Don't Cry by Beverly Barton

utter horror. Her entire world was now confined to this small space, an area with hard floors and walls too distant to see in the semidarkness in which she now lived. As far as she knew, the rocking chair where she was confined was the only piece of furniture in the room.
    He had not harmed her, at least not physically. He kept her feet loosely bound so that even when she was allowed to move around, she had to hobble. And whenever he left her, he tied her wrists to the chair arms. He brought her food and water. He allowed her to wash herself and even brush her hair; and he provided an old-fashioned slop jar for her to use. But the indignity of having to bathe in front of him and even relieve herself with him standing nearby had added to the emotional trauma she had endured every moment of her captivity.
    In the beginning, she had been afraid that he would rape her, but it soon became apparent that his reasons for abducting her and holding her prisoner had nothing to do with sex. Then she’d wondered if he would eventually torture her. He hadn’t. But the psychological torment was just as bad as physical torture would have been, perhaps worse.
    She felt him move away from his stance behind the rocker, where he always stood when she performed. And that’s what it felt like—a performance. Where was he going? His leaving while she still held the blanket-wrapped bundle was not part of the normal routine.
    Her voice momentarily faltered.
    â€œKeep singing,” he told her.
    She continued with the lullaby, repeating the words over and over, making up new verses as she went along.
    Within minutes, he came up behind her again, but instead of standing guard over her, he reached around her and laid a small pillow across her lap. Since that first time when he had placed what she had thought was a doll in her arms, she had avoided glancing down at it, but she looked at her lap, at the age-yellowed white satin pillow trimmed with tattered blue ribbons. It was a baby’s pillow.
    â€œDo what you know you must do,” he said.
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œYou must send him to heaven where he’ll be one of the little angels.”
    â€œWhat? I don’t know what you mean. What do you want me to do?”
    â€œPick up the pillow.”
    She did.
    â€œLay it gently over his face.”
    She did.
    â€œHold it there and keep singing and rocking him until he goes to sleep.”
    Until he goes to sleep?
    Realization dawned. Until he’s dead.
    â€œYou want me to smother him?” she asked.
    â€œYou don’t want him to suffer any longer, do you?”
    She lifted the pillow and placed it over the bundle she held.
    â€œIt’ll all be over soon,” the man’s voice whispered softly…sadly.
    Believing he meant the make-believe child in her arms would soon stop breathing, she felt a sense of immediate relief when he lifted the pillow, put it in her lap, and took the bundle from her. For now, it was over. He would tie her wrists to the chair and leave her here. Until the next time.
    In the beginning, she had tried to get away from him, but each time he’d caught her before she had gotten more than a few feet. After being shoved onto the floor, face down, several times, she had stopped trying to escape.
    She waited there in the rocking chair, waited for him to tie her wrists to the arms and then leave her. But when he reached around her from behind, there were no ropes in his hands.
    Instead, he lifted the pillow from her lap and brought it up and over her face. She didn’t realize what he intended to do, not until he pushed the pillow against her face and held it there.

Chapter 4
    Audrey had spent a restless night, tossing and turning, waking every hour or so from the time she had finally fallen asleep at midnight until a few seconds ago when she had shot straight up in bed. She glanced at the bedside clock—5:40 A.M.—and groaned. Damn it, she’d