Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller by Deborah Rogers
Authors: Deborah Rogers
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face is glistening with sweat and blackened with dirt.
“Wait. You don’t need to do this.”
“I said get on your knees.”
I do as he commands and start to cry. “Please don’t so this,” I sob.
“Say my name,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t run again. You have my word. I made a mistake.”
“Say it.”
“Rex.”
“Again.”
“Rex.”
He kneels down in front of me and puts his hands around my throat.
“Just remember, Amelia, I gave you a chance.”
“No, no, no, no.”
He squeezes, his eyes laser focused, lips rigid. I claw at his hands. I am fading, slipping in and out, the world graying at the edges, and I can only think of one thing—how the hands on my throat once held a newborn.
Wilderness
16
Before my father left we lived in a big house in a good part of town in Ithaca, New York, called Redmont. The house was a picture-perfect, two-story American Colonial with navy blue shutters. It had a farm-style kitchen, six bedrooms, and a large rose garden. Out of all the rooms he could have chosen for his study, my father selected the smallest room, located in the attic. There were places in that room where he couldn’t stand up straight because of the pitch of the ceiling. I’m not sure why he chose it, whether he had a thing for confined spaces or simply because it was the most silent area in the house. I used to think that maybe it was so he could watch and wave at us kids when we played in our yard.
The house had a name—Redmont Rose . My mother invented it. She even had the name etched into a plaque made of walnut and hung it just above the doorbell so everyone would know what the house was called. Our yard bordered a huge park, with streams and a fort and a freshwater lake with ducks and swans. My brother and sister and I treated it like an extension of our yard and used a secret hatchway in our fence to go back and forth.
Every year the neighborhood held cookouts and summer picnics there. But best of all were the Fourth of July fireworks extravaganzas put on by the Lions Club, who flew in a specialist team of pyrotechnicians from Sweden to run the event. Once my father took me to the top of our garage roof, promising it would provide the best vantage point to watch the fireworks over the lake. I remember looking at his face, luminous in the pink glitter of an exploding horsetail, and thinking how much my six-year-old brother looked like him. When the fireworks ended, I didn’t want to get down but eventually he convinced me that we would come back next year and do it again. Then he returned to his study and his technical drawings and worksheets and I was corralled into another room by my mother so he could get back to work.
Six months after my father left, my mother had to sell our beautiful house. She was very brave. She piled us into the station wagon and told us not to look back, that our new place—an apartment, an hour’s drive across the other side of town—was just as good, if not better. She actually said that. It wasn’t. I had to double up in a tiny room with my sister, while my brother slept in what was meant to be a utility cupboard under the stairs.
What my mother didn’t know was that every Fourth of July I would return to our old house in Redmont and sit on the garage roof to watch the fireworks. One day the man who was living there nearly caught me so I ran off and never went back.
17
At first I think I’m dead. It’s the black. The absence of sound and air. I feel cheated because I want the white light, the outstretched hand of dear Nana May. Then I realize I’m not dead after all. There’s dirt in my mouth and nose, choking me, pinning me down. And it hits me. Oh God, I’m suffocating. Someone help. For the love of God, someone help me. I hear a voice—my own, Nana May’s, God’s—I don’t know whose but it’s telling me to move. Hurry. Think fast. Get out.
A sharp object presses
“Wait. You don’t need to do this.”
“I said get on your knees.”
I do as he commands and start to cry. “Please don’t so this,” I sob.
“Say my name,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t run again. You have my word. I made a mistake.”
“Say it.”
“Rex.”
“Again.”
“Rex.”
He kneels down in front of me and puts his hands around my throat.
“Just remember, Amelia, I gave you a chance.”
“No, no, no, no.”
He squeezes, his eyes laser focused, lips rigid. I claw at his hands. I am fading, slipping in and out, the world graying at the edges, and I can only think of one thing—how the hands on my throat once held a newborn.
Wilderness
16
Before my father left we lived in a big house in a good part of town in Ithaca, New York, called Redmont. The house was a picture-perfect, two-story American Colonial with navy blue shutters. It had a farm-style kitchen, six bedrooms, and a large rose garden. Out of all the rooms he could have chosen for his study, my father selected the smallest room, located in the attic. There were places in that room where he couldn’t stand up straight because of the pitch of the ceiling. I’m not sure why he chose it, whether he had a thing for confined spaces or simply because it was the most silent area in the house. I used to think that maybe it was so he could watch and wave at us kids when we played in our yard.
The house had a name—Redmont Rose . My mother invented it. She even had the name etched into a plaque made of walnut and hung it just above the doorbell so everyone would know what the house was called. Our yard bordered a huge park, with streams and a fort and a freshwater lake with ducks and swans. My brother and sister and I treated it like an extension of our yard and used a secret hatchway in our fence to go back and forth.
Every year the neighborhood held cookouts and summer picnics there. But best of all were the Fourth of July fireworks extravaganzas put on by the Lions Club, who flew in a specialist team of pyrotechnicians from Sweden to run the event. Once my father took me to the top of our garage roof, promising it would provide the best vantage point to watch the fireworks over the lake. I remember looking at his face, luminous in the pink glitter of an exploding horsetail, and thinking how much my six-year-old brother looked like him. When the fireworks ended, I didn’t want to get down but eventually he convinced me that we would come back next year and do it again. Then he returned to his study and his technical drawings and worksheets and I was corralled into another room by my mother so he could get back to work.
Six months after my father left, my mother had to sell our beautiful house. She was very brave. She piled us into the station wagon and told us not to look back, that our new place—an apartment, an hour’s drive across the other side of town—was just as good, if not better. She actually said that. It wasn’t. I had to double up in a tiny room with my sister, while my brother slept in what was meant to be a utility cupboard under the stairs.
What my mother didn’t know was that every Fourth of July I would return to our old house in Redmont and sit on the garage roof to watch the fireworks. One day the man who was living there nearly caught me so I ran off and never went back.
17
At first I think I’m dead. It’s the black. The absence of sound and air. I feel cheated because I want the white light, the outstretched hand of dear Nana May. Then I realize I’m not dead after all. There’s dirt in my mouth and nose, choking me, pinning me down. And it hits me. Oh God, I’m suffocating. Someone help. For the love of God, someone help me. I hear a voice—my own, Nana May’s, God’s—I don’t know whose but it’s telling me to move. Hurry. Think fast. Get out.
A sharp object presses
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