Fear and Rage

She gives a panicked scream, muffled by the cloth I stuck down her throat, as I set the tip of my blade on her cheek, right next to the corner of her mouth. Her widened eyes glare at me in horror and she twitches in the chair I secured her in.

I will not deny that I savor it; this look of abhorrence on her face, the hysterical wail triggered by some animal instinct deep inside her. In these instants I feel quite calm, tranquil, unruffled by the turbulent events of the past that still haunt my dreams at night. Here, on this dusty site of abandoned childhood memories, is the sole place I ever feel completely and utterly at ease. That is, I would were it not for this tedious creature rubbing her wrists bloody in the futile attempt to escape me. Fear disfigures her delicate features as I gently push the blade deeper, just a little bit, until I draw blood. Once again her eyes stare at me, pleading for mercy but I will not be swayed. I cannot pity her. The entire operation depends on it.

A single scarlet drop of her life’s essence gathers on the tip of my knife and I slowly pull it upwards, slicing her skin deeply. It is a clean cut, barely more than two fingers wide. I watch unflinchingly as the blood washes over her face and she struggles more than ever against the ropes confining her to the hard, wooden chair, eventually tripping it over and hitting the floor with the side of her head.

I decide to leave her there, helpless and humiliated, lying on the floor unable to get up, not unlike a beetle that landed on its back.

A blinding pain rips through the side of her body as she tries to lift herself off the floor by violent jerks of her torso, achieving nothing. With her hands tied behind her back and her legs knotted to those of the chair, she can do little more than shuffle a couple of inches to either side, causing a dull ache throughout her entire body. Resigned, she drops her head to the side, soaking her long hair in a widening puddle of blood and silently shed tears.

In the past days- it must have been days although there was no way for her to keep track of time- she had tried again and again to remember how she had gotten here, what had brought her into this miserable position and what she had ever done to deserve it. But no matter how hard she tried, she had no memory whatsoever of being brought to this room whose bleak, grey walls she had learned to loath.

Sophia, my name is Sophia. I remember that much .Groaning, she makes a pointless attempt to get at least a bit comfortable in her awkward position before falling into a light, restless sleep.  

The wooden floorboards creak where I step on them with my heavy boots. Their sickly greyish-green color makes me think uneasily about the way this house used to look. Every impression; the colors, the smells, the lively atmosphere, come rushing back to me in a single, euphoric rush and I stand there, in the dusty, abandoned hallway, letting the wave of fantastic sensations wash over me and leave me breathless. Within an instant all those memories that I have once worked so hard to ban from my mind seem to fill the entire space around me and I cannot help but to feel dizzy. Clumsily, I stagger into the living room and seat myself on the broad windowsill that provides a lovely view over the garden. Looking out over the wild bushes and plants growing side by side in a pandemonium of leaves, twigs and thorns, I think of my life before. It is intriguing how most events leave so little impact on your life that you will forget them the year, the month, or even the week after they occurred, whereas others hit your life so forcefully and unexpectedly that they seem to drive a cliff through your life, dividing it in only two parts: whatever was before and whatever comes after. My before had been rather short. Too short I would say since I was only 7 years of age when my world split in two and I found myself in the after with anyone and anything I had ever loved left on the other side.

I shake my head as if to get rid of the uncomfortable thoughts forming themselves inside of it. I cannot distract myself with self-pity and sentimental recalls of my childhood. Instead I should be thinking about how best to use the crying wreck in my basement to my advantage. There is a plan, of course, an ultimate goal to my actions but I prefer leaving the details to improvisation.

A dull, throbbing pain shoots through her head when Sophia tries opens her eyes and is met by blindingly bright, white light from the neon lamp on the ceiling. He is there, at the door. She can feel his harsh eyes bore into the back of her head. Blind panic sends her heart into a wild frenzy, threatening to beat right out of her chest but Sophia forces herself to look as composed and calm as possible. Trying to ignore the excruciating agony inflaming her raw wrists, she straightens up in her chair. By now she had realized that nothing was to be achieved by begging, pleading, appealing to the human inside of the monster, if any such thing existed behind his chillingly blue, unfeeling eyes. If anything, it only served to nourish his antipathy towards her.

