Lazy Author’s Note: Everyone thinks Chloe is dead. Ling left enough evidence to suggest it and
has not contacted anyone since the kidnapping.
No more than an outline in the
However, when the refrigerator light bathed them, his dog broke protocol and growled. She tried shushing it, praying that Lucas wouldn’t wake up from his make-shift bed on the couch, but it took Brady’s command to soothe it. The dog’s outburst won her a nod from Brady, as it quieted and they both stared at Lucas’s still sleeping form. Apparently, he didn’t want an audience either, she thought and then modified the thought when Brady turned to leave. He didn’t want anyone.
“You don’t have to eat cereal,” she stopped him, placing her hand on his shoulder before turning on the stove’s night light and taking a casserole out of the oven to set it at the table, “I made eggs and bacon, plus pancakes.” She gave him a plate and motioned for him to sit. Now, he’d be rude if he left.
“Better than Denny’s.” He smiled wirily, pulling a chair out for his dog. Bailey hopped up, immediately sniffing at the breakfast sampler.
Sami pulled the dish towards her. “They don’t allow dog’s at Denny’s.”
“Yes, this is better.” Nonplused, Brady spooned a heavy portion onto his plate then handed it to his dog. Sighing, Sami gave him another plate. He took much less for himself.
They ate in silence—or rather, she ate, the dog gobbled, and Brady pushed his food around.
It was clear he wasn’t going to eat. But then again, Sami wasn’t hungry either.
She took a deep breath, “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about.” She said trying to catch his attention. “I wanted to talk.” She hedged.
He looked awful, pale and thin, a darkness under the eyes, a far away look. He didn’t want to talk. It was obvious. He never wanted to talk. Most of the time, he acted like he wanted to fade right into the walls, dispassionate of voice, a hard cutting pain to set him apart from others. God forbid, if you tried to make him smile. More than once, she had to fight the urge to slap him, to tell him to knock it off that life went on.
“You’re not the one who’s dead, Brady.”
“But everyone I love is. Stay away from me Sami. I am cursed.” He didn’t bother to listen to her response; he fled through the living room heading outside to cross the street to the gym. He’d continue his routine. It was like she didn’t exist.
Stunned, it took her a moment to collect herself. Then, she followed. But Lucas’s hand stayed her at the door. He’d awakened to hear their last exchange.
“You can’t force someone to heal.” He said.
“Maybe not, but you can be there.” She shook him off and continued to the gym. Anger speeding her on, anger at herself, at Lucas, at Brady; rage against Ling, against death, against powerlessness. She hated it all. But the gym was bathed in morning, light fusing through the windows crimson gold. And she was struck by its beauty.
The light heightened the gym, the blue of the mats deeper, the wood equipment warmer, the white of the far wall purer as the red of the line that separated the wall from the ceiling breaking off here and there with decorative/motivational words: ‘dignity’, ‘courage’, ‘restraint’, ‘harmony’, ‘mercy’, ‘balance’, ‘strength.’ She noticed Brady was in the far corner where the sunrise hadn’t quite reached yet. He practiced his grace under the word ‘endurance’.
She joined him.
“No more talk.” He said without breaking form.
“That’s fine.” She picked up his moves and followed. It was exhilarating, exhausting to copy him, but somehow she kept up, somehow they made it to the center of the gym where the light was the brightest and words ‘family club’ framed the backdrop.
When they finished he handed her a towel with the first real smile she’d gotten out of him in weeks.
“You know, the only way to fight a curse is with a blessing. I can share mine with you. The people I love,” she said and tapped her hand to her heart, “they live right here. You’re there too.” She kissed him on the cheek and left for the locker rooms.
“You’re alive, Brady,” she called out on her way, “There’s a reason for that, don’t forget it.”
**************-------------------------------------*************************
For the first two weeks of her internment, Chloe had a normal room: dresser, chair, bed, accessories. Here, she kept track of the time with the rising and the setting of the sun. But she’d ruined it with her failed escapes, and they moved her to the inside of the house, a place without windows or furniture. She had a pile of pillows for a bed, that was all.
