Collateral Damage

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 6

DAMAGED GOODS

Puppet

I break open my eyes, hazy and unaware of my surroundings, worrying I've gone blind when I realise, I've been restricted from sight and my mouth is still taped shut which only heightens my anxiety. I was drugged and I'm still in full effect. My head is spinning, pounding at my frontal skull and all minor strength has been sucked from my feeble muscles. This feeling is something of a living nightmare which only grows worse when I find the energy to move and realise both my wrists are bound to what I can only assume is a bed I'm lying on. The chains clank against the metal sending me into a fit of panic I can't even describe as my clothes stick to my hot skin. I'm still in my pyjamas so at least they were modest enough to keep me clothed.

Trying to keep my composure, I focus on my breathing, sitting in a pool of discomfort as my sore eyes graze my lids. I feel like I've got stones in my sockets where I've shed so many tears that are still spilling over, too focused on my breathing to realise the dirty great gash that has split the back of my calf. I muffle a yelp behind the tape as I try to shuffle it against the bed sheets. It feels wrapped but it doesn't make it any less painful. Even drugged to the high heavens the throbbing is churning the back of my throat, shooting up the back of my leg interrupting my nervous system. I don't think they hit anything vital, but the blood still wants to pour out of the wound like a tap. It's throbbing so hard I squint at the pain, wanting to scream as the tape pulls at my skin surrounding my mouth. I stretch it with pained cheek movements to accommodate the uncontrollable whining, wallowing in this torment as I sway rhythmically to try and ease the urge to lose my mind. I'm lying here like Jesus on a cross and I haven't a clue what's going on beyond my current position. What monstrosity I am currently sitting in. Where I even am?

I tune in to the sounds and smells, using all my senses to my advantage. The air smells stale, thick with must. A place that hasn't been looked after and a potent stench of paint that makes me queasy. I never did like that smell…when we moved that smell lingered around the house for almost a year.

Focusing on distant shuffling, heavy rubber boots graze the wooden floorboards and the sound of water running in the distance sends a shiver along my spine, the gushing tap making the centre of my legs swell with a sudden desperation to use the lavatory but that isn't possible right now. Hey Mr Killer. May I use your bathroom?

My heart accelerates tenfold when their footprints approach me, homing in on my personal space. I'm trembling with anticipation. I know what I saw and I know the profile they hold. I'm going to die here and I feel like I've been shot in the chest. This ache is unbearable, like heartburn, like someone lit a match and ignited a fire inside my chest that I can't put out no matter how many tears I cry.

I go to force another sob before a finger meets the outer lining of the tape plastered across my mouth making me freeze like marble, sobbing into the void as I hold my breath, praying they remove my prison mask but it remains on. They smell of leather and men’s tacky cologne as I feel them perch on the bed beside me indenting the mattress. I hear a glass hit a wooden surface, as I manoeuvre myself inches away from them in protest. I want to scream but I'm frozen solid and my mouth is restricted, feeling sweat lather my skin like heat rash.

“The longer you fight. The harder this is for both of us.” Their voice is like that one song you can't stand, scrunching your face in displease when you hear it play. It's so rough and low it makes my brittle bones rattle.

I can only listen. Shaking like a leaf as their words slice through my open wounds, still bleeding. I don't know how long I've been out but by the way my muscles have seized like a century old pipe. It's been a while and it's making it hard to keep calm. I'm weak, I'm vulnerable, I'm restrained with no way out, stuck in the confinement of my own darkness, accompanied by a monster with incalculable intentions and a suffering worse than torture.

“I never intended for this.” They say deeply, a guilty conscience is lingering against their prompt, but I can't read their objective and it's only making this more frightening.

The worst-case scenarios and profound feelings start to engross my conscious mind and I hope I die before they happen.

Rape. Torture. Violence. Psychical abuse. Dismembering.

Disquietude is pumping through my cold veins, warming my fight or flight instinct but I have neither. I'm just helpless prey caught in a trap waiting to be slaughtered and fed to rabid dogs.

