… rapid fire flashes of memories, and the knowledge that I had been his victim once before. But in another time? The memories, the dreams, the images all at once flashed before me in rapid succession, as if rewinding far back to a past life. They were no longer fragmented pieces or whispers of memories and dreams, but I saw myself as though in a vision — well, not exactly the self I am now, but it was me — and I knew without a doubt it was me; me in a different lifetime.
I saw myself, the before-now self, tethered to a life of possibilities lost to servitude, addictions, and surrender; it was as if I was way above myself looking down and through me. And I knew how it was going to end, just as I knew through a lifetime of nightmares, dreams, and memories how this was supposed to all end — again, not once, but twice. I knew his ultimate goal; his primal, uncontrollable, compulsory need. His predilection was to torture and murder. And in one clear moment it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe my knowing could give me a second chance. Was it even remotely possible?
I knew I could not deny this fucking bizarre knowledge. Finally so many tiny pieces of a puzzle that had absorbed me on and off throughout my life all fell quickly into place, and as I struggled to process all the fragmented bits that made it more sobering a reality, my thoughts — besieged with acceptance of the possibilities and implications of reincarnation — were spinning wildly. Somehow I knew deep down that it was my destiny, duty, and obligation to escape him before he killed me, yet again. I did not doubt for a second that he meant to, and had chosen to.
His sole purpose, I knew — through successive lives and with each reincarnation — was to return to hunt the vulnerable and the weak over and over again. It was his chosen journey. There was no right or wrong, no good or bad. It went against everything I knew. But it was as though briefly, for moments at least, I was given a chance to see, feel, and know that we were all bound by ancient commitments that we participated in with each lifetime. I knew for a second or two, that we were all the very same — some older, some less so — and that we had our roles and they would play out until they were done or until we understood what we had chosen to learn and teach. Not a single one of us on the planet was better, more important, or more valuable. We were all, each and every one of us, equally valuable and valued whether we ever came to know it or not. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, but I had a sense that it wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad … it just was.
I knew this, just as I now knew that my own destiny and journey over several lifetimes undeniably seem to be that of struggle, defiance and survival, resignation and loss, student and teacher. But this revelation, as I interpreted it, meant that I could choose not to be bound to victimhood. I knew unequivocally and with crystalline clarity that this was and had been my soul’s lesson — a lesson that I had been trying to learn apparently for more than just one lifetime. And I knew for a flutter of a second that I wasn’t ever alone; not really.
I woke sometime later in severe pain and in an impossible position. My head was blindingly painful and I felt disoriented and stunned, overcome with waves of dizziness and nausea. Fear — no — terror clutched my insides like a vice grip that could not be loosened. My arms were pinned and tied behind me and raised above my head, causing them to sting and tingle with sharp slivers of numbness. At least I wasn’t handcuffed by metal that could not be broken.
My body was almost bare, save for the faded red, second-hand bra. I could feel the cold air and hear what sounded like a loud fan running somewhere. My mind was spinning with so many old memories mixed with new ones that I couldn’t make sense of it. But I knew, on some level and without deviation, that the flashbacks and strange recollections of time before now were true.
I opened my eyes as much as I could and scanned the room quickly for him; if he was there I couldn’t see him or smell him, but I could feel his presence. I tried to take in as much of the surroundings as I could; I seemed to be in a much-neglected basement television room or play room. I was on a filthy mattress on the floor, stained with what looked like old, dried blood in several places, varying in depths of discolouration, which confirmed I certainly was not his first. I tried briefly to count the stains and see if I could determine how many others had woken to find themselves tied to the wall behind this filthy mattress. How many had survived, if any? The mattress was on an old, dirty, gold shag-carpeted floor, with a wrought-iron headboard fixed to the wall. This place had an odd familiarity to it. I searched my brain to remember but couldn’t.
Cloth hung like draperies from the ceiling to floor behind the headboard and in several other places, doorways maybe, all in various shades of black with some more faded than others. The part of one wall I could see looked like old barn board; I remember thinking that it had been a huge seventies decor mistake that too many people had made. My parents included. My parents!
If there were windows I couldn’t see them, save for a sliver of light showing through the threadbare cloth at the far end of the room. That was where I knew I needed to get to. I turned my head, shoulder, and waist as much as possible to look over my right shoulder, which felt dislocated, to see the ties, thanking God again that they were not handcuffs. The binds looked to be remnants of the shirt I had worn, ripped and made into crude tethers. If I tried hard enough I might be able to break them, and probably my wrists, too, but I didn’t care. I resisted the urge to panic and knew that I had to remain as calm as possible if I was going to survive. I quieted my breathing and forced myself to think. The ties that bind me … the ties that bind me … I had to break. Oh, there was such irony to that thought that was not lost on me.
