs to himself.

"You'll see," he says.

I look at myself. I've been in the same clothes for days. I want to shower, but I have nothing clean.

"I don't have anything to wear. Or anything to clean myself," I say, crossing my arms over myself, uncomfortable.

He walks over to the door across from the bathroom door and opens it. He bends down and pulls out two suitcases. He throws them on the bed next to me. I stare at him questioningly and he nods in the direction of the suitcases. I have permission to open them. I unzip them and look inside. I back away from it as if it burned me to the touch to open. My clothes. A lot of my clothes.

I unzip the other suitcase and find a large white box, filled with everything I would need to shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razors, lotion. Then I take a closer look. These are the exact brands I use at home. Either they grabbed them from home, or they took note of what I use. Either way, I shudder. The thought of a hot shower sends goose bumps washing over my skin. I'm cold, and terrified.

I don't want to shower anywhere near this guy, but I feel so gross, like when you finally get over a long stomach flu and are able to shower. Finally unaffected by the nausea that you realize something else is wrong, and it's you. I grab two matching pieces of clothing from the suitcase of stuff that is mine, and the white box and head toward the bathroom. I stop, suddenly, swallowing and choking down my terror. Fear trickles through me like the slow drip from a faucet. I turn around.

"What is it?" the boy asks.

"Th-umm," I stumble my words, "the door locks from the outside."

The boy nods, recognizing my cautiousness.

"I can see why you'd be worried," he says, stepping closer to me, "but I'm not into that."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," I whisper.

I bite my bottom lip. He just looks at me, eyes narrowing as if daring me to push the issue further. Once I realize there's nothing I can do about this situation, I turn and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and setting the white box on the counter. I wish I'd brought a chair with me to prop underneath the door knob. I hear a clicking on the door and jump so far back that I hit the wall. My stomach lurches, and I'm glad to be next to the toilet. I'm waiting for him to come in, but he doesn't. He locked it for me. While it's useless toward my safety, it was comforting in a way. It was his way of telling me he wouldn't come in. Or his way of keeping me in until I showered. I must stink. I grab the white box and hear a knock on the door, making me jump again, turning to face the direction of the door, and crossing my arms over myself even though I'm still fully clothed. He doesn't try to enter, but still, I'm glad I haven't stripped naked yet.

"Haley," he says, "I'd suggest dressing nicely for the council meeting. The members aren't exactly fond of rude guests."

Guests. I've learned about this in English class. Connotation, are you freaking kidding me? Guests, prisoners, they're all the same to him. Even worse is the idea that guests need to have a good appearance. I shudder. I can't imagine what kind of creeps are waiting for me. I snap back to reality and a weight drops onto my chest. I wish I were in English right now. Anywhere, even English class, is better than here.

I open the white box and take out what I need. I set the shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and razor on the edge of the tub. I turn on the water and rest my hand under the faucet. It starts out cold, sending a chill down my spine, but eventually it warms up. I feel the muscles in my body relaxing one by one until I realize I've been standing with just my hand under the faucet for what may be a few minutes. I pull my hand back and look toward the door. No one has tried to come in. There haven't been any sounds from the knob.

I take a deep breath and sigh. I close my eyes and pull off my shirt and then let it drop to the floor. I strip off the rest of my clothing and then step into the tub, pulling the shower curtain across me. I test the water again. It's still warm. I take a step toward the water and close my eyes. A couple days ago the water was unwelcome. Now it is my only sense of comfort. I put my head under the stream of water to wet down my hair. The water trickles down my back. I'm only just now realizing how tired I am. I want to sleep.

I finish up in the shower and turn off the faucet. I dry off with the towel and step out of the tub, careful to avoid slipping. Walking toward the mirror proves tricky. The tile has no regard for human life. Once there, I wipe my hand against the cool glass surface, revealing my reflection to me. I rest my hand where it is and look at myself before closing my eyes. Bruises mar my face. I'm not here. I'm somewhere else. I open my eyes again and sigh. I wrap my hair into another towel and continue drying off with the one around my body.

"You have half an hour," the boy calls out to me.

Again, I jump, so affected by his presence in what used to be my protected bubble.

I dry myself quickly and put on my clothes. My favorite jeans are suddenly much more low rise than I'd ever let myself wear, and my black fitted T-shirt exposes a bit of skin at my hips. I tug at the shirt, trying to pull it lower. It's no use. I continue tugging. Nothing. I slouch. Much better. I work at taming my hair, and look at myself in the mirror. I hope they'll settle for this. They're not getting anything else from me. I turn toward the door and hesitate at the door knob. I'm exposing more skin than I care to and I'm not particularly fond of my audience. I'm bracing myself to knock when the boy calls to me.

