6. Eleanor
6
Eleanor
I'm not upset about the right stuff.
I wake in a panic from a bad dream that slips away as soon as I try to grab onto it. It takes me a second to register that I’m lying on my side on the couch, and my right hand has gone numb from the pressure of sleeping on my shoulder. I look down, see the rope, and it all comes flooding back in.
Mac. The gun. Being tied up and terrified. Him saying he’s going to keep me. His hand inching up my leg…
Stop, Eleanor. Don’t think about that.
I sit up with some difficulty. I can tell from the light quality in the room that morning has come, and I know Mac is gone without even needing to check. I can… feel it. I do still look around, though, and everything looks just how I left it. The tripod and his bag are gone.
There are a few tells, proving that it wasn’t all just a nightmare. The takeout containers that had my leftovers in them are sitting face down on a towel next to the sink and the knife is still deeply embedded into the pine table. Grumbling, I reach forward with both hands and grip the handle, having to give it a surprisingly significant jerk to get it out. The motion jostles a piece of paper on the table, which then falls to the floor, but I ignore it for now. Instead, I examine the tip of the knife, which had better not be bent…
It’s only duller now, mercifully. And since that means I have to resharpen it anyway, I decide to use it to saw through the rope. One look at that complicated knot and I know my teeth won’t do the trick.
I have to awkwardly angle the blade back and be extra careful not to cut myself, but even so, cutting through all the fibers takes way longer than I expect. Eventually I free myself and let the ropes fall away as I rub the skin gently, massaging the blood back into the area.
I bend forward and grab the paper off the floor. At first, I think it’s just my electric bill, but when I turn it over my stomach drops at the cramped, half-cursive handwriting that I’ve never seen before.
Keep the curtains closed. Stay inside until Friday. I’m watching.
My heart pounds heavy and loud, making my blood roar in my ears and bringing a flush to my face. He can see me, somehow. Or, he’s watching the building. Either way, it’s like adding a to be continued to the end of this story.
And it’s a horror story. So why does a small part of me thrill in the fact that it’s not over?
Okay, not going there… he broke in. Held me hostage. Made me think he was going to kill me.
I suddenly feel unprotected, unsafe in my apartment. I’m all alone in this building, apparently confined to my room and I’m pretty sure that he took my phone. No one knows where I am except him and he has the key to my place. How else could he have gotten in?
I leap up and grab the bottom corner of the couch. It’s the heaviest thing in my apartment that I can move, and the door swings inward. I pull it over and then shove it flush against the wall. It’s not the best solution, especially for later when I’ll wish I had somewhere to sleep, but it does make me feel a little better. First thing Friday morning when we’re “allowed back in,” I’m going to Ed to get my locks changed.
It occurs to me that I don’t know for sure he took my phone, so I start looking around. I even rifle through my drawers when it’s obvious that it’s not sitting out anywhere. But there are only so many places in a studio to put things, so I run out of places to look pretty quickly. I almost cry in frustration. I’d just finished paying that thing off. A two-year payment plan for a cell phone was bad enough.
Great. Now I’m stranded in my apartment until tomorrow with no phone, no one to talk to, and no way to mindlessly entertain myself. God, you never realize how critical that small rectangle of metal and glass has become in your life until you’re forced to try to live without it. I don’t even feel like I’m on my phone all the time—my screen-time usually sits somewhere around 1-2 hours per day—but evidently, it’s still a crutch.
I spend an hour honing and resharpening my knife, mostly as something mindless to do with my hands, but also because it feels like a bloodthirsty thing to do, and that settles some of my fear, minting it into cold, metallic anger.
Then, I do what I usually do when I have the time and energy to kill. I go into the kitchen to start some projects.
I feed my starter. Then I start taking everything out of everything until the counters, table and floor are covered with boxes, bags, jars and cartons. Then, I start to clean. I wipe, I disinfect, I scrub. I check expiration dates and create a Use Now pile.
When everything is returned to its place, I start cooking. I mix together a sourdough loaf. I combine the freezer-burned bags of vegetables and sausage with the nearly-expired cans of beans and the half an onion going soft that was hiding in the back of the crisper into a soup. Then I make a casserole. Then a galette. Then another casserole.
