You and Her

Trigger Warnings: Sexual situations, insinuations of sexual assault, kidnapping, a cute cat (the cat is fine, I promise).

I ambled up your concrete steps and slid the key you gifted me—just last week! I still got giddy when I thought about it—into the lock. Girlfriends got keys.

“Girlfriend,” I whispered. It had a nice ring to it.

One click and a quick turn later, the door opened into your inner sanctum. Of course, I’ve been here before but never without you. And even then—other than kitchen pitstops for snacks—we spent most of our time in the bedroom in varying stages of undress, wrapped in 1200-Thread-Count Egyptian Cotton sheets in your California King. Since you weren’t here, I could linger and dawdle.

And admire.

I ran my hands along the backside of your couch. Soft yet grainy. “Handcrafted leather,” you told me the first time you had me over and we’d shared a bottle of red wine—Malbec from the Uco Valley, you assured me, like I knew where that was. Expensive implied. You’d headed straight from work to dinner, meeting me at the restaurant, greeting me with a kiss—the faintest whisper of tongue against my bottom lip. One heady inhale of your cologne (a hint of red grapefruit—crisp and clean and an understated sandalwood) plus your warm, open mouth against mine? I was a goner. And when you ordered for both of us—in perfectly accented French, at least, to my Podunk ears? I’d left Earth, finding myself in a hidden corner of heaven. What I wasn’t saying was—

I didn’t have much time to enjoy the couch with your hands crawling up my dress, fingers stroking my sensitive inner thighs. Even now, feeling the texture of it against my fingertips reminded me of what a good thing I had.

I had you.

“Meow?” Mr. Piddles sidled up to me, twining his striped body between my legs. He’d taken to me right away, mostly because I snuck him extra treats. I bent over, scratching behind his ears and his tiger tail twitched—his I’m happy tell. Normally, you boarded Mr. Piddles but after your last trip, he dealt with his resultant abandonment issues by leaving you random turd piles (the worst being on that nice Persian rug). Thus, you elected to keep him home this time and I jumped at the chance to care for the little guy, playing the part of the ever-dutiful girlfriend.

Girlfriend! Ugh, pinch me!

Turning my attention away from Mr. Piddles, I leisurely glanced about—something I never really got the chance to do with you around. Call it curiosity. You were notoriously tightlipped about past relationships and ex-girlfriends… which only stoked the fires of my overactive imagination. Thoughts of Jane Eyre filled my mind, except you didn’t have an attic where you could secret a mad first wife—your house was a modern-style ranch, only one story.

But… you did have a basement. Not that I planned on snooping in there. Nah. More so, I wanted to peek in your nightstand drawers, seeking out old love letters and folded, ratty photos of those long gone from your life. Did you prefer blondes? Brunettes? Truthfully, I had no clue. You seemed to really like me, with my dark mop of curly hair which you complimented me on after sending me a drink from across the bar: a dirty martini with two olives, skewered on a toothpick. I’d never had one before and the whole ordeal seemed painfully glamorous. Classy even. For a girl from the sticks? Romantic as hell.

Except… that first time meeting you, I had an impression of a predator swooping in, ready to woe a mate. Your white teeth flashed as you chatted with me. “Tell me about yourself,” you said while your hand—strong yet nimble—found its way to my thigh where it settled; its warm heat making the tender area between my legs tingle in anticipation. Something about you frightened me a bit, whether it was your head strong confidence or the way you carried yourself—shoulders squared, your back ruler straight. But the difference between fear and desire was thin—very thin indeed—and that night I crawled into the back of your Range Rover (you even had a driver! Your own personal driver!), happy to lose myself in your promises and murmured sweet nothings.

“Meow!” A sharp whine of protest crept into Mr. Piddles’ vocalization, its meaning plain: FEED ME, peasant! As previously instructed by you, I made my way to the kitchen and opened the fridge that looked straight out of one of those fancy home design shows. Orderly rows greeted me. On the bottom, Mr. Piddles’ food, neatly packaged into resealable cans; the next row up was fruits and vegetables, a rainbow of color; a garden variety of beer; meats and cheeses; and milk—two separate kinds. Whole milk for you, almond milk for my poor lactose-intolerant body. I smiled seeing the carton; it meant you liked me; you really did if you were buying things for me! I even had a drawer in your bedroom.

