THINSPIRATION

 

 

He seemed normal at first, a middle-aged man, tall, built, bearded. He walked up to the car and asked me for a cigarette. I reached for the pack on the dashboard and dug inside for my last slender stick. When I turned back he had a gun pointed at my face.

“Get into the passenger seat,” he said.

His steady grasp took control of the moment, knuckles bent tight around the grip, his index finger pressed firm over the trigger. I tried to draw a breath but my lungs sat like decaying remains in my chest. My hands started to shake. The frail cigarette slipped through my fingers and rolled under the seat.

“C’mon now,” he said. “Unbuckle your belt and slide over.” The skin of his neck strained tight against his swallow. He waited; tense seconds passing as his gaze drifted from my face and moved slowly over my frame.

I slipped back against my seat, lightheaded, the taste of ashes filling my mouth.

Beyond the vehicle there was laughing, sounds of a family on the other side of the rest stop parking lot, unloading their SUV with picnic supplies, pop, chips and hot dogs. They were all too preoccupied to notice my situation. I drew another cigarette breath, my gag-reflex straining as I reached to unbuckle my seat belt.

“There we go,” he said. “Move over now. Come on.”

I climbed over the gear shift and sidled into the passenger seat. He unlocked the door and climbed in, his scent filling the car, the aroma of diner breakfasts, of maple syrup and sausages, sweat, exhaustion and rage. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled alive, shaking the empty space in my stomach. I shut my eyes and tensed my grip over my knees, thinking of pleasant thoughts, of fantasy, images of pretty girls who’d persevered.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“You’ll still get to go wherever you’re going,” he said. “I’m just going to do the driving until I get to where I need to be. Then you can have your car back.” He looked at me, staring intently. “You’re going to be good, right?”

I nodded.

“No protesting, no nothing.”

“No,” I said.

“That’s what I like to hear.” He tucked the gun beside the seat, put the car into gear and pulled out onto the highway.

He drove the speed limit with his thick fingers clenched tight around the wheel. He stared at the road, eyes straight ahead, determined. My gaze shifted to the window. I stared at nothing but the passing blur of sights, open fields of vegetation, just an endless mass of green. I thought about opening the door, about jumping, but then I caught my reflection in the side mirror. My pale face reflected the glare of the sun. I turned my cheek and studied my jaw, lifted my hand and pulled the skin taut.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked. “Girls your age shouldn’t travel alone.”

I pressed my fingers under my chin, wrapped my thumb around the tendons in my neck and gripped tight, model-steady. I met my own gaze and still couldn’t recognize myself, my gaunt cheeks more ghostly than glowing, my pale lips unable to smile.

“You a runaway?” he asked. “You trying to start a better life somewhere else?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

He breathed a laugh and loosened his grip. He let his fingers relax over the wheel.

“It’s funny how easy it is,” he said. “The last girl thought I was gonna rape her. She kept on pleading with me. I didn’t even have to rely on my gun. Made it so much easier to drive.”

My fingers twitched over my throat. I swallowed. My esophagus burned. The taste of orange juice and bile still lingered in my mouth. It was the reason why I’d pulled into the rest stop to begin with, was to purge the mistakes I’d made, to cleanse myself of my lack of control. I thought of the family and their picnic lunch, their smiles wide, more like grimaces.

It wasn’t often, but at times I could be realistic about my situation.

“It’s funny to think of it,” he said, “what really scares you girls.”

The wide neckline of my shirt slipped off my shoulder when I shrugged. I reached to pull the sleeve back up, wrapped my arms tight around my chest.

He turned the radio on but he couldn’t pick up any stations. He left it on anyway, filling the car with whir and static, the sound of salt water lapping against a shore. I eyed the open emptiness of the sky, felt the heat burning my cheeks. Thoughts trickled into my head, fantasies of starving on a remote beach in the sun.

He drove for an hour with his hand on the gear shift and the gun still tucked between us. The black metal caught bleak reflections of the sun’s glare, heated tension that burned the empty pit of my stomach.

The growls sounded loud, filled the car.

He looked me over again, eyed me for too long. Goosebumps pimpled my skin. I pressed my knees together, grasped my hands underneath my thighs, palms slipping under the heat, the sweat, the unease. He studied my posture, his gaze drifting again, all the way down to my bare legs. I winced and gathered a breath.