"Are you decent?"

"Yeah," I croak out.

The door unlocks and opens and I have to back away to keep from being hit by it. I'm holding the towel I was using to towel dry my hair close to my body. He looks at me, but has no distinct reaction to my new clothing. Relief courses through me. I don't feel as though I'm being judged, watched, or undressed. I walk out, gliding the towel through my hair again. I think I'm using it as a security blanket now, keeping myself busy. He backs up, allowing me room to pass. I sit down on the bed and frown for a second.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I don't have shoes."

He gives a short laugh and points me toward the closet. I get up and walk over to it, my hand hesitating in front of the handle. When I open it I look down. In a row on the floor are my shoes. I look at myself, at what I'm wearing. I slip my feet into into a pair of flats and start walking. I start to worry that these people might know more about me than I do. I go back and sit on the bed while the boy continues to sit there, watching me. Staring straight ahead, I wait.

A knock on the door startles me. I thought I had a few more minutes to prepare myself. My heart starts playing the drums on my rib cage. Metal. I stand. A sheen of sweat starts on my forehead. I hold my breath as the boy crosses to the door and opens it.

"Marty, Paul," the boy says in recognition, slapping hands with the two men entering the room.

After their greeting the two men come barging into the room, barely giving the boy time to back up. It's now that I realize they're large, tall, and muscular, and older than I expected compared to the guy still standing at the door.

I feel small.

"Where's the girl?" one of them asks.

Then he sees me and a wicked smile flashes across his face.

He starts walking toward me and I start backing up. I back up as carefully as I can until I hit myself on the table in the kitchen area, stumbling. The man laughs as he closes the distance between me and him. I cringe as he sets himself right in front of me. I'm afraid to breathe. He looks like he might smell bad. Grunge. I swallow hard. My throat has become sandpaper.

"Look at her, so scared!" he laughs.

I straighten myself and lean toward him. No, not scared. I am not scared. The other man walks up beside him.

"She's so small," he says, "you'd think she wouldn't have given us so many problems getting her in here."

So these are the bastards that kidnapped me.

"You'd think. I'd have thought you wouldn't have problems handling the job."

Job. I am a job. I find myself losing more and more hope as I am delegated from human to job. The men look me up and down. A chill runs down my spine, but I don't dare let it show. I glare at their faces.

"Yeah, but me and Marty can't call dibs on someone so young," the man I now recognize as Paul says.

"Eww," I say as disgusted as I can.

"So don't," the boy says.

The men look at him, disappointment lining their faces and bringing out the wrinkles in their cheeks.

"Don't we have somewhere to take her?" he asks after his friends say nothing.

Paul grabs me by the arm and pulls me forward. I slip out of his grip and push him away.

"Get your hands off of me," I say defensively.

This only makes him grip my arm harder as he pulls me closer. I pull against his grip and regret it. That's going to bruise.

"This one going to be an issue still?" he asks.

"She might be. Depends on what you're doing. Don't put a plate in front of her," the boy says sarcastically, grabbing my arm and nodding at Paul to let go of me.

I'm moving forward again. The more calm you are, the less it should hurt, I think to myself. The guy who has been keeping me in this room leads me to the door and I look back as we cross the threshold. It's sad that this room suddenly feels safer than wherever I'm going.

Marty closes the door behind us and then comes up on my side. I look at him. I want him to read my eyes. Don't touch me. He doesn't. The hallway we walk down is long and dark. The hotel looking room was cheery compared to this. I look at the walls as we walk. I recognize the material as cement. This place looks sturdy, as if it could withstand a bomb. Nothing lines these walls but doors. There are no pictures, no paintings. They are gloom. The lighting is insufficient. The toe of my flat catches on the floor. I'm squinting too hard at the ground in front of me to focus on actually picking up my feet when I walk. I expect the boy to let me fall on my face, but he doesn't. He keeps me upright.

We reach a set of double doors and Marty opens one for Paul, the boy, and me. Stairs. This room isn't much better lit than the hallway, so I'm careful where I plant my feet. I imagine myself as a ballet dancer, nimble and graceful, so owning this walking down stairs thing. I'm hoping this association will help me keep calm, because I'm half passed freaking out and a quarter til vomiting all over these guys. We pass three sets of steps. I'm beginning to think these stairs will go on forever, and when we reach the bottom Paul opens the door and the boy leads me through it. We're outside.

I squint against the bright light.

And grit my teeth at how helpless I feel.