“You weren't supposed to be a part of this,” their leather gloves stagger my wet cheeks, wiping away my sorrow as I almost swallow my tongue from tensing it to the back of my throat realising their touch is entirely different. Tender?

“You need to believe me if you want this to work in your favour. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.” I do as I'm told like a good girl, too fearful of the outcome if I do not comply. I will do anything right now to keep the monster at bay. The last thing I want to do is rattle its cage when it's starving.

Killers don't kill for no reason. It's always feeding something, and they play with their food if they aren't yet ready to feast again.

“I'm going to remove your binds when I feel I can trust you with the knowledge you will come to learn.” I replay what they say in my head and I'm sensing a twisted kindness. They don't seem to want to harm me, they plan on having me stick around? And the why is the part that frightens me the most. They like to lure you into a false sense of security only to tear it from your chest. They said ‘come to learn’ like I will be sticking around, so I suppose I can be grateful they don’t want to end me but I'll be honest that really doesn't ease my mind at all. That could mean so many different things with so many different outcomes. None I see are good right now unless I ended up being kidnapped by a friendly killer. Chances? slim to none. When the hell do you see that on the news? Never .

My head rests on a pillow, sinking into it to hold my head which is far more than I expected when held against my will. They push themself back off the bed and I hear the flick of fabric and a gust of cold wind smother my skin in goosebumps. Flinching so hard I tense my torn calf muscle and hiss through the pain as a blanket encapsulates me. I’m afraid they want to suffocate me but instead it rests on my exposed frame, closing me in from the cold.

“You've been out for six hours. Now you're in the land of the living I can finally comfort that pain.” What does that mean? What are they going to do? That doesn't sound good at all.

A glass drags against wood and the sound of tinfoil tinkers at my senses, the air is sucked from my lungs as they rip the tape from my mouth, the sound scraping against my ears as I feel a layer of my skin peel off with it, stinging my lips and the sensitive skin around it like lip balm plumper.

“Open.” They demand. They don’t hesitate but I certainly am. I am already drugged up enough as it is, what could they possibly want to put in my mouth? But their voice is racking my bones and I daren’t disobey. I open my mouth slowly to reap my death as a pill rests on my dry tongue, promptly followed with a glass of water to wash it down as they hold it in place for me to drink. I guzzle, like a lost man in a desert, relieving my tense shoulders as the cool liquid soothes my hoarse throat and I'm found unsatisfied as they pull the glass away and repeat the process. I’m so thirsty for relief that the pill goes down like chocolate.

I don't even gag which is strange considering I fear pills like people fear spiders. It's amazing what you'll do in the face of danger. Why are they comforting my pain though? This doesn’t make any sense, not that I am at all in any position to see sense or conjure up rational thinking right now. I take my pills, and they haven't affected me but I don’t think I'd even be able to tell on top of the drugs already in my system. My eyes feel heavy. I pull my chin into my chest as I fight to hold it up but all I want to do right now is sleep and possibly never wake up. I’m full of drugs and I haven't eaten anything since before I got home. I literally missed my favourite meal because I was sulking -

Shit .

My insulin ! I’ve been so caught up in being literally kidnapped that I didn't even take into consideration that I have not taken insulin for most likely over my time frame. But maybe this is a good thing? I mean. I know the side effects are heavy but at least I will no longer be a problem and I will be with my parents. What do I have to gain if I even get out of here now anyway?

Lost in thought I drift off into another timeless sleep from pure exhaustion. Adrenaline is its own drug. When you use too much, the come down is even heavier.

??

I creep open my eyes expecting to see darkness, and I do see darkness, but this time I see it’s 3D with light and shadows casting the room that I can now see in front of me.Particles of dust fill the air like space as the light seeps into the room between the cracks of the plywood plastering the windows shut to my left-hand side, barricading me from the outside world. They’re isolating me from my life through rose tinted glasses and I’m only seeing the bleak, desolate numbness in the shade of black that is their house, or hide out? Or whatever this is.

