CHAPTERS ONE & TWO
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REBIRTH: CHAPTER ONE
I lay unconscious on the damp ground, my body still; my mind untroubled even by dreams. Awareness returned in tiny bits and pieces, each moment a battle fought to free myself from the drug-induced fog. My heart pounded in my chest as I desperately gulped in small quantities of the cold fresh air that burned the back of my dry throat as it traveled to my lungs. Pine needles and rough stones dug into my arms and back as my keen ears caught the sound of an owl screeching out a warning and the distant gurgle of a fast-moving stream. Stars sparkled between the softly groaning oak tree branches as the cool night wind made my eyes water and my body shiver. Pungent scents assaulted me from every direction: the musky forest floor, wood smoke, the sea, a metallic odor: blood…my blood.
The shock jolted me to sit up and stare down at myself. My arms and hands were covered with splotches of dried blood. The knees
of my black jeans were shredded and bloody; my tee shirt was ripped at the neck and my bare feet were filthy. I gasped and quickly slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. Someone had dumped me here, injured and unconscious. They could still be nearby. Wincing, I tried to gulp down my fear and concentrate on forming a plan of some kind.
Unfortunately, the sudden upright movement made my stomach feel like it was competing on the uneven parallel bars and my head pound even harder. I lowered myself gently back to the ground and glared at the stars again, frustrated by my weakness. I swallowed hard to keep from losing my last meal...whenever that was, and shut my eyes to keep the trees from spinning. I guess I could make plans just as well from this position and if sitting up meant vomiting all over myself, I could hang out here on the ground for a little while longer. Anyway, vomiting would only draw the attention of my kidnapper, since it was impossible to barf quietly.
As my stomach settled down again, I took in some slow deep breaths and inspected my hands once more. There were no cuts or scrapes anywhere to be found, although that was definitely blood I smelled. They were sore, as were my feet, but I'd have to worry about getting to a doctor later. Still, a tiny voice in my head suggested that I could be suffering from shock and that the pain from any hidden injuries would probably kick in soon. Sometimes I felt like duct-taping that tiny mouth shut. I closed my eyes, exhausted and afraid, and shivered in the cool air.
“Where are you running, sweetheart?”The large man with the hooded sweatshirt and the rough voice held me tightly as his friend laughed, a low and husky sound, filled with the promise of pain. I struggled, but they dragged me off the park’s walkway and into the trees. The scrawny one held a knife to my throat.
The two-year-old memory slammed into my vulnerable mind in a rush of terror. Shit...this wasn't good. After six months of therapy, I'd pretty much thought that my panic attacks were over. Maybe whatever drug I'd been given had lowered my defenses. I shook my head and rubbed my face in another effort to clear my head. Determined to take back control, I tried to focus my mind on what had happened earlier this evening; desperate to discover a clue as to how I got here.
The last day I remembered was Sunday, May 2nd. I'd ridden my bike from my current hometown of Cloverdale, California to Asti and back, stopping only once around 1:00 PM at Claude’s Cafe to grab a quick bite and another water bottle. I’d been relieved that the headache I'd had all day had lessened with the strenuous exercise. Still, by 7:00 PM I was glad to be back at home shoving my bike into the storage shed in the side yard and locking it securely. My adopted parents had bought it for me as an early birthday/graduation present and so I'd been careful to secure the
lock. Riding on the familiar back trails that took me whizzing past ancient redwoods and amazing vistas had been cathartic, and so even though my muscles were tired and a sore, I’d felt pretty good.
There was a man I didn’t recognize sitting on my neighbor’s porch steps and I recalled finding it strange, because the Reynolds had left for vacation the day before. He stood when I passed and smiled at me, so I’d smiled back automatically to be polite. He was tall, with wavy dark hair that hung below his collar and very dark eyes. He was dressed in coveralls and I remembered thinking that maybe he was hired by the Reynolds to do some yard work while they were gone. Still, I’d felt uneasy seeing him there on their porch. If he was hired to work why wasn’t he working? And how much yard or construction work is done at night? Shrugging off my uneasiness, I’d turned away and headed toward my door. Stupid move.
My squeaky gate sounded its usual protest as I walked up the gravel path to the side entrance of the house I shared with my mom and dad. As I was putting the key into the lock, the air behind me stirred and a pungent wintergreen scent filled my nostrils. A Muscular arm wrapped around my waist and a calloused hand covered my mouth. I’d struggled briefly but couldn’t call out other than to mumble a frightened grunt. There was a sharp pain in my neck and then nothing else.
Still sprawled out flat on the forest floor, I shuddered again. He'd drugged me and taken me...somewhere...but where? I listened intently but couldn’t hear any human movement nearby, only a variety of squeaks and squawks, scratching and scurrying by the local smaller inhabitants. Those creatures didn't bother me. It was the human variety that concerned me at the moment.
