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23 Honor

I liked the quiet. But today it was too silent.

Usually, the characters that lived in my head, the unseen worlds where I seemed to exist kept me occupied the entire day.

Today, those characters were inaudible. The worlds were hushed. It was almost as if they stayed away because they knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with them and reality. I needed a break from reality. I wanted the voices back.

I smiled to myself as I wandered down the hallway and into my bedroom. I should call the doctor and ask him where the voices went. In my room, I drifted over to one of the windows that overlooked the trail. Burnished orange leaves fell from the trees and floated down onto the gravel walkway.

I felt the familiar tug I always did to go out there and walk, to breathe in deeply of the crisp air. I turned away from the sight. It might be beautiful, it might be peaceful out there… but sometimes looks were deceiving. The last time I was out there I was taken. Violated. Hurt.

I padded across the light-colored carpet and tugged open the white closet doors on the other side of the room. My clothes hung neatly and sat in folded stacks. I selected my favorite pair of black leggings and an oversized gray shirt with dolman sleeves. My father always said this shirt made me look like I had wings.

If I had wings today, I might fly away.

Even though I showered at the hospital, I took off the jeans and sweater my mother brought me and tossed them across the foot of my queen-sized bed. It was still neatly made from yesterday. The white comforter remained tucked tidily around the mattress and the earth-colored pillows were strategically placed the way I liked them.

I went into the bathroom, wincing at the coldness of the tile floor against my bare feet. I thought about showering again, I wanted to, but I didn’t want the hassle of trying to keep my stitches dry. Instead, I used a fluffy white cloth to wash my face (one handed) at the sink and then I applied a really yummy smelling, rich lotion to my poor battered skin.

It was the first time I really looked at myself since being kidnapped. Yeah, there was a mirror in the bathroom at the hospital, but I avoided it. I wasn’t ready to see. But being home made me feel a little stronger.

The swelling around my eye wasn’t as bad as I knew it was before. My vision was a lot less impaired now. It was still puffy and sore looking. The bruise was a deep purple shade that no makeup was going to cover. It circled around my entire eye, making me look like a raccoon. My lower lip was partially swelled as well. It was also bruised, but it was small and already yellowing. There were various scrapes across my cheeks, likely from all the times I fell and hit my face against the ground.

At least I didn’t look incredibly pale… All the injuries were too colorful for that.

My midsection looked the worst. The entire side of my ribs was black and blue. It also appeared lumpy and it made me recoil. From what the doctor said, it would be a while for them to heal. I was going to be stiff and sore, breathing was going to be a pain, and I was just going to have to live with it.

I would rather live with broken ribs than be dead.

The scrapes across my knuckles were only partially visible because gauze was wrapped around the stitches. I knew I could take off the wrapping, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. I’d rather keep the stitches covered. The skin on the back of my other hand was itchy and a little tingly.

I soaked the tape in a little bit of warm water and then peeled it off. It hurt, but the relief of having that crappy medical tape off me was worth it. My skin was angry and red where it had been and there was a red rash covering the area. In the center was a bruise, and I wondered if the nurse had been careful at all when she jammed the IV into my hand.

My hair was in a simple braid and I let it loose, shaking the waves around my shoulders. I liked the way it felt when the ends of my hair brushed over my bare shoulders. After I brushed my teeth, I pulled on the leggings and shirt and added a pair of slippers that looked like boots.

I put on a pot of coffee and waited in the kitchen for it to drip enough for me to fill a mug, and I added some of my favorite cinnamon-flavored creamer. The first sip was heaven. It was like a warm blanket for my insides. Just holding the warmth of the mug between my chilled fingers was comforting.

I let out a contented sigh and then carried my mug out into the living room where I settled with a blanket on the couch.

I picked up my Kindle and turned it on, calling up the newest book I was reading by Jennifer Armentrout, and then sat it in my lap. Vivid images of Lex scattered my concentration and took away whatever peace I’d managed to find.

Maybe I shouldn’t have let my mother go home after all. Maybe I should have asked her to stay. Maybe I should have given in and went home with her.

I could call her. She would come. Or my father would.

Instead, I clicked on the TV and found some old romantic comedy that always seemed to be playing. I knew I should pull up my social media. I likely had hundreds of notifications, messages, and emails to go through.

But what was I supposed to say?

Sorry I haven’t been around. I almost died. I was kidnapped and the man who did it is still out there.

No computer for me today. I wasn’t ready to deal with anything. I drank my coffee and stared at the TV for a long time, but I didn’t really pay attention.

I wondered about Mary. About what the police told her family when I gave them the locket. I wondered if they changed her case from missing person to search and recovery. I knew she was dead. I hated it. I knew that she likely suffered horribly before she died. I hated that too.

Where was the justice for Mary? For any of his victims?

Was there a punishment worthy of such a heinous crime?

Death seemed too easy. Sitting in jail didn’t seem like enough either. I asked myself what a fitting penance was for a man who tortured women.

A little while later, I forced myself to eat some toast and I drank more coffee. My eyes kept going to my laptop, but I never turned it on. My dad called to make sure I was okay, and my mother got on the line to see if I changed my mind about coming home.

I told her I was already home.

Then I promised I would come over the next day to visit.

At eight o’clock, I crawled into bed, leaving on the bathroom light. I was exhausted, but it took a while to fall asleep.

I was running on the trail, the sun filtering through the trees and the sound of water rushing through the river at my side. I wasn’t running because I wanted to, though. I was scared. My heart beat frantically and fear seized my body. As I ran, I looked over my shoulder, so afraid that he’d caught up. He was there, but I was still just out of his reach. I told myself to go faster, to get the hell away, but I felt like my feet were encased in concrete.

“The cat always catches the mouse,” the voice behind me taunted.

I tripped and stumbled, fell hard onto my hands and knees. He laughed and pounced on me. I fell down, lying on my belly as he covered his body with mine.

“You like that, don’t you?”

I screamed and whimpered. The next thing I knew I was standing in the center of the hole. It was filling up with water, the rain falling at impressive speed. He stood above me, staring down as water poured over his face and chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. As I stared, he tossed a rope ladder down to me, offering me freedom.

“Come up and play,” he sang.

I jerked awake, sitting up in the center of the bed, the blankets twisted around my thighs. I searched the darkness of my room, assuring myself that I was alone and I was safe.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

He was still out there. He could be doing the same thing to someone else. He could be looking for me.

What would happen if he found me?

I pushed the hair out of my face and got out of bed. No more sleeping. Not right now.

I went into the kitchen and pulled out a wooden cutting board, a knife, and a bag of green apples. I added a blue pie pan and all the ingredients I needed to make homemade piecrust. I always used my grandmother’s recipe. I knew it by heart.

Just before I rolled out the dough, there was a muffled knock on the front door.

I froze and glanced at the clock. It was well after eleven p.m.

I grabbed the little knife off the counter and went to the top of the stairs where I stared at the door and wondered if I should answer.