It has a poignant stench of trauma and pain that makes my skin writhe. You can feel it in the air. The way the dust is thick on every surface, the stained floorboards with god knows what. Blood? Mud? Dirt? and the crooked picture frames. The way the doors creak, echoing through the building like an old Victorian manor and the way the paints peeling from its foundations. Why would anyone settle here? It's beyond creepy and makes me pray this process quickens its pace.

I turn my head to catch a digital alarm clock, lit up in red. 13:46.

I've been out for over twelve hours! Suffocating on the smoke invading the air and the smell of fear, my eyes are dry and stiff. Surely this much sleep is not good for the body and I'm beginning to smell. I can’t see what I look like right now but I just know that my hair is thick with grease and I have the biggest bags under my eyes, The irregular temperatures of my body during the night have stuck me to this blanket that I can’t even remove and my insulin withdrawal is already having a great effect on me.

Not long after my loss in thought, a door chimes in the distance sending the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. They are here. Clattering and banging in the rooms surrounding me. This time I can pinpoint where the noises are coming from and they are closing in on the door facing directly to my right. I squeeze my eyes shut in fear but they soon burst back open when I see my parents slumped on the sofa, bleeding out. The clown mask in the darkness, how it followed me through the house. How my screams replay in my own head and remind me how helpless I really am. How I am about to face my greatest fear any second now.

The knob turns on its axis, sending a wave of sweat over my entire body. Behind my blind fold I didn’t have to face them but now that I do it makes it much worse. The door creaks open slightly before being pushed harshly sending a heavy force of wind in my direction. They are stood in the doorway cowering in the darkness of the corridor, smothered in black attire and those heavy boots I have come to loathe, a constant reminder of the worst night of my life. But this time the face is different. Still a creepy clown but not so solid, more like paint.

Paint .

It makes sense now.

They gawk at me through the black holes carved into their face, but their eyes look straight through mine, one broken soul to another, a heavy contrast against the moons within and the contorted sculpture of their face that I can now see cutting through the shadows. They are so tall they are almost ducking underneath the door frame mimicking my own paralysis demon as I'm stuck in stone, unable to move or speak and their build is so wide they take up the entire door frame. I have a voice now, but the words don’t come out. Fear suffocates my throat, strangling me tightly as I lie helpless. I suddenly don’t want to see; I want the blind fold back on.

They tilt their head like a creepy doll, analysing me as if they didn’t take my blindfold off, breaching the room, one foot after another, edging closer towards the bed until they are hanging over me gripping the metal bars tightly above my head.

“I thought I almost lost you there…” Their voice is so husky and light on their tongue I feel my spine shuffle at their words. A line with so many meanings. I feel like an abused pet in a cage. Given scraps and chained to a post wanting to retaliate with inner rage but I know I will come off worse. My face remains on them but my eyes wonder, looking for any means of escape.

“There’s no way out of those Cuffs. Puppet .” My skin crawls at their hideous nickname. Puppet . That is exactly what I am right now. I’m even hung like one. It’s like they could read my mind. How many times have they done this before? How many girls have been on this bed? How many frightened innocent lives have been exposed to this nightmare.

“Are you going to kill me?” Why did I ask that? They are a murderer. Fluttering your lashes and playing innocent is not going to change anything.

“I mean you no harm, but I will if you piss me off. So don’t piss me off.” That was a warning and a warning I should probably listen to but my fight or flight mode is telling me to do stupid things to survive. They have pledged to keep their hands off me but how am I meant to take their word for it.

“What do you want from me?” My voice is shaky, and my fear is causing tears to travel up my throat. There must be some sort of motive to this sick game they are playing.

“Nothing.” They whisper with upmost confidence. I don't know what is worse. Being held captive because they want something from you or being held captive to be their new plaything.