I was so angry at myself I could scream. A stranger on my neighbor’s porch should have set off alarms in my head. I tried to think about what I should do next, but fear made my heart jump around in my chest. I dug my nails into my palms. Think, dumbass. Getting to the nearest road was an option, but I didn’t know where I was or even if there was a road nearby. Though I listened as carefully as I could for the hum of passing cars , no engine noise cut through the forest. I could try to make it to that stream I'd heard and follow it. Maybe it would lead me to a campground or a town.
Of course, to accomplish any of that I had to stand up. I shivered again, thinking about my recent attempt. Although the nausea seemed to have disappeared, I was desperately cold and thirsty. Whoever had attacked me must have left me for dead out here in the woods. What had he wanted? Thinking about him made me tremble again, but I knew better than most that panic was my enemy as much as the stranger was.
"Where are you running, sweetheart?” Their breath smelled of cigarettes and beer.
"Stop it!” I'd whispered my command out loud. Reliving past horrors wouldn’t help me. Later, when I was safe, I could fall apart. Now, I needed to kick myself in the ass and get moving because lying here wasn’t an option. If I was in the deep woods, the smell of my blood could attract predators
and I so didn’t want a run in with a bear. People died from exposure and shock, so I needed to find some kind of shelter, at least. I took in another deep lungful of cold air and noticed once again the scent of wood smoke coming from somewhere nearby. I decided to take action and see if there was maybe a hunter or a camper in the area who could help me.
I tried to sit up but I was still too dizzy, so instead I called out, as loudly as I could, “Is anyone here? Please, I need help!” My throat sounded raspy and felt really sore, probably from being so dry. I suddenly noticed the forest grow eerily still and felt the hairs on my arms raise up. Something was
moving toward me. Gulping back bile, I knew instinctively that this was my kidnapper. I should have kept my mouth shut. I dragged my exhausted body under some nearby brush and then curled up and wished myself invisible, knowing how pitifully lame my effort was. Shaking again, my predicament was becoming all too clear as a frightened moan slipped from my mouth. I quickly covered it with my bloody hands and chanted mentally…don’t panic….don’t panic.
A pair of large hiking boots stopped inches from my feet, quickly followed by a masculine hand parting the brush. A man crouched down next to me and said in a soft soothing voice, “You’re safe. Try to get up now. I won’t hurt you.” As I forced myself to crawl out from
under the bushes, he helped me sit up. An old wool blanket was draped over my shoulders and I clutched it more tightly to my body to try and stop the
shaking. Maybe I was wrong and this wasn’t my attacker, but just some camper who happened to hear me call out. Why would my kidnapper care if I was cold?
“I’m too dizzy to stand up.” I told him. “I’ll fall.” I twisted around to look at his face and inhaled a too familiar whiff of wintergreen.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the man I’d seen earlier on the Reynolds’ porch. He seemed taller, maybe 6’2”, and no longer dressed in coveralls. Instead he wore jeans and a brown long sleeved tee which fit tightly over his slim but well muscled frame. His dark eyes took in my ragged condition as he shook his head, not smiling. There was dried blood on his hands and shirt and that worried me…a lot. When he reached into his back pocket and brought out a set of handcuffs, I found the energy to scoot backwards on the ground. “I don’t want to have to use these but if you try to run, I will. It’s for your own safety.”
I believed that he’d use them on me but not the crap about it being for my safety. “I won’t run,” I answered shakily, knowing that I didn’t have a chance of outrunning him barefoot in my wobbly condition. He held out his hand and after a moment, I reluctantly reached for it. It was large and warm and might have been comforting if the circumstances were different. Pulling me up easily, he helped me wrap the blanket around my shoulders more securely.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
I looked at him like he was crazy. “How do you think? And what the fuck do you care anyway?” My anger popped to the surface in a burst of venom. His mouth turned down, probably annoyed at my attitude or maybe my language. Well, tough. I'd rather he thought I was angry rather than...well I guess I was pretty much scared to death right about now. Instead I asked, “Who are you?” My knees buckled slightly and he held my
arm to steady me. “You drugged me, right? Where am I?” Questions poured out of my trembling mouth and several tears ran down my cheeks. Stop
crying, you wimp. If I didn’t keep my head, I may not survive the next few hours. I bit my lip to try to stop the tears and succeeded only briefly.
