Chapter One

You think you know me, you think you’ve beaten me, but you’re wrong. You don’t know me or what I’m capable of. I’m waiting and when you come tonight, I’ll be ready for you.

How much time has passed since I first woke up down here? How long ago was it? A month? Two? At first I was counting the days, marking the number of times I tracked the sunrise as its reflection crept down the block wall across from the barred window–block by block as the sun rose in the sky. Then I gave up. I didn’t help. Time had lost meaning, until now.

You gave me just enough chain to reach the toilet. I found I could pull the chair up to the high window and peer out through the bars. Twenty degrees of sight–that’s all you allowed me, that’s all I’ve had all this time. I could see between the end of the downspout at the corner of the house on the left and the propane tank sitting up against the window on the right. Twenty degrees of nothing. Just an empty field that stretches miles into the far distance. Never a car or a person, not even a dog. Just more nothing. Once a herd of deer stood in the distance, frozen in the long grass until as one they bounded out of my line of sight. It was like a dream and I wasn’t even sure it was real. That had been just after the first snow. When was that? How many weeks ago?

You only come at night. Do you have a job that keeps you away during the day? A wife? A family that needs you at home? Where do they think you are when you come to me? What do you tell them? Do they know what you’ve done? Do they have any idea what kind of monster you are? They can’t know you like I do.

Every night I hear the slam of your car door outside then your feet–first on the gravel driveway then creaking down the stairs before the click of the key in the lock. And every time was the same, until one night you finally trusted me enough to untie my hands. Maybe it wasn’t trust, maybe you thought you’ve broken my spirit, that I’d lost hope, like the others, the ones who were here before me.

I know about them. I found their hair under the pillow and on the unwashed sheets, their clothes hanging in the closet. A bottle of cologne stuffed under the mattress, a bracelet in a drawer. Gifts you gave them, like you did me. How many were there? I don’t dare think where they’ve gone.

I know you, but you don’t know me. I’m not like them. I’ve been watching and planning, waiting for today and I’m ready for you. I broke that chair and hid all the pieces, except one leg. Now I’m behind the door waiting for the sound of the key. I’m ready and you won’t notice a thing when you come for me. You’ll see an outline of my body under the blanket and you’ll come right in, not looking around, not looking behind you. You’re no longer as careful as you used to be, when you first took me. I don’t even know your name, but I know you and I’m ready.

I hear you on the stairs and it’s just like I’ve been dreaming it for so many days. The door opens and you let it slam shut behind you as you walk toward the bed. I bring down the wooden leg onto your head. You stagger and I hit you again, and again, until you fall to the floor. I don’t stop hitting you until I make sure I can walk out of here. I make sure that won’t have to run away, afraid that you’re right behind me and that you’ll catch me, that you’ll grab me from behind and pull me back down the stairs, back into this cage. I hit you to make sure you can’t follow me, ever. You stop moving and I wait for a minute, to make sure. I take your keys from your pocket and carefully lock the door behind me as I leave. I hope nobody ever finds you.

I get in your car and drive it away, as fast as I dare.