Yet she kept time.
Each morning, Ling would appear with a fresh set of clothes and breakfast. Each afternoon, he’d return with lunch, in
the evening with dinner. Sometimes, he’d stay but a minute, a cordial hello and
goodbye. Sometimes, he’d eat with her
visiting for an hour or more. On such
occasions he’d talk about his past: his
boyhood,
It never seemed to bother him that she chose silence. In the face of her mute rebellion, he’d simply remind her that if she needed anything all, she simply had to do was ask. It was a pattern they slipped into, a ritual of captor and hostage.
Until the day, she asked for Brady. She said she needed him.
As response, Ling stopped his visits, and she had no food. She attained water through her sole privilege, the bathroom that adjoined her quarters to Ling’s. Aside from the fixtures and a roll of toilet paper, it too was bare. She had to cup her hands to drink from the faucet.
During her punishment, Ling made a habit of locking his door to the bathroom in the day and keeping it open at night. Before, she thought his door had been sealed shut never to be opened, but had now realized that he’d merely reversed the locks.
She ignored the invitation until the third day when it became apparent that she would die if she didn’t do anything, her stomach aching and cramping, her body growing weak. So she waited until night, waited till she hoped he’d be asleep, the tension building as she questioned her strength, if she’d have what it takes to get away, and if not what would Ling do? Would he hurt her? Kill her? Why hadn’t he already?
She wasn’t a fool. She knew he’d be expecting her, yet even so her heart sank when she stole into his room. He’d pushed a dresser against the outside door. She was too sickened to be angry, noticing that he had a window, that outside it was snowing hard. Autumn was over. She stung with its loss.
Her stomach put an end to mourning. Its growl seemed deafening in the silence. She froze, watching him sleep. He remained still, his breath even, but he could be faking it. He could have been faking it all along, for inches from his head on the nightstand was a weapon. A gun.
Now she trembled with rage. He thought she was stupid. He thought she would go for the bait of an unloaded gun. She crept forward as though she would, slowly, on cat’s feet, closer and closer until her hand reached out, an arms length away. She knew he was awake, knew he would strike at any moment. Before he could, she made a fist, slammed it into his groin, picked up the nightstand and smashed it over his head while he withered in pain. Hoping that would stop him, she made for the window, had a leg out, ready to chance the second story fall when he yanked her inside. He took her by the hair, the gun pressed to her back.
“You will not move.” He grated as blood oozed from the nasty gash on his head; it affected his eyesight. He kept blinking and shaking his head. Momentarily, his hand loosened and he slumped into her for support. His wound was serious extending from temple to forehead.
“It’s not loaded.” She whirled knocking him over, sending the gun sprawling. He recovered enough, however, to ensure that she fell with him. Quickly he stood, but when he brought his foot down to crush her, she rolled away, sprung to her haunches, and kicked out tripping him. She shoulder rolled and backhanded him across the neck, then propelled herself on top of him to jab his face. While he gasped for breath, she returned to the window. Blindly he reached out, his hand finding the gun. He aimed, fired, catching her in the shoulder.
She crumbled to the floor, hot pain stronger than adrenaline. She was spent, a haze of fatigue waving over her like a drowning pool. She could hear Ling from far off telling his men to use the other door; the idiots had been trying to push past the dresser.
When she turned her head, she saw Ling crawling towards her. Gently he examined her arm, his black eyes searching hers with an unnerving tenderness. “You’re hurt.” He said as if surprised.
“You shot
“No, he did.” Ling lifted up his gun and fired at his own man, who took the bullet in the heart. “And now he’s dead. I won’t allow anyone to harm you.” He kissed her hands. Close your eyes. You’re not to look at them. You’re not to look at anyone but me.” He rose to greet his baffled gang, the last of which had just passed through the correct door and was now goggling at his fallen comrade.
