I am so terrified I realize I’m calm. Time moves imperceptibly, crawling along like a sloth. My blood stills. My mouth, dry from terror, loosens as though my mother has passed me my morning juice to wake it up. Is there an edge to me now, suddenly, the first flickering of a survivor?
Something about his threats rings hollow, and the cold edge of the broken mirror sparks a surge of adrenaline, as though my kidnapper has brought me a warm meal after weeks of abandonment. No, I’m not going to die tonight. It’s in my hands now.
I reach for the phone, but it’s a mistake.
“I told you no. I told you if you went to the phone you’d be fucked,” he says, holding my face to the bed while with the other hand he yanks the cord out of the wall. I can’t breathe.
From behind my eyes, I feel a torrent, and suddenly I’m crying, hard, uncontrollably. I want to be strong, to kick back, but this man is stronger. Do I still hold out, deep in my reptilian brain, the hope of redemption for us, for everyone? This is the curse and the power ofwomen: we can find forgiveness even in a place of irredeemable violence.
Then his tone changes again.
“You know what, I’m not going to kill you,” he taunts. “Take off your clothes.”
I think I’d rather die than have sex with this person right now.
He makes me get in bed, makes me get on top of him. I am crying so hard.
I think I’m going to throw up.
I’m lying on top of this monster that I’m supposed to love. And the weirdest thing is that the smell of him, a smell I have come to associate with home, overpowers me… and yet now its source has promised to kill me, and I fear he’s going to rape me.
“Please, please, please,” a voice is saying. “Let me go. Please let me go.” It is my voice, a famous voice, one known to millions of TV viewers, but unrecognizable in its fear, and heard by no one save this man who I have told myself I love.
This isn’t my time. Surely this isn’t my time. Not today, not today, not today.
My prayer is answered, I don’t know how. He relents a little and momentarily lets me go.
“Okay,” he says quietly, “put your clothes on, call a cab, and get the fuck out of here.”
When I look back, I realize something: he seemed to have gotten great enjoyment out of treating me like that. He seemed to take pleasure in making me truly believe he was going to kill me. My all-consuming fear appeared to satisfy him. I felt like he could see the terror in my face, how his anger made my body useless. It’s as if making me cry, making me feel terror, and my showing him thatterror in my eyes had been enough for him. It seemed as though he’d gained some power, as though that’s what he liked.
Feeling the loosening of his grip, the wilting of the glass in his hand, the sense that something has run its course, I push myself off of him, throw on my clothes, bolt to the door, and run to the front desk.
The place is shut up for the night. I see no one. How long do I have before he comes to get me once again? Surely he’s not going to let me escape a third time today.
I pound on the locked door of the motel office. Nothing. The guy who runs the place, who I imagine also lives here, is probably in a back room, drinking his whiskey in his dirty tighty-whities. Who knows? He might be watching me on TV.
I’m banging on the door, shouting, “Help, help, help!”
Finally, I see a light. A door opens. The guy appears.
“What’s all this noise?” he asks.
“Call me a cab,” I shout. “Please call me a cab.”
He seems confused.
“Hurry—before he comes to get me!” I’m screaming now. “Hurry—before he comes to kill me.”
This new verb, “kill,” does the trick. He bolts back into his quarters and then comes back. He opens the office and lets me sit by the door.
The cab takes forever. As I wait, I realize that my nails are digging into the vinyl chair. Eventually, the man says, “There’s a cab coming.” He seems to recognize me, but perhaps I’m imagining it.
The cab arrives. I throw myself into the back seat and hide down low.
It feels like years, but I eventually get back to my grandmother’shouse. Everyone is asleep when I arrive. I ring the doorbell over and over and over and over and over. Finally, my mother opens the door, and I fall, right there in the hallway.
I just fall.
