Chapter 110
Maple
I’m really scared for Maple #findMaple
I guess I’m going to die here. Yeah, Brandon gives me rations. Bottles of water I gulp down, food my stomach still refuses. But my soul is dying, I can feel it shriveling up like roadkill in the sun, and I don’t suppose my body can survive without that.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Fuck, why did I think my life was so bad before?
Mom might not be perfect, but all she asked of me was to make a few videos, create content worth clicking on.
And in return I got an amazing home, cool stuff for free, so many friends.
Endless fun. But still I threw a teenage tantrum, refused to do what Mom asked.
Then one bad thing happened – I found out my dad isn’t my dad – and even though he’s been an awesome father really, I ran off. Thought I knew best.
But then again, I also called Coco my closest friend in the world, which shows how messed up my brain is.
I lift my legs as far as they will go, then ram them down, kicking out, not caring about the pain that explodes as my heels make contact with the iron bedframe.
I want to scream too but I daren’t in case he storms in, gags me again.
So I create fists instead, punch the mattress, almost die from the futility of it.
But then, something.
A noise.
I stop, listen. It’s not coming from the door, but from the other side of the room, beyond the window covered in newspapers. Outside. I freeze, listen as hard as I can.
There. Again. Rustling and scratching. The thud of a footstep maybe. It could be an animal, I suppose, but it sounds more purposeful than that. Like a person trying to get in.
My heart races.
Have the police found me? Am I going to be saved? Do I get to go home after all?
I want to shout, beg for help, make sure whoever’s out there knows I need them. But I force myself to stay quiet; I can’t risk Brandon hearing me. I know the smart thing is to wait it out. And I need to start acting smart.
More scuffling. My heart rate gets even faster.
I jerk at a higher-pitched crack. A window breaking. But it’s not that loud, like a tiny window, a small single pane. Was it loud enough for Brandon to hear? I tense, prepare for him to rush in, pray that whoever broke the window has their gun locked and loaded.
A hand appears at the window, a man’s hand, ripping at the newspaper, feeling around like a spider hunting moths. I hold my breath. My brain short-circuits.
Then there’s a thud, a snap, a creak, and the window swings open.
‘Hello?’ I whisper. It’s twilight outside, minutes from darkness, and all I can see is a man in the shadows. I feel petrified, but I’m being stupid again. He must be police, or FBI. He’s here to save me.
He climbs through the window, then turns. I can see him clearer now, his face, his eyes, the sweat glistening on his forehead. He walks toward me, his forefinger at his lips, telling me to stay quiet.
But how can I stay quiet?
Because it’s him.
My body starts convulsing with fear.
He might have shaved the beard, cut his hair, but I realize now, I’d recognize him anywhere.
It’s the gross man from the photoshoot. The freak in the scissor lift who broke a diffuser because he was staring so hard at me.
When Brandon told me that he was at the photoshoot, I assumed he must be the man with the freaky stare. Even though I didn’t recognize him. But there were dozens of people there that day. Security staff, agency people, hangers-on. He could be any one of those.
There were two sickos watching me.
Two men who think they have rights over me.
How could I be so unlucky?
Except that’s stupid. I’ve heard the stories, the sickos who hang out together in private chat rooms. Share disgusting content. Of course they can be friends in real life too. Partners in crime.
I scream.
His hand lands on my mouth, pushes hard. ‘Shush,’ he hisses, his face scowling. ‘You need to be quiet.’
My eyes erupt with tears. I thought someone was coming to save me. I thought there were good people out there, stopping the bad people.
But there’s just more bad people. Bad men.
‘I’m gonna rescue you,’ he whispers, like a slithering snake. ‘Take care of you.’
I shake my head, frenzied. I don’t want to stay here, but I can’t bear to go with him either. I want to die; that’s what I want. I moan, like a cornered animal, and some of the sound seeps through his fingers.
‘Shush, Maple, please!’
The door flies open; artificial yellow light floods in. Brandon in silhouette, his arms high, a gun wrapped inside his fingers. But it’s pointed at the man, not me.
The man twists, his hand falls away from my mouth as he pushes to standing. He stares at the gun for a moment, then turns back to me and there are tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ve fucked up again, haven’t I? I just so wanted to be a good dad for once.’