“I’ll answer all of your questions in a little while. We’re heading to that cabin in the clearing. You can get cleaned up and have something to eat and drink." He held my arm so I couldn't pull away and put a hand on my forehead. "You’re dehydrated and your body temp’s low. Just don’t try to run and everything will be ok.” I breathed in another mouthful of minty flavored air as I turned and saw the cabin twenty five yards away, hidden behind some low hanging branches. Relaxing slightly at the thought of getting warm and having something to drink, I inspected the man holding my arm. His dark brown eyes looked tired and there were lines of stress around his mouth. It occurred to me that maybe I’d given him a hard time, and that almost made me smile. When he noticed me watching him, he attempted to reassure me with a slight smile of his own. He gestured toward the cabin, and strangely, I found myself staring at it with longing. I was weak and so thirsty. More than thirsty, my nausea was gone and I my stomach was cramping up from hunger. I had no idea when I'd eaten last.
I stumbled forward with the stranger supporting my arm to help me keep my balance. As I walked up the wooden steps,across the narrow porch and entered the cabin, I shivered with fear and anticipation. One thing was clear. I had to keep my head and quickly figure out a way to escape. He didn’t know me and so didn’t know that I was more than I seemed, not just a frightened teenaged girl. I was strong and fast and I was going to use that to my advantage and get out of this forest and back home. As soon as I figured out how to walk again.
TWO
We walked into a cozy room with multi colored rugs and an old, comfy looking couch decorated with pillows and throws. A well worn armchair sat near a lit fireplace, the flames lighting up the walls with dancing shadows. There was a lingering musty odor which was mixed with the comforting smell of home cooked meals. He handed me a sports-sized water bottle and then pointed toward a narrow hallway to the left.
“Your room is the second door on the right. Do you think you can make it?" I nodded. "There’s a bag of clothes on the bed and a bathroom attached with clean towels on the shelf.” I didn’t move. “Go on, kid. No one will bother you. Don’t try to run. There’s really nowhere to go.” I still hesitated. He smiled and tried to sound reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you something to eat and then explain everything. Go ahead.” He turned away and headed for the small kitchen to the right, opening the fridge and getting out a few bags.
Stumbling through the door he’d indicated, I locked it behind me, and then slowly forced my shaky body to head into the small bathroom. I locked that door as well, then quickly stripped and showered. My need to wash away the blood and warm up under the hot water, took precedence over my fear, and I needed to see where I was injured and clean any wounds. The heat brought my body temperature back to normal and the fresh bar of soap cleaned me up quickly, making me smell human again. I washed and shampooed, getting every bit of the blood and mud out of my hair and off of my hands, then dried myself and looked around. The window was definitely big enough for me to fit through, but I was too
weak to make a serious attempt at an escape.
Wrapped in the green towel, I stood in front of the full length mirror in the small bathroom and examined myself. Strangely, not one cut or scrape marred my skin, not even a bruise. Even more alarming, the scars that had decorated my body for the past two and a half years had disappeared as
well.
Car doors slamming and then two sets of feet rushing toward me.
“Where are you running, sweetheart?” Off the path and hidden by trees, a rag
shoved in my mouth. A hand stroking my hair…moving toward my breast.
“So pretty.”
My stomach lurched and I kneeled and heaved into the toilet, only bile coming up, then shivered and curled up on the floor. With intense concentration, I forced the memory back into its box and slowed down my breathing. After I’d pushed away the panic, I was able to sit up again and lean my back against the bathroom wall opposite the full length mirror attached to the door. A few swigs from the water bottle washed down the unpleasant taste in my mouth and I rubbed my arms, tightening them around my body in a feeble attempt to banish the ghosts that still seemed to haunt me.
And there were plenty of them to banish. Never knowing my real parents and raised within the state foster care system, I was passed from family to family, never really fitting in anywhere. I was labeled “Troublemaker”, “Disruptive”, “Self Destructive”, etc… Sometimes I was all of those things, but mostly I was lonely and angry. Somehow, my messed up psyche was easier to hide at school than at home, where I always felt unwanted. I got fairly good grades and was good at faking short friendships with other kids. But I was always furious when the inevitable occurred and I was forced to move to a new school or neighborhood and a new family. Sadly, I’d never lived in one place long enough to have a chance at a normal life.
Not that my life could ever be truly normal. I was a freak: stronger than the other teens I knew, with an unusually acute sense of hearing, sight and smell which got me into all kinds of trouble in social situations. Overhearing very private conversations made me feel extremely uncomfortable to say the least. Even worse was when those derogatory or lewd comments were about the new girl, me, and what certain young men would like to do to her. I had many fantasies about what I’d like to do back to them if they ever tried, and I was strong enough to do it, too. My nomadic life had produced a dual persona: self-reliant and strong on the surface, but desperately searching for something to fill up the crater inside me.