Suddenly, I’m out of ingredients but I’ve got a freezer packed with leftovers—gifts for a future me, too tired to do anything after her shift but throw something in the microwave.
It occurs to me distantly, though I have no way to check without my phone, that this is a pretty standard response to a traumatic event. What starts out as a distraction—a way to occupy my mind with something that soothes me, like food preparation—becomes my sole focus. I can be in total control of this. I can choose to add something or not. I decide the flavors. I say how long it cooks.
I start cleaning the rest of the apartment as the sourdough loaf finishes in the oven. The day creeps away and I have to stop when I can’t see much anymore. I’m too afraid to turn on the light, so I sit in the middle of the freshly scrubbed floor and wish my brain was as tired as my body now is so I could just sleep and escape all the thoughts that way.
But I’m wired. And I need something to do that won’t require me to turn on the light. I don’t have a laptop because I haven’t needed a computer since school and I can do pretty much everything I need to on my phone these days, but I have the most basic model of e-reader available and a library full of high fantasy, smut and cookbooks.
I give a fantasy book a try first—dragons and fairies feel like the right thing to take me away—but I can’t get into it. Their problems seem too foreign, too unreal. I want their fantastical adventures when I’m sick of my own boring existence.
But I also can’t focus on the cookbooks. Most cookbooks aren’t meant to be read front to back, and it’s frustrating when you read something and your first reaction is to go try to make it, but you can’t because you’re completely out of ingredients.
I hesitate before selecting what I hope will be an innocuous enough romance, but the second the chemistry starts between the main characters, my mind starts to wander. To the feel of his fingers on my leg. The commanding way he acted, bossing me around about the flare up on my knee. The possessive way he talked about me to Harrison.
I shouldn’t like that he did that.
I let the e-reader fall into my lap and stare, unseeing, at the blackout curtains. And as I sit, as I finally slow to a stop, everything comes flooding in. I wait for the tears, but they don’t come. I’m upset, sure, but I’m also frustrated that I’m not upset about the right stuff.
I deserve this cry. I deserve to feel safe in my own home. I deserve to self-soothe after being scared out of my mind.
So why does it feel more like I want to cry because I lost something? Like my feelings are hurt? Like I’m mourning a relationship that never even started and was never going to be? Like some part of me—so deep down I could convince myself it didn’t exist—thought maybe I had a chance with him?
Because he touched me. And I let him. And, God help me , I liked it.
Ugh. Am I that starved for attention and touch? No. He was fucking with me. Keeping me off balance, keeping me scared and submissive. Threatening me with… rape…
I brush my fingers against my hip, hoping to feel some lingering twinge—something that would remind me of what his hands felt like .
No, that moment… it wasn’t a threat. And maybe, if I hadn’t stopped him, it wouldn’t have been totally on my terms, but it really wouldn’t have been rape either. At one point, when he was leaning over me, staring at my body with such hunger and focus, I was so wet that I ached with it.
I wanted him to kiss me, to take me. I wanted him to devour me.
I wanted to know what it felt like to be the object of desire of a man that powerful and that attractive. And— fuck him —he really made me feel like I was.
This really isn’t a helpful spiral, though I suppose if it were helpful, it wouldn’t be called spiraling. I need to do something else. I need to occupy my mind and exhaust myself.
After some debate, I decide to brave the abandoned hallway and stairwell to exhaust myself in the basement gym. Only once I’m dripping in sweat and so tired I can’t see straight, I head back upstairs for a fumbled shower in the dark, and a half-assed tooth brushing using my finger while wearing pajamas that are probably inside out. I set the couch cushions on the floor, curl under a blanket, and close my eyes for the worst night’s sleep of my life.
The sound of a door slamming shut wakes me, and I realize it must be 8 AM and people are returning. I moan, rolling onto my back and wince at the stiffness. I am not made to sleep on the floor, even with cushions.
I stretch it out, and realize the stiffness is also self-inflicted. Too many squats. I throw open the curtains, blinking at the light, and set about getting the couch back in place. The clock on the microwave confirms my suspicion; it’s 8:35. I need to go get my stuff from the motel and I’m pretty sure that EZ checkout is by 10, so I change into clothes to go outside.