I grabbed a can of Mr. Piddles’ food—morsel’s n’ gravy, (delicious, to him, at least)—and spooned the brown, wet squares into his dish where they landed with thick plops, filling the kitchen with a fishy reek. “Sir, here you go,” I said, setting his dish down on his mat patterned with fish bones. As befitted a pampered housecat not fed for hours, Mr. Piddles attacked his food with gusto. You’d only left this morning for your business trip and already, Mr. Piddles acted as if he hadn’t eaten in years. “Silly kitty,” I said, resealing his food. I opened the fridge and replaced the can, pushing it back in place.

Something tinny clinked—the unmistakable sound of glass rattling against another surface. Frowning, I removed the cat food and peered inside the fridge. Behind two columns of tin cans were several glass vials on their sides. Odd, I thought, thrusting my hand forward, curling my fingers around the cool surface. Extracting it, I turned the vial and read its label.

Ativan.

Ativan? In a vial? I was familiar with the medication since my family practically owned stock in benzodiazepines—nine out of ten relatives suffered from debilitating anxiety. Any time I was stressed out with school or work, my sister, mother, or cousin—you pick, they all had some—rattled their translucent orange bottle, producing a white round pill intended to ease all woes. But having the medication in a vial? That was weird… but—

I’m sure you had your reasons. Of course, you did. “Oh yeah, I remember,” I said aloud, letting out a thin chuckle. You’d said Mr. Piddles had medical issues and you needed certain meds on hand. That had to be it. Still… disquiet wormed its way into my guts. Would a vet just give you Ativan like that? You were a businessman, clad in tailored suits, not a doctor in a long white coat or a nurse. Unable to help myself, I turned my attention to the other vials, pulling each out and examining them.

Haloperidol: an anti-psychotic medication I knew about thanks to repeated Grey’s Anatomy viewings.

More Ativan, along with other benzodiazepines—Diazepam or Valium, my grandma’s drug of choice, except hers was in pill form, and Midazolam.

Succinylcholine. A quick Google search on my cellphone said…

That… was a… paralytic, administered to people prior to surgery. My stomach clenched. Why would a person—no matter if they were medical or not—need such a medication in their home? A cold sweat sprung up in my armpits and hurriedly, I relocated each vial to its rightful place, labels facing inward—out of sight.

Oh… I didn’t like this. Why did you have all of these? And did you forget they were there? Or…

Did you want me to find them?

Mr. Piddles’ let out a mournful cry, catching my attention.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Man?” I asked, pushing away my concern for the moment. He sauntered to the basement door and stood on his hind legs, pawing. Claws rattled the heavy wood. He gave me a look like aren’t you going to help me? “I don’t think you’re allowed in the basement,” I said, nestling my fingers under his chin, giving him those good scritches he loved. Motor started up, vibrating my fingertips. His yellow eyes stared into mine and as I was about to turn away, I heard it.

“Help me.”

I stiffened, each muscle stock-still.

Listened.

In the background, the soft hum of your air conditioner. Five seconds. Ten. A minute. Nothing.

Damn… I was really losing it, hearing voices. Finding those vials had rattled me more than I thought. Turning away, fully intending on scooping Mr. Piddles’ litterbox then leaving—no more snooping, absolutely not—I heard it again.

“Help me.” Louder this time.

Shit.

What should I do?

“Please.” Softer. Hopeless.

What kind of person would I be if I ignored such pleas?

Curiosity killed the cat, my mind cautioned.

“Shut up,” I whispered.

I couldn’t.

“Please.”

Ugh.

I had to.

***

After searching high and low, I finally located the basement key hidden deep within your desk drawer under an orderly pile of bills: electricity, waste removal, water, nothing untoward. My hand shook as I inserted the bronze key in the basement door’s lock. Part of me hoped it wouldn’t turn—that I would be able to turn around, walk out, ignore the plaintive voice. Mind my business.