As I sat on the cabin’s bathroom floor, the familiar feelings of hurt and resentment began to build up in my gut as tears of rage ran down my cheeks. My green eyes glared back at me from the mirror. I was never one to wallow in a pity party, but this day
really sucked, even more than usual. Sixteen, I’m only sixteen...oh yeah, seventeen in a few days, if I live that long. I roughly wiped away the tears using the corner of the towel.
Struggling to my feet a minute later, I walked back into the small bedroom. True to the man’s word, there was a huge plastic bag on the bed which contained new sweatpants, jeans, shorts, tee shirts, a soft robe and underclothes, all the right size. I was surprised to see that this was quality stuff, made of good fabrics, not discount store merchandise. I reluctantly dressed in the clothes he provided because mine were no longer usable and I wasn’t about to stay wrapped in a stupid towel. Dressed and feeling human again, I scowled in the mirror which hung over the small dresser.
I am such a jerk. In my self defense classes they go on and on and on about being aware of your surroundings, (which I wasn’t) and following your gut instincts, (which I didn’t). I had even stopped carrying the whistle around with me. Not that anyone would have come running if I’d blown the damn thing. I sat on the edge of the bed feeling waves of despair. What should I do now?
My fingers cut paths through my drying hair and I looked once more at my reflection.
Men had told me I was pretty my whole life, many of them making me feel uncomfortable and self conscious with their hungry looks.
I’d learned to deal with them in subtle ways which worked…at least most of the time. I smiled wryly, thinking that right now, I really wasn’t looking
so hot with my bloodshot puffy eyes and desperate expression. Combing my fingers roughly through my blonde hair I pulled it out of my face and back into its usual ponytail. My full lips, straight nose and clear skin had never felt like the gift others had called them, but I loved that I was fairly tall, 5’9”,
lean and muscular with the long legs of a runner.
Running was my passion. I ran whenever I could get away. I didn’t jog in a leisurely style, I ran as if my life depended on it, flushing away the rage and the loneliness. I’d run in any weather, at any time of the day or night, whenever the need overwhelmed me, which got me into big trouble with my various foster families. But I needed to run often and I was very fast. Not marathon, long distance fast, but shorter sprinting kind of fast; so fast that I had to hide the truth from everyone. I timed myself running on secluded roads where no one would see me and I knew for
certain that I was a freak. I beat all the records.
For me, running wasn’t a hobby or part of a fitness regimen. I was compelledto run by an inborn instinct which saved my ass more than once. I’d get angry by a cruel comment or situation, and I'd start to simmer. There'd be a tightness in my stomach and I’d begin to pace like a caged
animal. Then before I knew it, I was lacing up my sneakers and running out the door, escaping before my rage could reach the boiling point and turn dangerous. That was my fear at least. That there was a part of me that could lose control and do serious damage.
When I was younger I’d joke to myself that maybe I was cursed by some wicked old witch at birth who stole me away from my family. I’d imagine that my birth parents, who were of course Olympic runners, would discover me on one of my deserted roads and swoop down to carry me off and help me train for the Olympics, explaining that all of my odd abilities were inherited from my amazing ancestors. The past few years, I’d given up on my fairytale, concentrating only on keeping my mouth shut about my running and dealing with the rest of my weirdness on my own.
I sat on the edge of the bed and wondered idly if my kidnapper could catch me if I jumped out the window and took off, but the thought of getting caught by him and what he might do to me sent shivers through my bones. I jumped suddenly when I heard a knock on the door. My keen ears hadn’t heard him walking down the narrow hallway. How did he do that?
“Kid, I made you something to eat. You need to get your strength back. It’s been over a day since you’ve eaten.” I listened for his retreat but heard nothing until I noticed the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing in the kitchen. He’d make a great burglar.
Wait, did he say over a day? Was it already Monday night? For the first time I thought about the family that had adopted me a year ago, the Crawfords. After growing up being passed from one family to another, they had actually seemed to love me. Are they searching for me? Have they called the police? Knowing them, they probably have the town turned upside down with search teams out in force and my face on milk cartons. Maggie and Justin Crawford, both college professors who taught philosophy and ancient history, had been very kind and loving. They
encouraged my running and had even suggested that I go out for a college scholarship in track. I hoped that they weren’t panicking. I’d be home again as soon as I could figure out how to get away. If only there was some way to let them know that I wasn’t hurt.
I reached for the doorknob and froze. Decision time: run or stay. Something in mygut told me that if he’d wanted to kill me he would have done it already and I generally trusted my instincts. When he’d warned me about running away, he hadn’t really sounded threatening, just matter-of-fact. The delicious smell of cooking meat drifted in the air and so I sighed, unlocked the door and slowly turned the knob, peeking down the empty hallway toward the kitchen. I brushed my drying hair out of my face and grimaced with resolve. Maybe I could somehow convince him to let me go. I’d talked myself out of tough situations before. I was actually pretty good at it. Tonight I'd need all my skills.