It gave her the split-second she needed to heave herself over the window sill in blessed panic. A blur of falling and the stab of landing, she hit her shoulder hard, grateful for the snow’s cold and the sharpness of pain. It woke her up. She was at a farm. A barn loomed in the drifts, a driveway away. To her, it seemed endlessly far.
“I’ll look at who I please.” She breathed and headed towards it, her legs stiff and weighty in the snow, her feet bare, blood soaking through the arm of her shirt.
Shots rang overhead, tunneling into the snow at her sides with a muffled tuff, but she made it to the barn. She could hear a door slam, men shouting, but she’d un-tethered a horse. He was a painter with brown and white spots and already saddled. Shakily, she mounted and urged him on.
“Come on, horsy. Come on.” She didn’t know the first thing about riding. The animal must have sensed it because it wouldn’t move. “Let’s go.” She shouted, slapping its rump. It neighed, turning its enormous gaze upon her with the miffed air of an indigent gentleman. “How dare you,” it seemed to say, refusing to budge.
“Let’s go boy, please, oh God please.” She lowered her head into its mane fighting back hysterics. “I’ll give you some carrots. I’ll buy you a whole barrel full of apples.” She pleaded petting its neck. “Please…” Her voice cracked in hope as the horse walked towards the door, but it turned to the abutting wall in favor of the oats that hung there from a feedbag. The talk of food had given it ideas.
“You stupid animal. You’re not a horse, you’re a cow.” She hollered, preparing to dismount.
At that moment a henchman tore through the barn door, a deafening shot as his herald. In his haste, his gun had misfired and the bullet lodged in the feedbag. Spooked the horse burst into a gallop, almost running the man under. It sped across the open field on a hard packed trail that lead through a woods and a stream; faster and faster, it propelled itself never slowing for the covered bridge or the changing landscape.
She was free. But for how long? Barely, she clung to the saddle, each rock, each dip in terrain loosening her grip.
When the horse sailed across a road, she slipped off, tumbling into the ditch. Insensible, she lay dazed until the horse returned. It licked her face, nudged her side. She moaned when it pushed her shoulder.
“You’re such a nag,” she waved it away, crawling to her knees. For a second, she held the position before her arms gave out, and she fell flat. She liked the snow. She liked the way it numbed her shoulder.
When the horse pushed again, she explained, “Don’t you get it? I can’t do it. Go away; go eat your oats, and let me die in peace.”
The horse neighed nodding its head up and down, flashing its reigns as it walked backwards. It returned to her, nudging her good hand. Finally, understanding dawned, and she grabbed the reign. Slowly, the horse pulled her up the ditch, over the road to the center line. Stepping over her, it waited. It waited for the next car.
“I take back every mean thing I ever thought about you—flea factory, tub of glue, moo-bossy, dumb as…” She trailed off and passed out.
Later, she’d wonder if she’d dreamt it happened, if it wasn’t some morphine fantasy, the horse dragging her to the road. But the coupled who rescued her claimed they saw it. She could hear them argue as she hovered in half-consciousness from her hospital bed. Was it a deer, a cow, a moose? They couldn’t decide.
Whatever it was, it was large enough to cause them to stop, to slide to the pavement’s edge. She heard them tell the nurse, or was it Brady? She thought she heard Brady.
Straining, she struggled to open her eyes. They felt glued shut. Her head pounded with effort when she finally managed a blurred, swimming vision.
The couple told Brady that if it wasn’t for the animal in road they would have hit her. In fact, they just missed her head.
Two blobs that she was pretty sure were her parents listened to the story as well, and there was another blob fiddling with her IV, or at least what she thought was an IV, that she’d bet was a nurse.
“Brady.” She surprised the room. “I love…” she cleared her throat. It felt like sandpaper. Quickly, he came to her bedside, leaning over her so she could see his face. Her voice crackled in gravel, “I love that horse.”