As I wiggled, tugged, and pulled at the ties, they seemed to loosen or at least stretch just enough to give me hope. The pain I felt was overshadowed by the need to survive and escape, so I kept at it as long as possible until my energy was spent. And when it was and I had nothing left, I found a reserve in the words Betty had spoken, and I worked at stretching the ties a bit more, until not a drop of strength remained. I adjusted my body back in the position I had woken in, so as not to let him see I had moved. Just as I slumped back, the sounds began: loud pounding sounds of thunder and lightning filled the room from all sides and shot even more fear through my heart. And then the smell. And then he was beside me. I hadn’t seen where he came from or how he had suddenly appeared, and I couldn’t manage to utter a single sound, not even to save my life — to beg for it, plead for it, bargain for it. There were no words that slipped from my lips, no sound; nothing but silence fell from my open mouth.
I saw the knife in his hand and watched as he lifted it and turned it over and over, and then passed it from hand to hand, back and forth, back and forth, while his liver-coloured, thin lips twisted in a bizarre shape — an attempt at a smirk. My eyes met his and I tried to plead for my life without words. But the look in his eyes was familiar and unmistakable. His eyes were piercing, deep and evil, calloused and cold, full of a hatred I had nothing to do with. And then the blows from his fists came, to my head and face, fierce and vicious. I tried with everything I had to stay conscious, to keep my focus on the knife that he laid beside me on the mattress, but the blackness came to rescue me instead.
When next I woke, there were bright flashes of light, several in a row, and a sound I couldn’t identify. My head fell from one side to the other with little strength or control to hold it steady. A smell filled my lungs: a pungent, musty odour that I will never forget. It was the familiar smell of him from long ago, a smell that had only become more pungent with time. I lifted my head and winced as the pain attempted to lead me back to unconsciousness, but I resisted with everything I had, and lost.
I woke again. He was gone. My forehead steadily wept blood that ran down and stung when it settled in the hollows beneath my eyes. The left side of my face was slashed, and the edges of the opened skin that hung loose were visible in the corner of my eye. My nose was broken and the left nostril was blocked; I wasn’t able to breathe except from my mouth, which also felt mangled and torn. As I tried to run my tongue over my teeth, I felt one, maybe two missing and at least one jagged and broken. It all felt huge and swollen and sort of numb; I gagged and spit. The broken fragments of teeth and blood dripped down the front of me and lay there on my breast, causing rage to further fuel me.
My mind was foggy and I fought the dizziness and nausea. But the dizziness was only worse when I closed my eyes, and so I surveyed the rest of my surroundings. There were two large, black tripods with huge, black fixtures and theatre lights attached to them, facing me, but they were not bursting with any light. Instead there was a single dim light in the furthest corner somewhere, behind the fabrics, causing shadows to dance and strike fear in me each time the drapes moved as if synchronized with the bizarre soundtrack of thunder and lightning.
I couldn’t determine how long I had been there for. I forced my mind to work, fighting through the pounding pain in my head as I tried to recall all I could, and pieces began to return. I hadn’t listened to my gut; I had felt something was wrong when I went out to work. I always listened to my gut; my instincts saved me many times. Why had I refused to trust them this time, why? I started to remember the van, and the moment I knew I needed to get out of it, and trying. I searched my memory — damn it, my room, my books, my things, and the fucking unpaid rent. For a few moments, I considered the possibility that Thievin’ Steven would not make good on his threat to kick me out, but would wait a day or so because he’d have to know I’d be back, he had to know! I knew I would escape. I didn’t know how the fuck I was going to do it, but I knew I would with all my heart and every drop of my blood.
A great weakness washed over me and I suddenly became too dizzy to move; I let myself go and tried to fight the nausea, and closed my swollen eyes. The memories returned, the dreams, the feelings, the smells, the knowledge of historical events from a life past — these things filled my mind in a flurry all at once, and even opening and closing my eyes did not allow me to escape from the images I was forced to observe.
I saw who I had been, another version of myself lying on the edge of a bed, this bed, the same but different. I saw the thick, bright, gold shag carpet and dark-panelled walls, and saw my other self laughing at a younger version of him as I got up and dressed. He was younger than I was by about five years or so, and in his obvious youthful awkwardness he just could not perform. As I headed for the door I was saying, “Maybe next time. See you next time, baby.”
And then as though watching a movie screen, the scene changed abruptly and zoomed in on a different scene, the final scene. I witnessed the very last moments of my past life.
I appeared to be approximately thirty years old and my face was full, plump, and round; my hair was light, long, straight, and wispy, and my hands appeared short and stubby as they pushed against him. I was being raped and repeatedly smashed in the face over and over by him, and then I saw his young face clearly with a jagged, slightly pink scar over the right eye, beneath the brow line. I watched as he gave one final punch that left the then me lying unconscious. And then I watched as he wrapped his blood-covered knuckles around my weakened neck and strangled the remainder of life from me on the cold, dirt ground in a dark, wooded area.