I lay unconscious on the damp ground, my body still; my mind untroubled even by dreams. Awareness returned in tiny bits and pieces, each moment a battle fought to free myself from the drug-induced fog. My heart pounded in my chest as I desperately gulped in small quantities of the cold fresh air that burned the back of my dry throat as it traveled to my lungs. Pine needles and rough stones dug into my arms and back as my keen ears caught the sound of an owl screeching out a warning and the distant gurgle of a fast-moving stream. Stars sparkled between the softly groaning oak tree branches as the cool night wind made my eyes water and my body shiver. Pungent scents assaulted me from every direction: the musky forest floor, wood smoke, the sea, a metallic odor: blood…my blood.
The shock jolted me to sit up and stare down at myself. My arms and hands were covered with splotches of dried blood. The knees
of my black jeans were shredded and bloody; my tee shirt was ripped at the neck and my bare feet were filthy. I gasped and quickly slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. Someone had dumped me here, injured and unconscious. They could still be nearby. Wincing, I tried to gulp down my fear and concentrate on forming a plan of some kind.
Unfortunately, the sudden upright movement made my stomach feel like it was competing on the uneven parallel bars and my head pound even harder. I lowered myself gently back to the ground and glared at the stars again, frustrated by my weakness. I swallowed hard to keep from losing my last meal...whenever that was, and shut my eyes to keep the trees from spinning. I guess I could make plans just as well from this position and if sitting up meant vomiting all over myself, I could hang out here on the ground for a little while longer. Anyway, vomiting would only draw the attention of my kidnapper, since it was impossible to barf quietly.
As my stomach settled down again, I took in some slow deep breaths and inspected my hands once more. There were no cuts or scrapes anywhere to be found, although that was definitely blood I smelled. They were sore, as were my feet, but I'd have to worry about getting to a doctor later. Still, a tiny voice in my head suggested that I could be suffering from shock and that the pain from any hidden injuries would probably kick in soon. Sometimes I felt like duct-taping that tiny mouth shut. I closed my eyes, exhausted and afraid, and shivered in the cool air.
“Where are you running, sweetheart?”The large man with the hooded sweatshirt and the rough voice held me tightly as his friend laughed, a low and husky sound, filled with the promise of pain. I struggled, but they dragged me off the park’s walkway and into the trees. The scrawny one held a knife to my throat.
The two-year-old memory slammed into my vulnerable mind in a rush of terror. Shit...this wasn't good. After six months of therapy, I'd pretty much thought that my panic attacks were over. Maybe whatever drug I'd been given had lowered my defenses. I shook my head and rubbed my face in another effort to clear my head. Determined to take back control, I tried to focus my mind on what had happened earlier this evening; desperate to discover a clue as to how I got here.
The last day I remembered was Sunday, May 2nd. I'd ridden my bike from my current hometown of Cloverdale, California to Asti and back, stopping only once around 1:00 PM at Claude’s Cafe to grab a quick bite and another water bottle. I’d been relieved that the headache I'd had all day had lessened with the strenuous exercise. Still, by 7:00 PM I was glad to be back at home shoving my bike into the storage shed in the side yard and locking it securely. My adopted parents had bought it for me as an early birthday/graduation present and so I'd been careful to secure the
lock. Riding on the familiar back trails that took me whizzing past ancient redwoods and amazing vistas had been cathartic, and so even though my muscles were tired and a sore, I’d felt pretty good.
There was a man I didn’t recognize sitting on my neighbor’s porch steps and I recalled finding it strange, because the Reynolds had left for vacation the day before. He stood when I passed and smiled at me, so I’d smiled back automatically to be polite. He was tall, with wavy dark hair that hung below his collar and very dark eyes. He was dressed in coveralls and I remembered thinking that maybe he was hired by the Reynolds to do some yard work while they were gone. Still, I’d felt uneasy seeing him there on their porch. If he was hired to work why wasn’t he working? And how much yard or construction work is done at night? Shrugging off my uneasiness, I’d turned away and headed toward my door. Stupid move.
My squeaky gate sounded its usual protest as I walked up the gravel path to the side entrance of the house I shared with my mom and dad. As I was putting the key into the lock, the air behind me stirred and a pungent wintergreen scent filled my nostrils. A Muscular arm wrapped around my waist and a calloused hand covered my mouth. I’d struggled briefly but couldn’t call out other than to mumble a frightened grunt. There was a sharp pain in my neck and then nothing else.
Still sprawled out flat on the forest floor, I shuddered again. He'd drugged me and taken me...somewhere...but where? I listened intently but couldn’t hear any human movement nearby, only a variety of squeaks and squawks, scratching and scurrying by the local smaller inhabitants. Those creatures didn't bother me. It was the human variety that concerned me at the moment.