But the door popped open with ease.

Mr. Piddles bolted down the stairs into inky darkness. “Mr. Piddles! Get back here!” I said, the words coming out as a breathy whisper instead the stern admonishment I intended. Groping with my hand, I located the light switch and flipped it. Soft lighting bloomed, revealing concrete steps. The air was cool, at least ten degrees lower than the main floor which you kept at seventy degrees per the Nest thermostat. Goosebumps cropped up on my arms, painfully tightening my skin. Taking a deep breath, I started down the steps, each footfall only adding to my trepidation. It was a scene from a horror movie except this was reality.

“Hello?!” the voice called, undeniably female. Sour spit filled my mouth and I swallowed uneasily. My mouth opened but no words came. What was I supposed to say? Good evening! Top of the morning to you! I came to a landing and the stairs made an abrupt turn. The voice’s owner came into view, and I gazed upon her.

Her.

Your secret.

Glass vials stood on a silver stand—like the tables the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy used when suturing a patient. Each vial appeared empty. Feet away, was her… cage. Cage. That’s what it was. Iron bars rose from the concrete floor, almost brushing against the low ceiling with only a few inches of clearance. There were spaces between the bars but not much. Inches maybe. Only enough space to extend a hand through, which was exactly what she was doing. Her fingertips—raw, ragged, and bloody, several nails outright missing—reached towards me, minutely shaking. “Help me?” I heard the question in her voice, how her inflection lilted up towards the end. Black mascara had long dried on her cheeks, tracking along pale skin by countless tears that were nowhere in sight currently. Cracked lips pursed and her facial features—very pretty—tugged themselves into an expression that was indecipherable. Not happiness, not rage, something else that sent a chill down my back.

Keeping my hands at my sides, afraid to touch the woman, I asked, “Why are you here?” Glancing around her cage, I took in the sights. A black sleeping bag was strewn in the corner, rumpled. Directly opposite of that, was a bucket and based on the smell wafting towards me, it served as her toilet. Food wrappers littered the floor: Gushers, Doritos, along with several empty bags of jerky. “How long have you been here?” Days? Weeks? Longer?

She dropped her hand and pulled it back into her cage. Shoulders slumped forward. Mr. Piddles stood feet away, his face upturned, watching her. Whiskers twitched. The woman’s face scrunched up. “I’m not sure… a week? Maybe two?” The woman shook her head, matted blonde hair shifting. “I’ll be honest, I’ve lost count.” She gestured to the blank walls. “There are no windows, so I don’t know when it’s day or night. He doesn’t keep to any regular schedule that I can tell. Listen,” she said, leaning forward, “can you let me out? I won’t tell a soul what happened, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I promise. Just… let me go.”

I swallowed, afraid to ask but knowing that if I didn’t know, it would eat me alive. “What—what—”. I stopped. My voice came out disused and rusty, as if I hadn’t spoken in years. I cleared my throat. Better. “What… happened?” Mr. Piddles glanced at me. Like you don’t know, his gaze said. But… I didn’t. Not truly.

The woman cringed and put her head in her hands. Fine cuts crisscrossed her forearms, some bright red and fresh, others scabbed and in various stages of healing. “He… hurt me.” She pointed to the vials of medications on the silver stand. “He injected me full of whatever those are and…” she trailed off. I didn’t need her to say more, I could guess based on the rainbow of bruises stamped on the fragile flesh of her inner thighs that disappeared under the fabric of her underwear: torn boy shorts. One bruise looked suspiciously like a bite mark. A t-shirt adorned her torso—cream-colored and ripped, exposing a white belly that hadn’t been touched by sunlight in some time. Weeks at least, according to her.

“How… did you end up here?” I asked.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, almost disappearing. “I met him at a bar. He bought me a drink. Then…” she shrugged—what else was there to say? “I woke up here, in this cage.” Met her… at a bar? I met you at a bar. Had you thought about putting me in this cage? And… why hadn’t you? What made me special?

