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His hands squeeze my shoulders. “I want us to be friends,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine frantically.
I can’t stop trembling. “We can do that,” I breathe, willing my heartbeat to slow.
I’ll say anything I need to, as long as he stays calm. It’s a strategy I learned when dealing with Jason. I’d rather placate him than escalate a situation.
This is so messed up, an inner part of me says.
“Okay,” he says, breathing deeply. “Okay.”
Then he releases my shoulders and steps back from me. He runs a hand through his hair and groans.
“Fuck…sorry,” he adds, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shit, I’m sorry…I’m going to have to lock you in your room again.”
My heart sinks, but I nod.
I take one last look around, memorizing everything I can. The view from the kitchen window gives away nothing—all I see are some trees in the distance and dark, lush ground.
It’s the same with the window near the television.
I have no idea where we are.
Depending on how long I was in the trunk, we may not even be in California anymore.
A tear slips down my cheek, but he keeps his distance as I walk back into the room. I curl up in my spot against the bathroom wall and sob quietly once I hear him lock the door.
I learn to deal with the mood swings.
“My name is John,” he announces the next time he brings me food. He’s dressed in a brown sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower.
If it weren’t for his bloodshot eyes and crazed look, I would think he’s decent looking.
But his mannerisms are off. They’re wrong.
He’s high on O.
“I really like your name,” he babbles on, placing a tray of food on the bathroom counter. “Skylar. It’s like the sky. And the sky is really beautiful.”
I nod weakly. “Thanks.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you or anything,” he blurts out. “I’m not going to do that. I don’t want you to think I’m going to do that.”
“I appreciate it,” I murmur, as I feel a small surge of relief.
I have no idea what else I should say.
I wish he would just leave.
He stays in the bathroom for an uncomfortably long time, and I stare at the tile, refusing to give him the attention he wants. I drink from the water bottle he gives me, not entirely sure that he isn’t drugging it to keep me sedated.
The days continue that way.
I eat, drink, and sleep. He takes my blood, then tries to initiate conversation.
My withdrawals from the suppressants grow.
Sometimes he’s angry, and I can hear him yelling over the phone through the door. Once the conversation is over, he’ll stomp into the bathroom, draw more of my blood, then leave.
Other times, he’s overjoyed. He’ll talk about nothing of importance, and I pretend to listen.
