CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I think something has happened to him & it’s the worst feeling in the world.
Judging from the lights dimming, I’m pretty sure it’s been 3 days since he’s talked to me over the speaker, 4 days since he’s restocked supplies & emptied out the toilet. It smells awful in here, and the air is so stagnant. I’m surprised I haven’t suffocated yet. There must be a vent hidden somewhere up near the ceiling.
Otherwise, I’d be dead.
I’m down to 1 & ½ bottles of water & a granola bar. I’m thirsty & hungry, but I’m trying to pace myself in case this is it for the next few days. I hate that he’s made me rely on him so much. The thought that he’s gone & might not be coming back (maybe dead or in an accident) scares the shit out of me. I keep thinking I’ll die in this place before anyone finds me. It makes me feel so hopeless . . .
Eden realized a while back that she couldn’t break out of the shed on her own. She couldn’t knock down the door, manipulate the lock, or tunnel her way out. In all the time she’d been a prisoner, she hadn’t heard a single voice outside except his. There were no traffic sounds. She hadn’t even heard a dog barking. So it wasn’t likely anyone would come to her aid. Her only chance for escape was overpowering him when he collected her trash and restocked her supplies.
Time seemed to go by faster as she planned her surprise attack. Poking a hole in the black pillowcase only took a few minutes one night. She’d hunched over the work, and kept her back to the camera. She would watch him through the hole in the pillowcase. She’d come to realize the point to her putting the black pillowcase over her head was not so that she couldn’t identify him later, but so that she remained blind and helpless while the shed door was open. She’d already tested the pillowcase to make sure the hole was at eye level—and it worked. She would have the pen on the cot where she could quickly reach it. She’d wait until he was emptying the toilet. Of all the chores during his brief visits, that one probably took the longest. She imagined he might even wince and close his eyes as he poured out the shit and urine. That was when she’d tear off the pillowcase and lunge at him with the pen.
Eden’s need for food and supplies wasn’t what made this long wait for his “restocking” visit so excruciating. No, it was her champing at the bit for the opportunity to carry out her plan and escape.
In the meantime, she thanked God for Daphne du Maurier. For a couple of days, Rebecca gave her something to do, something to take her mind off of this place. She’d already started reading it again.
She’d also written at least thirty pages in her journal. She worried about the pen running out of ink. She read the journal over and over, too. It was like a lifeline—someone to communicate with, even if it was just herself. She hadn’t realized how much she’d written in her journal over the summer. Reading it now took her back to the sights, sounds, and smells of Seattle. It took her back to all the adventures on her own and to all the little dramas at home during the last two years with her adopted family. Reliving these episodes through her journal entries made her so terribly homesick. She just ached inside and sobbed. But strangely, the entries filled her with hope, too. Her journal felt like a connection to the outside world—her world, before it was reduced to this tiny space and these four awful walls.
“I see you’re writing in your journal, Eden,” his voice said over the speaker.
Startled, Eden sat up in the chair at her tiny desk. She quickly shut the diary.
“It’s very therapeutic, isn’t it?” he said. “Well, no more therapy for you, Eden. You lost that privilege when you poked a hole in your pillowcase. You thought I didn’t see that? I see everything, Eden. I’m like God. I’m going to restock in about five minutes. I want you to leave the journal and the pen there by the door with your chamber pot and all the other garbage . . .”
“No!” she cried, glaring up at the camera and hugging the diary to her chest. “You can’t do that . . . please, don’t take it away . . .”
“You can leave Rebecca there with the trash, too,” he said, talking over her protests. “But you may keep the Bible. It might do you some good to read those passages about obedience. Now, you know the drill. I want you on the cot, with the pillowcase over your head. Just make sure the hole is in back. Hands behind you . . .”
Getting to her feet, Eden stared up at the camera. She shook her head over and over. “Please, let me keep it,” she begged. Tears filled her eyes. “It’s the only thing I have in here that I care about. Please? I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do anything to make you mad again . . .”
She heard a little click, which must have been him turning off the speaker or whatever he used to listen to her. She’d just heard something else, too: her pleading with him, promising to be a good little prisoner—until he was ready to slit her throat.
Eden hated herself for whining, begging, and sucking up to him like that.
She started shaking as she set the trash bag by the door—along with the shit-pot and Rebecca. A rage built up inside her. It wasn’t just the horribly disappointing failure of her escape plan. It was giving up her journal that infuriated her.
And she’d be damned if she’d let that asshole read it.
She set the pen down by the door. Then she stared at the diary in her trembling hand. Before she knew it, Eden started ripping the pages from her journal and tearing them up into small pieces. Something about this wild act of defiance gave her a little jolt of pleasure. She couldn’t stop herself. She kept tearing apart the diary and throwing the shredded pages up in the air. The page edges sliced into her fingers and gave her paper cuts. Some scraps of her writing rained down with blood on them. She finally threw the empty binder at the door.
Eden stopped just short of picking up the shit-pot and hurling it across the tiny room. She came to her senses before letting that happen.
Exhausted and gasping for air, she plopped down on the cot. The floor was littered with bits and pieces of paper that bore her handwriting. She was hot and sweaty and miserable. But she felt she’d won a tiny victory. Too bad the cost was so dear.
She finally got her breath and stood up. She felt a bit dizzy. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she wandered over to the corner of the shed. Her hands were still shaky and bleeding as she reached over to the near-empty supply shelf and grabbed the black pillowcase. She sat down on the cot and put the pillowcase over her head like a good little prisoner.
As she started to lie down, she heard him talking to someone, his voice, faint and muffled outside the soundproofed walls.
I’m tired, Mama . . . You’re asking too much of me . . .
That was all Eden heard as she lay facedown on the cot and put her hands behind her.
She realized she’d been right earlier: Someone else was making him do all of this. It was just like the Immaculate Conception Killer. He was doing it for his mother.
But Eden didn’t hear another voice.
Was he on the phone? Or was he talking to himself?
It was so quiet out there now.
Eden kept waiting to hear the key in the door lock.
She knew he was able to watch her every move on his phone—thanks to the camera overhead. That was how he knew when she was in position for him to come in. She wondered why he was taking so long. Was he still on the phone with his mother? Or was he simply lording his power over her and making her wait in this submissive, uncomfortable position with the black pillowcase over her head? Eden wondered how much longer she would have to lie there. She counted to one hundred.
“I’m ready!” she finally called in a shaky voice.
No response. She waited a little longer.
“Are you out there?” she called.
“You’re not getting anything until you clean up the mess you’ve made,” he finally answered over the speaker. “Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow. I have a lot on my plate—including a very dangerous mission . . .”
Eden sat up and pulled the pillowcase off her head. She looked up at the camera.
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d pray nothing happens to me. Pray hard, Eden.”