“Then why am I here? Let me go. I promise I won't say a word. I don’t even know what you look like!” They took my blindfold off meaning they trust me; they said it themselves. They know with their face paint and creepy face masks that even if I got out and was able to get to a police station. It would be impossible to identify what they look like. It’s why they do it. Why you wear a balaclava when you rob a bank. You’re hidden in plain sight so you can commit a felony without repercussions and walk amongst the busy street in broad daylight with no suspicions. The mind of a killer is always something I have been so fascinated with and now I have the chance to learn and understand one. All I want to do is crawl into a six-foot grave and bury myself. Being chained to a bed and starved is not quite the same as an interrogation room. They are meant to be the ones cuffed, not me.

“You’re Collateral Damage . Nothing more.” Is that meant to bring me comfort? I have so many questions I'm afraid to ask. Their eyes rip through me like a sharp blade as I endure the sting, conjuring up my courage to ask the most embarrassing question.

“May I use your bathroom?” I know I shouldn't ask but if I don't I'm literally going to piss all over their bed and I would rather keep away from any sort of punishment until I know what I'm really dealing with here.

“As you asked so nicely,” my eyes widen at their compliance, suddenly thinking of all the ways I can escape this building once they untie my hands. It can’t be sudden as I know I will barely be able to pick myself off the bed, but earning their trust is the closest thing I have right now to meddling with my freedom.

“While we’re at it, you can have a shower.” Before I even have a moment to reply they are keying my cuffs and my wrists fall limp against the damp bed sheets, mixed with sweat and humid air. My body is so frail right now I don't have the energy to fight or conjure up an escape plan. I tug my right leg to meet the edge of the bed, followed by my left one letting out a bellow scream from my throat as the wound grazes against the bedsheets and the now crusted band-aid. I will barely be able to stand on this. I holster my body up right, my feet touching the grainy wooden floor beneath me, cringing at the texture.

“Walk.” They grab my forearm, yanking my dead body weight up off the bed. I hiss and clamber for stability only to realise they have perfect hold of me. I must be featherweight to them and their height has me quivering. They lead me out of the bedroom door, towering over my tiny body, I’m hobbling like a granny and I feel like one. How do these people get pleasure out of doing this? They essentially turn themselves into a caretaker for dummies. My leg is pulsating like my heartbeat through my skin, reviving its rest as the blood pumps through my dormant leg dragging me towards the door ahead that leads to the bathroom. As if the bedroom was not bad enough, the bathroom looks like the set of the first Saw movie. I stand by the entrance to the room for a moment and peer inside, taking in my surroundings. They don’t seem to like that very much, tugging me inside where the tiles sting the bottom of my feet.

“You have two minutes.” I situate myself as I watch the door close and lock behind me. Who has a lock on the outside of the bathroom? I run my fingers over my sore wrists, gliding them across the delicate skin. The restraints weren’t tight but being strung for near on twelve hours puts a strain on anyone’s skin. A bath is to the right of the door, grimy with limescale, a sink is bolted on the left wall with a cracked-up mirror you can just about see your reflection in and there is a shower and toilet in front of me. It’s a walk-in shower which is definitely an upgrade for these kinds of slumps but all my mind envisions is pain and blood on the walls, seeing things that are not there. My eyes search for any means to escape but only a tiny, vented window sits up above the toilet, not even big enough to fit my body through.

I catch my reflection and yesterday's mascara I forgot to wipe off is all smeared down my face, I look just like them. A clown on a budget with bags heavier than bruises. My eyes swell at the girl I do not recognise as my sweaty hair, now dark and inky sticks to my salty skin. In twelve hours, my life has turned from a fairytale into a dark past of a villain's story that they don’t tell you about.

I perch myself on the loo, tugging down my dirty pyjamas still smothered in speckled blood when something falls from my pocket.

My insulin.

Of course, I completely forgot I put one in my pocket for safekeeping in case of emergencies. Mom always drilled it into me to keep one on me at all times and I always used to tell her it was silly to sleep with one when I use it before bed and when I wake up. I take it three times a day but I haven't taken it in over twelve hours so I don't have a clue if it will do anything for me apart from make me worse. I’ve never really missed a shot my entire life, but having strict parents who knew when you pissed and shit I suppose had its perks. A bang rattles the tiled cell.