Just then, my cellphone buzzed in my pocket. I stole a peek at my Apple Watch (a gift from you, I couldn’t hope to afford such finery) and read your text:

Hey babe, hope you and Mr. Piddles are doing well! :) I was thinking about you guys.

Normally a text from you sent my heart pitter-pattering but now, dread wormed its way into my gut. I dropped my hand. I couldn’t text you back, not now. I needed to collect my thoughts. “How do I get you out?” I asked, scrutinizing the cage. It reminded me of a massive dog kennel and my eyes crawled about, locating the opening. There. Yet another lock. “Where’s the key?” I asked. Keys, my day had been filled with keys. Why did you have to give me your key? Why did I take it? I’d been so thrilled, feeling the key warmed by your palm in mine. So stupid.

She pointed. “Over there, hanging on the wall.” She grimaced. “Hurry. He might come back.”

I grabbed the keys from their hook and turned. “Don’t worry, he’s on a business trip in Colorado. States away from here,” I said, striving for a soothing tone. Poor thing was terrified, devoid of any comfort down here.

“Meow,” Mr. Piddles added, pawing at the floor, gazing up the steps. Typical cat, dying to come down here and now wanted to go back up.

I’d just inserted the key when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Babe.”

Your voice.

Shit.

“Babe… what the fuck are you doing?” The woman and I both turned.

There you were.

Your tall, imposing form stood on the landing. Decidedly not in Colorado. Your dark eyes were flinty and narrowed, trained on me. Faintly, the corners of your mouth curled up in a sneer. Not your typical smile—the dimples that appeared in your chin when you grinned were nowhere in sight.

“Um…” I started, unsure how to finish.

What the fuck was I doing?

My palms were slick with sweat and the key slid from my grasp, clattering on the floor. Mr. Piddles gave it a courtesy sniff before walking up the stairs and curling around your legs. Without breaking eye contact with me, you reached down and stroked his gray head. I didn’t have to be touching him to know he was purring up a storm.

“Babe, listen.” Your voice became silky, the same tone you used when we were naked in your bed, your hands around my wrists as you pinned me down and took me. You’d always liked it rough… here I’d thought you were a bit kinky, but the truth was far worse than that.

You were a monster.

I thought of the polished silver handcuffs you snapped shut on my wrists and the wicked smile you gave me. The closet filled with sex toys: Cat o’ Nine Tails, riding crops that wouldn’t look out of place at a horserace, and dildos of varying shapes and sizes, some with spikes that made me clench with pain just looking at them. Having read Fifty Shades of Grey (and I’d enjoyed it!), I’d written it all off, figuring you were sexually liberated and enlightened, happy to surrender myself to you.

How wrong I’d been.

“RUN!” the woman yelled.

Run?

Run!

My feet, formerly anchored to the floor twitched and my paralysis broke. I bolted up the stairs, with no other thought other than get away.

I didn’t make it far.

You leapt at me, easily enveloping my small frame, crushing me within your iron grip. A sharp prick akin to a bee sting rose from my upper arm and I jerked my head. You clutched a syringe once filled with clear fluid—now empty—in your right hand. A fuzziness overtook my head and my movements slowed and dulled. My mouth opened, intending to scream but nothing came out. Diaphragm hitched and stilled. Then… blackness rolled through me and as I slumped to the ground. I heard your laugh and—

Her screams.

So many screams.

***

When I woke, I found myself in the cage. With an aching head, I looked around. Where had she gone?

“Oh good, you’re awake!” you crowed, dimples back on full display. I cringed at your expression.

“Where is she?” I asked. The bucket in the corner had been cleaned and was practically gleaming. All the wrappers had been disposed of. Only her faint scent of body odor and fear remained.

You laughed. “Well… there wasn’t room enough for two, so I had to get rid of her, obviously. You forced my hand, babe.” Get rid of her? My heart dropped. What would happen to me? As if reading my unasked question, you answered, “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you…” you paused, and a rictus grin overtook your face. No dimples this time. “Much, anyway.”

I screamed, “HELP ME!” hoping against hope that someone would hear me.

***

Help never did come.