“Please stop,” I said. “Just look at the road.” He wrinkled his brows and turned away.

I felt like I was going to shatter, but all I did was flinch when he geared down and turned onto the next exit, the sign beside it listing all the nearest shops and restaurants in the next town.

“You got money?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I haven’t eaten in a while,” he said.

He didn’t see me shake my head. I sat up straight in my seat, sucked in my empty gut, my reflection in the mirror rigid and tense. My chest pounded at the thought of seeing him eat, seeing his teeth sink into fleshy meat, thick grisly fat right down to the bone.

He pulled up to the McDonald’s drive-thru. The line-up was long, an intestine string of cars leading to the window that expelled paper bags full of grease. He groaned and glanced over at me, the shrunken shifty mess that I was in the passenger seat. He reached over and pushed down the lock on my door.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I don’t need anything,” I said.

“Sure you do,” he said, studying my arms, my thighs, my stomach. “There’s still a ways to go,” he said. “I’m not going to stop again.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Are you?” he asked.

I nodded, stomach aching, begging.

His throat tensed again. He bit his lip and breathed heavily, his fingers slipping from the steering wheel. He made fists, clenched them tight before he turned to me, stare piercing in black, worse than his gun.

“Where’s your purse?” he asked. “Where’s your money?”

I hesitated, mouth turning dry as he turned and dug into the pile of clothes and magazines and makeup in the back of the car. He grabbed the strap of my open satchel and pulled the bag onto his lap. I flinched when he dug out my journal. He flipped it open and revealed it all, the textbook of inspiration that kept me so empty inside.

He flipped through the pages full of magazine clippings and journal entries. The numbers at the top of each page started at the weight I used to be and counted backward in awkward increments, my hard abrasive handwriting highlighting my journey of self-loathing. He stopped on the last entry, where I’d tucked that picture of Kiera Knightly I’d cut out from an issue of Vogue. In it she was sitting in a white dress, sitting before a typewriter. She looked so dreamy, so romantic, so at ease.

“It’s just a picture I like,” I said.

“What do you like about it?” he asked.

The radio static still filled the car. I tried to concentrate on it but the sound wasn’t calming anymore. “I think she’s pretty,” I said.

He looked down at the photo. “She looks like a sheet of drywall with a face.”

I squeezed at my thighs, the meaty middle parts that flattened against the seat, spreading out like pancake batter. Bile brimmed up my throat, the taste of ugly truths.

“She has it better than I do,” I said.

He stared at me, dark pupils reflecting my face.

The car behind us honked and he tossed the journal at me. The picture slipped between my legs and to the floor. I reached to pick it up.

“Sit back.” He handed me my satchel, demanded me to dig out some money.

I handed him my last ten dollars and shifted back, breathing deep as I let myself crumble into the curve of my seat. I glanced at the mirror and blinked, tried to make my gaze look real, responsive.

He drove up to the drive-thru speaker and ordered two cheeseburgers and a large coke.

My chest started throbbing. The tears burned behind my eyes.

He paid for the food at the window and set the brown paper bag beside his gun. He drove to the back of the parking lot. He killed the engine. The rumbling gone, it was just the sound of his breathing, the sound of my own stomach growling, the scent of his presence, cigarettes and sweat and grime. Exhaustion. He dug one of the burgers from the bag and handed it to me.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You should eat anyway,” he said. “It’s still going to be a few hours.”

I shook my head, staring at the burger, still wrapped in its greasy waxed paper. “I can’t,” I said. “It’s going to ruin everything.”

He unwrapped the burger and grabbed my wrist, forced me to hold the flimsy bun in my grasp. “Eat it,” he said.

I shook my head.

He leaned over the gear shift, his steady grasp bearing down, taking control. “I’m the fucking kidnapper here. You’re going to do what I say.”

“Please,” I said. “You can take the car. You can have whatever you want. Please.”

He tightened his grasp. He dug his fingers deep, pressed at my triggers.

“You don’t even know me,” I said, straining. I winced and writhed, moans drifting from my throat as I tried to pry myself away. My grasp tensed around the burger. Cheese brimmed from the edges of the bun. The cooked meat showed through the cracks, seeping clear grease like tears. I pressed my lips together, tried to resist the calling groan of my stomach. He gripped my wrist tighter, lifted the food to my face.

“Take a fucking bite,” he said.

It wasn’t until then that I started crying.