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Tuesday
Mia was so ravenous that if a mouse had wandered into her cell, she might have eaten it.
She had no idea how long she’d lain there on that cot, paralyzed, until she finally passed out. What the hell had Dusty done to her? He hadn’t left her any water, and she was desperate for liquid. She poured the remaining beer in the bottle with the scratched label out onto the floor, but dared to take a tentative sip from the bottle Dusty had drunk from. The brew was flat and warm but it didn’t make her dizzy, and at least it wet her mouth and tongue. She’d eaten the crumbs of burned fries from the greasy paper when she’d woken up this morning. Or afternoon, or evening, whatever time it was. The light streaming in through the little knothole had been gray and then pitch black, and now it was gray again in the room. Did that mean two days had passed? She thought it was still daylight outside now, but maybe it was cloudy? Her world had been reduced to a dim twilight when the sun shone outside the building, and after it set, a blackness so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
With a crack and a knothole in the barn wall like that, she imagined she’d be able to break through the wood. Using her best karate moves, she’d kicked it. The only result was that her leg now ached all the way from the ball of her foot up to her hip, and her hair was full of dust that had showered down from the ceiling. The planks in the walls seemed more like iron than anything that could have once been a tree; she couldn’t even press a fingernail into that grainy concrete. The wood was BP, as her mother would say; “before plywood,” when pioneers used anything they could get their hands on to build with. Her mother had once tried to fashion some grayed scrap wood into picture frames but had given up after trying to cut it, saying the wood was probably a hundred years old; so dry and weathered that she’d dull saw blades on it.
So she was in an ancient barn. The metal door was scarred with dents and scratches, but it clearly wasn’t ancient. And she was willing to bet that the lock was brand new. Dusty, the sicko bastard, had planned this. Did Comet have Darcy in another cell somewhere?
She’d thought this kind of thing happened only on television. Were she and Darcy about to be sold to some fat toad of a sheik in the Middle East to become part of his harem?
She’d tried to dig into the dirt floor next to the wall, but the ground was so hard it might as well be cement, and all she had were her fingernails and the beer bottles. She’d barely scraped out a depression an inch deep next to the wall, and she hadn’t even found the bottom of the wall boards yet. Her hands were black with grime, and the ends of her fingers were bloody. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening to her; it was like some sort of horrible nightmare. She contemplated crying, but she was too angry for that, and sat on the bed fuming to rest for a minute.
“Loser,” she said aloud, tapping a big letter L against her forehead with her thumb and index finger. “Loser, loser, loser!” She raised her voice, shouted as loudly as she could, “Loser alert! There’s a loser trapped in here! Help! Help me!”
She banged on the wall twice for emphasis, although she knew it was hopeless; she’d yelled herself hoarse hours ago. Or was that yesterday? She was locked into an antique barn in the middle of nowhere. Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t even work up a drop of spit, and the beer was gone.
She was a fool. A total fail. How could she have fallen for this? A handsome stranger on a motorcycle. Wanna go for a ride? What a cliché. She should be featured in warning films; they could show them in elementary school. Remember what happened to Mia Valdez. Stranger danger! Inappropriate touching! Beware!
At least she’d kneed Dusty good. He’d practically crawled to the door. But the way he’d snarled You’ll be sorry . . .
She got the shivers just thinking about it. When he came back, would he bring a gun or a baseball bat to kill her?
Or maybe he’d just leave her here, locked in to die from thirst and hunger. That would be even worse, because that would be pathetic. What a legacy. Did you hear about Mia Valdez? She got kidnapped because she did something truly stupid, and then she died all alone in a really pathetic way. Don’t you pity her family? That has to be so mortifying. She chewed her thumbnail, envisioning all the sad social media posts.
You’ll be sorry.
Throughout history, women had been beaten, raped, imprisoned, and killed, all because they’d trusted some man to be a decent human being. And here she was, joining the ranks of foolish girls, locked in a converted tack room inside a barn that nobody ever used, waiting to be attacked again. She had been drafted into the army of lame women.
She ran a hand along the rough boards of the wall, wondering what kind of horses might have lived in this barn. When she’d gone to riding camp, the instructor had explained that horses were naturally skittish because they were prey animals. At the time, that had seemed a weird concept, because horses were so big and so strong. But after she imagined herself as a wild horse out on the plains, constantly watching for a mountain lion or a bear or a pack of wolves to spring out of the bushes, she understood. From then on, she had always tried to show her horse that she meant no harm before she climbed into the saddle.