Three quick paces of his long, slender legs bring him to her side, his switchblade lying firmly in his grip. Sometime during the night he had freed Sophia from the damp rag he had stuffed in her mouth and sealed her lips with a strip of silver tape instead. Calmly, he draws the knife up close to her face, a smile playing on his thin lips as he recognizes the terror in her eyes. Then, with a swift motion of his wrist, he cuts a small hole into the tape, barely big enough to fit the straw of the water bottle he had produced from the inner pocket of his long black coat. She takes three big, gulps, eager to feel the cold, soothing liquid run down her dry throat. It is the most delicious thing she has ever tasted, even though the water mixes with the metallic taste of her own blood from where his knife had nicked her lower lip. The second she finishes the bottle, he leaves the room and Sophia finds herself, once again, left to the confusing turmoil of thoughts running through her head.

He is taking longer than anticipated. I should have known better than to expect him to solve my intricate little puzzle so quickly. Perhaps the grief of seeing his own daughter in the eyes of a seemingly ruthless kidnapper is clouding his judgment too much. Perhaps I have overestimated him.

My flashbacks come more frequently now. The more time I spend in this place, the more poisonous details seem to find their way back to me. The scene is playing over and over in my head. The knock on the door late at night, the man that steps over the threshold, reaching into the inner pocket of his black coat… But it’s no use to dwell on this now. Soon I will have it, the luscious price I have waited all my life to collect. I will shatter his life as once he shattered mine.

The girl is seated on the windowsill I used to love so much as a child. She has finally ceased her pathetic wailing and learned to keep her face blank. It was about time. She has been here for almost two weeks now. And still no sign of her father. With the evidence I left for him to pick up, he should have been able to find her within a few days. He does, after all, work for the police. I can’t help but smile at the irony. A man with a history such as his, dedicating his life to justice. Oh, the hypocrisy.

Finally. A car pulls up in the driveway and I watch with delight as the girl grows rigid at the sound of a car door opening and closing. We both listen intently at the footsteps on the pebble stones and she gives a little jump at the sound of the front door opening.

“Hello?”

Sophia feels paralyzed at the sound of her father’s voice ringing through the huge Victorian house. She wants to scream, to tell him to stay away, not to get involved with this sociopathic maniac that had hurt her for seemingly no reason at all. Terrified, she listens to her father’s footsteps slowly ascending the staircase and pictures him in front of her mind’s eye: with his brown leather jacket, the greying hair tousled from the stress and the lack of sleep he had been enduring. She can practically see him carefully putting one foot in front of the other while holding his gun out in front of him.

I move to the door of the living room we are sitting in, pressing my back against the wall, knife in hand and another one in between my teeth, ready to move quickly when I have to. I hear the footsteps approaching. I left the door open, making sure he would immediately see his daughter sitting on the window sill.

Five more steps until he reaches the door…Four….Three…Two…O- Crying out his daughter’s name, he rushes into the room without noticing, all caution forgotten at the sight of Sophia’s face. It is child’s play to overwhelm and disarm him.

Sprawled in the corner, his ankles tied tightly to his wrists, he looks up to me with a miserable expression.

“What do you want?” he croaks feebly.

“Don’t tell me you have forgotten this place.”

There’s a long silence until finally he whispers “Of course I do. I remember it.” I watch in amusements as his mien darkens at the realization of what is about to happen.

“No…” The word escapes his mouth in barely more than a breath. “No…please…I’m sorry…I-…I never meant to…”

“Kill them?” I suggest. ”I’m sure you didn’t. Guns have an awful reputation on firing themselves. But don’t worry, I’m not about to shoot your precious little daughter.”

“You won’t?” I can barely contain myself from laughing at the hope in his voice.

“No” I say, “I will do much worse.”

I smile lightly as father and daughter gasp in unison at the anguish they know I am about to inflict on them, as the flames of my long constricted rage begin to lick at their legs; hungry, consuming and malicious. My entire life have I not been as happy as in this moment, the moment I had been yearning for so many years. I watch in delight as I take them both down in an inferno of my wrath.