But before I can leave, there’s a knock at the door. My heart jumps and I freeze, then roll my eyes at myself. It’s not him. Even if he actually were watching—and the more I think about it, the more I have my doubts—he wouldn’t be back now that everyone else is, too.
It’s Harrison. He looks a bit more rumpled than usual, and he’s shifting from foot to foot in an antsy, uncomfortable way. His tone is apprehensive, too. “Hey. I checked us out and packed up your stuff for you.”
He hands me my duffel and I’m almost giddy with appreciation. That was so thoughtful. I take the bag. “Oh my God, thank you, Harrison. You’re the best.”
“Why didn’t you come back for it? Is everything okay? I’ve been texting you.”
“Oh, I lost my phone,” I say. It’s not technically a lie, but it feels like one. “I was just about to swing by the motel for my stuff… and hey, I’m sorry about bailing—”
I turn to toss the duffel on the ground behind me, and Harrison steps inside and closes the door behind him. “All right, spill.”
I feel my stomach drop, my mind instantly spinning with possibilities for how he could know. Logic catches up a second later and I clear the frog from my throat. “About what?”
“Since when do you have a boyfriend? And why didn’t you tell me?” he doesn’t sound hurt, but there’s an edge to his voice.
I balk, searching for any excuse. Maybe if I turn it back on him, he’ll drop it… “It’s not like you tell me things about Stacey without me asking. And you didn’t ask.”
“Because me and Stacey isn’t actually a thing yet. There’s nothing really to tell,” he says, looking away and trying to hide a little smile. “But don’t change the subject. I’m asking now—who is he?”
“He’s…”
I should have prepared for this question. After Mac’s rude handling of the phone call they had, I should have known Harrison would want details. And I really, really don’t want to lie to Harrison. But I also know deep down that he’ll be in serious trouble if I tell him the truth.
I sigh. “It’s complicated. I’m not really sure what happened between us, exactly.”
My tone must sound as tired and pathetic as I feel, because I watch the indignation melt out of his body—his shoulders drop, and his frown smooths out. “Hey, I didn’t mean… You don’t have to tell me anything. But I’m here to talk if you want to, okay?”
I just nod. This conversation feels wrong. It’s so normal, so banal. I feel like I’m outside myself looking in, observing who I used to be without experiencing it. I don’t feel like the same carefree Eleanor who ribs her neighbor about his love life. I’m Eleanor with a dark secret. I’m Eleanor who’s been tied up in my own apartment. I’m Eleanor who’s watched a man kill. And—worst of all—I’m Eleanor with complicated, mixed emotions about it all .
“He sounds kind of… never mind.”
“No, what?” I prompt.
Harrison lifts a hand to scratch his scalp and he turns his head away to say, “Well, he wasn’t exactly friendly on the phone. Sounds like maybe he’s sort of controlling? I say this as your friend; I don’t want you to get mixed up in some sort of bad situation.”
The edges of my mouth lift in a half-hearted smile. It’s too ironic not to acknowledge it, but too fresh to actually be funny. “Thanks, Harrison. You’re a good friend.”
“Okay, well I’ve got to get to work. But I meant what I said. Always here to talk.”
I nod, and usher him out of the apartment. I sit on the couch after he’s gone, and seriously consider a nap. I also seriously consider calling out from work. Then I remember I still don’t have my phone, and, frankly, I’m not sure I can stand another day like yesterday. At least the restaurant will give me something to throw myself into.
I feel naked, cut off without my phone. I really should go to the police, but it takes me a second to remember where the station is. Then, I groan. I’ll have to borrow Harrison’s laptop to figure out the route I need and take the bus because it’s too far to walk.
As I stare out the window, it suddenly occurs to me that whatever Mac was shooting at, I should be able to see from here. I stand and approach, trying to remember the angle of his setup. I crouch down to the approximate height and look out in the approximate direction, but everything looks normal.
As far as the eye can see—which, admittedly, is maybe not as far as his military-grade equipment—it’s all hustling commuters, dogs being walked, kids running around playground equipment, garbage being picked up. Normal city stuff. There’s no tape, no police barricades, blocking off the area of a murder.
I remember Mac saying something about a roof, but none of the buildings in my view that have accessible roofs are corded off either. If someone was shot, wouldn’t it be more obvious?
Unless it’s being covered up.
Maybe I watch too many crime dramas.