Women were prey animals, too. Especially small, pretty women with curves. Boys were always trying to pick her up, pull her onto their laps, toss her into their cars. She wished she had a kind person here to reassure her that no harm would come to her. Instead, she had exactly the opposite.
You’ll be sorry.
She gritted her teeth.
You’ll be sorry.
A wave of rage abruptly flooded through her, and she clenched her fists. She was sick of being manhandled, sick of having to be careful, sick of being a prey animal. No, you’ll be sorry, Dusty.
She would think of a way out of this; she had to. The instant she heard any movement outside that door, she was going to position herself beside it so she could jump Dusty as he came in. But he was at least a foot taller than she was and probably fifty pounds heavier. She needed a weapon, and a beer bottle wasn’t going to help much unless she could somehow break it, and she’d already tried that, banging the bottle into the walls and the bedside table. She needed concrete or metal to break that thick glass. All she’d accomplished was to cause more dust to shower down. She probably looked like a zombie that had just climbed out of the grave.
A weapon, a weapon . . . Toshi had said anything could be a weapon. But not much in this room could be an effective weapon.
She eyed the bedside table. It was too big to throw and too small to block the door. The dark wood was heavy and dense, maybe oak, held together with plates and screws.
If only she had a screwdriver, she could take off a leg and wield it like a baseball bat. But Dusty had left her nothing except the mattresses, the table, and the disgusting bucket, which already reeked. At least in a real prison cell, she’d be able to flush.
Was Darcy in another barn somewhere? Was she dead? No. Mia wiped that idea from her brain, replaced it with the story that her friend had escaped and was bringing help right now. But how long would that take? Dusty would come back any minute, and he’d be looking for revenge.
Or he’d never come back, just leave her to die alone. Either way, she couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for herself. She didn’t want to be a victim. That’s why she’d made the deal with Toshi for karate lessons.
She stood up, grasped the top of the little table. After pulling it away from the wall, she climbed up on it. When it didn’t even creak, she jumped. Still nothing. The damn thing was solid. She climbed off, tipped it upside down, and stood on the underside between the table legs.
Pushing on the legs did nothing except make her arms ache. She set it against the wall and tried a couple of karate kicks, but that hurt so much she was afraid she’d break her foot.
She remembered once seeing her tiny mom brace her back against a wall and shove a heavy dresser with her legs to reveal Mia’s pet hamster hiding beneath it.
In an attempt to copy her mom’s move, Mia sat down on the upside-down top, wedging herself between the upthrust legs. Placing her back against one of the legs, she put her knees against her chest and her feet against another leg. Taking a deep breath, she pushed as hard as she could with her legs. The table leg moved a fraction, and the one digging into her back seemed to slant a bit. Yes! After resting for a few seconds, she tried again. More movement. When she let up the pressure, she could see that the table leg was slightly askew now.
This just might work.
Was that a scuffling noise outside the door? She bolted up from the ground and quickly flipped the table upright, nudging it against the wall on its now wobbly legs.
She flattened herself against the wall next to the door, a beer bottle in her hand. She sucked in a breath. Could she kick Dusty in the balls again? She drew her right leg back like Toshi had shown her. Fight position.
A footstep. A swish of clothing. The click of a key against a metal cylinder.
The door swung open. The flashlight poked into the room, and she blinked quickly to adjust her eyes to its sudden brightness. She launched her attack, but Dusty was ready this time; dropping the flashlight, he quickly jerked the door back. Her foot hit the edge of the door. A jolt of pain shot through her foot and up her leg. She fell to the floor.
Dusty stepped in and shoved the door closed behind him, picked up the flashlight. Just like yesterday, he was dressed in a button-down shirt and khakis, and his hair was neatly combed. Such a nice-looking young man, her mother would say. He looked like the neighbor boy you would trust to carry your groceries or walk you to the bus stop.
Bending over her, he focused the bright beam directly in her eyes and then grabbed her shoulder. “Why won’t you be sweet to me? All you need to do is be sweet.” His breath smelled like spearmint.
“Get that light out of my face.” She shoved his hand aside and then tried to push her feet back under herself. A lightning bolt hit her just below her collarbone. Every muscle in her body clenched. Stiffening into a rigid plank, she fell backward onto the floor, whimpering like a wild animal in pain.
Her gaze traveled from Dusty’s face to the black plastic object in his right hand. Shit, he had a stun gun.
Leaving the flashlight on the floor, he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a housecat and tossed her onto the mattress, then climbed on top of her and ripped open the zipper on her jeans.
“No!” she yelled, bucking beneath him. “I am not a prey animal!”