I closed and then opened my eyes wide — in shock, terror, astonishment — wincing in pain and scanning the room frantically. I looked at the aged and stained gold shag carpet; the mattress once on a proper bed on a frame; the bizarre sheets of black fabric hanging from the ceiling, keeping from view what I knew were the dark-panelled walls from long ago; and I remembered the windows and door. I fought the unbelievability of it all. How much blood had I lost? Was I dreaming, imagining, hallucinating? Was I given a vision of a life past, or actually losing my mind? I twisted around again and worked fiercely at the ties with a renewed sense of desperation, and still no sound would escape from my lips.
From somewhere inside me, or perhaps outside of me altogether, I found a strength I did not know I possessed. And in that instant, that nanosecond, as in the moment in the vision when life had once been drained from me — a vision that seemed to stubbornly persist — I knew I was ferociously refusing death by the hands of the very same man who had robbed it from me in my last lifetime. And I wanted to reject absolutely the possibility of it. But somehow, I knew it all to be true.
The insane soundtrack stopped suddenly, and I held my breath for a moment and listened for the sounds of footsteps or movement from above. I heard a door close loudly and then silence. The soundtrack began again and I turned painfully to continue working at the ties, which remarkably began loosening even more. The soundtrack started, finished, and began again, and each time I held my breath to listen for signs of movement upstairs. Nothing! As my head, face, cheekbone, and body began to feel even more throbbing pain than I could ever imagine possible, and as I fought off wave after wave of nausea, I knew that it was now or never. With one hand clutching the other, I yanked as hard as I could, my hands forward over my head. The bind snapped and I heard a crack. They were still attached but the adrenaline set in again and I pulled one last time with more determination, and with a sudden snap, my right hand was freed. Tears of relief (or unimaginable pain) poured from my battered, swollen eyes. With my head twisted as far upward as it would move toward the place where my other wrist was bound, I pulled and clawed at the remaining tie until I managed to release it from the wrought iron. I was free from restraints, but felt dazed and frozen in fear. My wrists and arms burned and throbbed as the blood circulated painfully. I gathered my strength to get up and get out!
I scrambled as fast as I could move, off the blood-stained mattress, and managed to get myself up and moving toward the far wall. I was still terrified that he could return at any second, or worse yet, that he had never left at all. The soundtrack ended and the silence again shattered the air. I held my breath and heard no footsteps, but still, I held my breath. Looking around quickly in the dimly lit space, I couldn’t see my coat or boots but I saw a laundry basket with neatly folded clothing along with several pressed shirts hung up beside an ironing board, and I made my way to it. I grabbed a shirt and pulled it from its hanger, and pulled it on over my badly injured body. I searched the darkness wildly and felt my heart race with fear and possibility. I dumped the basket and found long johns and pulled them up as fast as I could. I leaped as the soundtrack abruptly stopped, and then ran toward the curtains; I stumbled and became snared in them. Panic was taking over, and as I viscously fought to free myself from them, they came tumbling down, revealing a doorway and a small basement window.
Without hesitation, I ran to the window, climbed up on a dresser, and frantically tried to pull it open. It was locked, and my tears began to fall. I suddenly felt as though I was no longer alone. I tried again frantically and found the small lock that was at the bottom of the window. As I pulled it open with all the force I could muster, I heard him on the stairs. My heart jumped and again adrenaline overtook me. The little window opened with a pop, and shards of glass fell. I pulled my body up and out just as I felt him grabbing my foot. With one hard kick back, my foot connected with his head and he yelped in pain. Good, I thought, you sick fucking bastard. I scrambled up onto to my feet in the darkness, and headed out into the cold snow.
I ran and moved chaotically, through the blizzard of pounding snow and punishing sleet, and felt the cold air on my open wounds and the flapping of skin on my face — I tried to hold it closed. Still no sound could I make; I didn’t dare look back as I made my way through the snow, bushes, and trees as fast as my body would allow. I ignored the cold and the pain and the new cuts from the broken glass. I saw through tears and swollen eyes the street and headlights of traffic and ran toward them. I didn’t dare turn around to see if he was following; I just kept moving forward and away, blindly propelled by adrenaline, instinct, and survival. I ran toward the lights and the street beyond the hedges, and as I approached I finally looked back, if only to remember where I was running from.
I tried in that glance to sear the landscape into my mind. I wasn’t being chased — he was nowhere to be seen — and all that was behind me were the fading images of my footprints in the snow, and pieces of memories and the fragments of dreams and nightmares that had plagued me, finally all coming together, colliding in tremendous unison. As I ran through another bank of trees and shrubs, I stumbled and fell, my legs refusing me. I felt the burning sensation of the cold; I was so very close to a road, but it seemed a mile away. I willed myself with everything left to reach it in hopes of being seen by a passing car. I stumbled and hobbled out onto the street in a state of hysteria; a car horn honked repeatedly and in the distance I thought I heard a crash, and then everything went black.
As I came to, I could feel arms on me and I struggled violently against them until I heard a disembodied female voice. A woman was wrapping me in a coat and blanket, and was manoeuvring me into the back seat of a car. I didn’t resist; I couldn’t resist. I had nothing left. Calm settled in me. She was telling me to hang on, just hang on, and that I was going to be okay, but her voice didn’t sound like I was going to be okay.