“You have one minute.” They really weren't kidding. I take the pen, and place it just above my abdomen area, injecting myself with my own drugs to keep me breathing. Holding it for five seconds. I realise it’s the last 40 units in the pen. It’s a sad little life I live really... it’s things like this that make me question why I should keep fighting at all. Once I get out, if I get out, it’s only one cell to another. My own body imprisons me on a daily basis. A daily reminder that I am damaged goods and will never amount to anything as long as I have this medical condition that is not curable. I am not curable . To be truthful. This is probably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me, and my body is already shutting down. I am like an alcoholic without alcohol. A mad hatter without their meds. It will slowly eat away at me until I'm nothing. I will never be normal. But then I suppose no one is normal. What is normal?

“Times up.” They bang on the door once more, jumping out of my skin as I sit zoned out staring at my pen.

“One second!” I need to hide this somewhere or they might confiscate it. I climb on top of the toilet and can just about reach for the window ledge where I place it flush against the wall. Hopefully they won’t be able to see it, or it will be too small to notice. I jump back down right before they unlock the door, bursting it open with force like they are trying to catch me in the act. I stand stationary like a deer in headlights, startled by their entrance as they put their hand out, holding out a white piece of clothing for me to take.

“Put this on.” My brows furrow, opening it up to realise it’s a t-shirt. And it’s certainly not mine. Staring at them blankly as they keep their eyes on me. Are they really going to watch me change? Pervert.

“Do you really have to watch me?” I find my voice, clutching the t-shirt in my hand in protest. There is no way I am stripping naked in front of them.

“What’s the matter, Puppet . Never been looked at by a woman before?” The air constricts from my lungs, my eyes almost bulging out of my skull. Did they just say Woman ? There is a deviant grin underneath her face paint and I don't know how to react to that damn nickname again.

If this was a man’s doing, I would understand the harsh nature and sick and twisted stunts they have pulled, but a woman? What woman would treat another woman this way? Although it makes sense as to why she has been kinder than most you see on the news. The pillow. The painkillers. Wrapping up my wound. The shirt to cover up my dignity. I have more understanding, yet it doesn't get rid of the nausea in my stomach. They chuckle, or should I say, she . At my clear confusion before slowly turning around to face the bathtub. At least she has some decency.

“Don’t worry Princess . You’re not my type.” I think I just barfed in my mouth. Shrivelling up my face in disgust as I quietly undo my pj’s letting them fall to the floor and put on my new swimsuit that essentially looks like a hospital gown on me. I’d say she can't be any smaller than 6ft and I'm only 5’4. I look ridiculous, but at least I can rinse off this sweat.

I turn to face the shower, slowly pulling the lever to free the water from its confinement and watch as it falls against my skin, letting out a big sigh. Imagining home, imagining anything but this bathroom I am standing in, where the tiles are cracked and a heavy must lingers. My band-aid begins to soak, water seeping into the fabric and poisoning my wound, it hurts so much. I unravel the cloth until it’s free to breathe, clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth to withhold the impending scream that wants to rip from my throat. It’s partially healed, gammy and gloopy with dried blood smothering the entrance making me heave. I’ve never been one for gore in person, it’s making me lightheaded and angry, alongside the hunger and the deprivation of everything my body needs right now, my body is fighting me to vomit.

I stand and look at her only to realise she is watching me with no shame. This top is drenched and most likely see through. I feel my cheeks burn, unsure whether it’s from the hot water or embarrassment, but even clothed I feel violated and I’m running on so many emotions right now, I don’t know which one to feel.

“Why are you being kind to me?” I cower underneath the flow of heat, warming my lifeless body into the face of a clown waiting for an answer, holding my forearms in my hands trying to cover up my chest.

But she says nothing.

I guess the only clown here is me.

For thinking she would give me an answer.