She felt the bite of the stun gun against her neck. The pain surged through her again, freezing all her muscles. Jerking her jeans and panties off, he gave her another jolt of electricity as he unzipped his pants and then he forced himself inside of her.
It hurt. A burning, tearing pain that went on and on, shredding her like used Kleenex, scraping away her insides. The worst part was that she was completely helpless but totally aware of the smallest details. The cheek he pressed against her temple was clean-shaven, and under the spearmint breath, his skin smelled like the same aftershave her father used. The fingers of his left hand were knotted through her hair behind her right ear; she was afraid he’d rip out a piece of her scalp with each tug.
“Damn, girl, damn, girl, damn,” he moaned, his words and his burning, scouring thrusts getting faster and faster until he spasmed. It was over in seconds, and then he collapsed, his full weight pressing down on her. She could barely breathe.
Bending his head, he ground his lips into hers, stealing what little air she had left. Then he rose up on one elbow. “Now you’re going to be sweet to me, aren’t you, Mia?”
She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see him. When she didn’t reply, he blew a wisp of hair away from her damp forehead, his breath now surprisingly gentle. “Aren’t you, Mia?”
The stun gun was still pressed against her neck, and now he twisted it into her skin even harder. She was sure his finger was near the trigger. Her eyes snapped open. “Yes, Dusty.”
“Say it.” He twitched the stun gun against her neck.
She could barely hear his voice above the roar of her blood in her head. “I’m going to be sweet to you.”
Raising her chin, she kissed him, loathing herself all the while. Then she tried for a laugh, but it got caught in her throat and came out sounding more like a whimper. “I just went a little crazy there, Dusty. Thirst can do that to you, you know? Could you please give me some food and water? Please?” She pressed her lips to his again. “It’s so hard to be sweet when I’m dying of thirst.”
He grinned. “Now that’s more like it.” Rolling off her, he stood up and zipped his pants, then waved the stun gun at her. “You made me use this, you know. I’m not a bad guy. I’ll be sweet to you if you’re sweet to me.”
She gave him a weak smile, her lips trembling. Her whole body was trembling. Was that the result of being electrocuted or being raped? A shameful wetness trickled from her vagina onto the quilt between her legs. Her blood, or his semen?
“Don’t try anything.” Dusty aimed the stun gun at her as he backed toward the door.
With a quivering hand, she pulled the quilt over herself to hide her nakedness. The door closed, and she dared to take a shuddering breath.
Then she startled as his hand slid back inside the door. He grabbed the flashlight from the floor and deposited a paper bag and a can of Coke into her cell. “See? If you’re sweet, you get a reward.”
The lock clicked.
Lying in the dark, with the pain burning between her legs, Mia felt as if she’d been sanded inside. No, branded, that was a better description, branded with a red hot poker, like a piece of livestock.
After what might have been ten minutes or two hours, her hunger and thirst overcame the pain. She pushed herself to her feet and pulled her clothes back on. Sitting on the bed, she wolfed the cold burger and fries and gulped the Coke in the dim room. Her brain felt numb, and she was almost grateful he’d brought her food and drink. Almost. Tears streaked her cheeks at the wrongness of it all.
She choked down the last swallow of lukewarm cola. There was a fruit turnover in the bag, too. She’d save that for later. Who knew when he’d be back? But she knew he would be.
She’d wanted to lose her cherry, and now she had. She was no longer a virgin.
She was a piece of meat. A rape victim.
Damn Dusty to hell for making her a victim.
So it hurt. It still hurt. She’d battled her way through pain before, after the wreck. And she’d been only five, then. She fingered the scar on her arm.
She couldn’t let Dusty win. He couldn’t take her soul.
No, she wasn’t going to lie back and be a prey animal, begging for the mercy of a predator. She wasn’t going to be a timid victim. She was a rape survivor, and she would find a way to be strong, even if it killed her.
Tremors overtook her body again, and she was angry that she couldn’t control the shaking. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. It was so unfair. She’d wanted to meet a hot guy, have romantic, passionate sex with multiple orgasms, like in the books. Instead, she’d been kidnapped by a sadistic rapist.
“Be sweet to you, Dusty?” She squinted her eyes at the locked door. “Not on your life.”
Taking a deep breath, she went back to the table, flipped it, and worked on the legs some more. By the time it was so dark that she could no longer see anything in the room, she was drenched in sweat and two table legs were so wobbly that she was reasonably sure she could break off at least one of them tomorrow.
She might not get out of this stupid horse barn alive, and maybe she didn’t even deserve to, but at least she’d go down fighting.