I was so angry at myself I could scream. A stranger on my neighbor’s porch should have set off alarms in my head. I tried to think about what I should do next, but fear made my heart jump around in my chest. I dug my nails into my palms. Think, dumbass. Getting to the nearest road was an option, but I didn’t know where I was or even if there was a road nearby. Though I listened as carefully as I could for the hum of passing cars , no engine noise cut through the forest. I could try to make it to that stream I'd heard and follow it. Maybe it would lead me to a campground or a town.
Of course, to accomplish any of that I had to stand up. I shivered again, thinking about my recent attempt. Although the nausea seemed to have disappeared, I was desperately cold and thirsty. Whoever had attacked me must have left me for dead out here in the woods. What had he wanted? Thinking about him made me tremble again, but I knew better than most that panic was my enemy as much as the stranger was.
"Where are you running, sweetheart?” Their breath smelled of cigarettes and beer.
"Stop it!” I'd whispered my command out loud. Reliving past horrors wouldn’t help me. Later, when I was safe, I could fall apart. Now, I needed to kick myself in the ass and get moving because lying here wasn’t an option. If I was in the deep woods, the smell of my blood could attract predators
and I so didn’t want a run in with a bear. People died from exposure and shock, so I needed to find some kind of shelter, at least. I took in another deep lungful of cold air and noticed once again the scent of wood smoke coming from somewhere nearby. I decided to take action and see if there was maybe a hunter or a camper in the area who could help me.
I tried to sit up but I was still too dizzy, so instead I called out, as loudly as I could, “Is anyone here? Please, I need help!” My throat sounded raspy and felt really sore, probably from being so dry. I suddenly noticed the forest grow eerily still and felt the hairs on my arms raise up. Something was
moving toward me. Gulping back bile, I knew instinctively that this was my kidnapper. I should have kept my mouth shut. I dragged my exhausted body under some nearby brush and then curled up and wished myself invisible, knowing how pitifully lame my effort was. Shaking again, my predicament was becoming all too clear as a frightened moan slipped from my mouth. I quickly covered it with my bloody hands and chanted mentally…don’t panic….don’t panic.
A pair of large hiking boots stopped inches from my feet, quickly followed by a masculine hand parting the brush. A man crouched down next to me and said in a soft soothing voice, “You’re safe. Try to get up now. I won’t hurt you.” As I forced myself to crawl out from
under the bushes, he helped me sit up. An old wool blanket was draped over my shoulders and I clutched it more tightly to my body to try and stop the
shaking. Maybe I was wrong and this wasn’t my attacker, but just some camper who happened to hear me call out. Why would my kidnapper care if I was cold?
“I’m too dizzy to stand up.” I told him. “I’ll fall.” I twisted around to look at his face and inhaled a too familiar whiff of wintergreen.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the man I’d seen earlier on the Reynolds’ porch. He seemed taller, maybe 6’2”, and no longer dressed in coveralls. Instead he wore jeans and a brown long sleeved tee which fit tightly over his slim but well muscled frame. His dark eyes took in my ragged condition as he shook his head, not smiling. There was dried blood on his hands and shirt and that worried me…a lot. When he reached into his back pocket and brought out a set of handcuffs, I found the energy to scoot backwards on the ground. “I don’t want to have to use these but if you try to run, I will. It’s for your own safety.”
I believed that he’d use them on me but not the crap about it being for my safety. “I won’t run,” I answered shakily, knowing that I didn’t have a chance of outrunning him barefoot in my wobbly condition. He held out his hand and after a moment, I reluctantly reached for it. It was large and warm and might have been comforting if the circumstances were different. Pulling me up easily, he helped me wrap the blanket around my shoulders more securely.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
I looked at him like he was crazy. “How do you think? And what the fuck do you care anyway?” My anger popped to the surface in a burst of venom. His mouth turned down, probably annoyed at my attitude or maybe my language. Well, tough. I'd rather he thought I was angry rather than...well I guess I was pretty much scared to death right about now. Instead I asked, “Who are you?” My knees buckled slightly and he held my
arm to steady me. “You drugged me, right? Where am I?” Questions poured out of my trembling mouth and several tears ran down my cheeks. Stop
crying, you wimp. If I didn’t keep my head, I may not survive the next few hours. I bit my lip to try to stop the tears and succeeded only briefly.
“I’ll answer all of your questions in a little while. We’re heading to that cabin in the clearing. You can get cleaned up and have something to eat and drink." He held my arm so I couldn't pull away and put a hand on my forehead. "You’re dehydrated and your body temp’s low. Just don’t try to run and everything will be ok.” I breathed in another mouthful of minty flavored air as I turned and saw the cabin twenty five yards away, hidden behind some low hanging branches. Relaxing slightly at the thought of getting warm and having something to drink, I inspected the man holding my arm. His dark brown eyes looked tired and there were lines of stress around his mouth. It occurred to me that maybe I’d given him a hard time, and that almost made me smile. When he noticed me watching him, he attempted to reassure me with a slight smile of his own. He gestured toward the cabin, and strangely, I found myself staring at it with longing. I was weak and so thirsty. More than thirsty, my nausea was gone and I my stomach was cramping up from hunger. I had no idea when I'd eaten last.
I stumbled forward with the stranger supporting my arm to help me keep my balance. As I walked up the wooden steps,across the narrow porch and entered the cabin, I shivered with fear and anticipation. One thing was clear. I had to keep my head and quickly figure out a way to escape. He didn’t know me and so didn’t know that I was more than I seemed, not just a frightened teenaged girl. I was strong and fast and I was going to use that to my advantage and get out of this forest and back home. As soon as I figured out how to walk again.
TWO
We walked into a cozy room with multi colored rugs and an old, comfy looking couch decorated with pillows and throws. A well worn armchair sat near a lit fireplace, the flames lighting up the walls with dancing shadows. There was a lingering musty odor which was mixed with the comforting smell of home cooked meals. He handed me a sports-sized water bottle and then pointed toward a narrow hallway to the left.
“Your room is the second door on the right. Do you think you can make it?" I nodded. "There’s a bag of clothes on the bed and a bathroom attached with clean towels on the shelf.” I didn’t move. “Go on, kid. No one will bother you. Don’t try to run. There’s really nowhere to go.” I still hesitated. He smiled and tried to sound reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you something to eat and then explain everything. Go ahead.” He turned away and headed for the small kitchen to the right, opening the fridge and getting out a few bags.
Stumbling through the door he’d indicated, I locked it behind me, and then slowly forced my shaky body to head into the small bathroom. I locked that door as well, then quickly stripped and showered. My need to wash away the blood and warm up under the hot water, took precedence over my fear, and I needed to see where I was injured and clean any wounds. The heat brought my body temperature back to normal and the fresh bar of soap cleaned me up quickly, making me smell human again. I washed and shampooed, getting every bit of the blood and mud out of my hair and off of my hands, then dried myself and looked around. The window was definitely big enough for me to fit through, but I was too
weak to make a serious attempt at an escape.
Wrapped in the green towel, I stood in front of the full length mirror in the small bathroom and examined myself. Strangely, not one cut or scrape marred my skin, not even a bruise. Even more alarming, the scars that had decorated my body for the past two and a half years had disappeared as
well.
Car doors slamming and then two sets of feet rushing toward me.
“Where are you running, sweetheart?” Off the path and hidden by trees, a rag
shoved in my mouth. A hand stroking my hair…moving toward my breast.
“So pretty.”
My stomach lurched and I kneeled and heaved into the toilet, only bile coming up, then shivered and curled up on the floor. With intense concentration, I forced the memory back into its box and slowed down my breathing. After I’d pushed away the panic, I was able to sit up again and lean my back against the bathroom wall opposite the full length mirror attached to the door. A few swigs from the water bottle washed down the unpleasant taste in my mouth and I rubbed my arms, tightening them around my body in a feeble attempt to banish the ghosts that still seemed to haunt me.
And there were plenty of them to banish. Never knowing my real parents and raised within the state foster care system, I was passed from family to family, never really fitting in anywhere. I was labeled “Troublemaker”, “Disruptive”, “Self Destructive”, etc… Sometimes I was all of those things, but mostly I was lonely and angry. Somehow, my messed up psyche was easier to hide at school than at home, where I always felt unwanted. I got fairly good grades and was good at faking short friendships with other kids. But I was always furious when the inevitable occurred and I was forced to move to a new school or neighborhood and a new family. Sadly, I’d never lived in one place long enough to have a chance at a normal life.
Not that my life could ever be truly normal. I was a freak: stronger than the other teens I knew, with an unusually acute sense of hearing, sight and smell which got me into all kinds of trouble in social situations. Overhearing very private conversations made me feel extremely uncomfortable to say the least. Even worse was when those derogatory or lewd comments were about the new girl, me, and what certain young men would like to do to her. I had many fantasies about what I’d like to do back to them if they ever tried, and I was strong enough to do it, too. My nomadic life had produced a dual persona: self-reliant and strong on the surface, but desperately searching for something to fill up the crater inside me.
As I sat on the cabin’s bathroom floor, the familiar feelings of hurt and resentment began to build up in my gut as tears of rage ran down my cheeks. My green eyes glared back at me from the mirror. I was never one to wallow in a pity party, but this day
really sucked, even more than usual. Sixteen, I’m only sixteen...oh yeah, seventeen in a few days, if I live that long. I roughly wiped away the tears using the corner of the towel.
Struggling to my feet a minute later, I walked back into the small bedroom. True to the man’s word, there was a huge plastic bag on the bed which contained new sweatpants, jeans, shorts, tee shirts, a soft robe and underclothes, all the right size. I was surprised to see that this was quality stuff, made of good fabrics, not discount store merchandise. I reluctantly dressed in the clothes he provided because mine were no longer usable and I wasn’t about to stay wrapped in a stupid towel. Dressed and feeling human again, I scowled in the mirror which hung over the small dresser.
I am such a jerk. In my self defense classes they go on and on and on about being aware of your surroundings, (which I wasn’t) and following your gut instincts, (which I didn’t). I had even stopped carrying the whistle around with me. Not that anyone would have come running if I’d blown the damn thing. I sat on the edge of the bed feeling waves of despair. What should I do now?
My fingers cut paths through my drying hair and I looked once more at my reflection.
Men had told me I was pretty my whole life, many of them making me feel uncomfortable and self conscious with their hungry looks.
I’d learned to deal with them in subtle ways which worked…at least most of the time. I smiled wryly, thinking that right now, I really wasn’t looking
so hot with my bloodshot puffy eyes and desperate expression. Combing my fingers roughly through my blonde hair I pulled it out of my face and back into its usual ponytail. My full lips, straight nose and clear skin had never felt like the gift others had called them, but I loved that I was fairly tall, 5’9”,
lean and muscular with the long legs of a runner.
Running was my passion. I ran whenever I could get away. I didn’t jog in a leisurely style, I ran as if my life depended on it, flushing away the rage and the loneliness. I’d run in any weather, at any time of the day or night, whenever the need overwhelmed me, which got me into big trouble with my various foster families. But I needed to run often and I was very fast. Not marathon, long distance fast, but shorter sprinting kind of fast; so fast that I had to hide the truth from everyone. I timed myself running on secluded roads where no one would see me and I knew for
certain that I was a freak. I beat all the records.
For me, running wasn’t a hobby or part of a fitness regimen. I was compelledto run by an inborn instinct which saved my ass more than once. I’d get angry by a cruel comment or situation, and I'd start to simmer. There'd be a tightness in my stomach and I’d begin to pace like a caged
animal. Then before I knew it, I was lacing up my sneakers and running out the door, escaping before my rage could reach the boiling point and turn dangerous. That was my fear at least. That there was a part of me that could lose control and do serious damage.
When I was younger I’d joke to myself that maybe I was cursed by some wicked old witch at birth who stole me away from my family. I’d imagine that my birth parents, who were of course Olympic runners, would discover me on one of my deserted roads and swoop down to carry me off and help me train for the Olympics, explaining that all of my odd abilities were inherited from my amazing ancestors. The past few years, I’d given up on my fairytale, concentrating only on keeping my mouth shut about my running and dealing with the rest of my weirdness on my own.
I sat on the edge of the bed and wondered idly if my kidnapper could catch me if I jumped out the window and took off, but the thought of getting caught by him and what he might do to me sent shivers through my bones. I jumped suddenly when I heard a knock on the door. My keen ears hadn’t heard him walking down the narrow hallway. How did he do that?
“Kid, I made you something to eat. You need to get your strength back. It’s been over a day since you’ve eaten.” I listened for his retreat but heard nothing until I noticed the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing in the kitchen. He’d make a great burglar.
Wait, did he say over a day? Was it already Monday night? For the first time I thought about the family that had adopted me a year ago, the Crawfords. After growing up being passed from one family to another, they had actually seemed to love me. Are they searching for me? Have they called the police? Knowing them, they probably have the town turned upside down with search teams out in force and my face on milk cartons. Maggie and Justin Crawford, both college professors who taught philosophy and ancient history, had been very kind and loving. They
encouraged my running and had even suggested that I go out for a college scholarship in track. I hoped that they weren’t panicking. I’d be home again as soon as I could figure out how to get away. If only there was some way to let them know that I wasn’t hurt.
I reached for the doorknob and froze. Decision time: run or stay. Something in mygut told me that if he’d wanted to kill me he would have done it already and I generally trusted my instincts. When he’d warned me about running away, he hadn’t really sounded threatening, just matter-of-fact. The delicious smell of cooking meat drifted in the air and so I sighed, unlocked the door and slowly turned the knob, peeking down the empty hallway toward the kitchen. I brushed my drying hair out of my face and grimaced with resolve. Maybe I could somehow convince him to let me go. I’d talked myself out of tough situations before. I was actually pretty good at it. Tonight I'd need all my skills.