Still Missing by Chevy Stevens
Authors: Chevy Stevens
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Women, Abduction, Identity, British Columbia, Women - Identity, Self-realization in women
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thinking I was actually turned on, but still couldn't get it up because on some level a little voice of doubt was creeping in on him. Right now it was making him impotent. If it got louder, I'd be dead.
The next night in the bath, I said, "You're very gentle." He stared at me hard and I made myself look into his eyes.
"Really?"
"Most men, you know, are kind of rough, but you have a nice touch."
He smiled.
"I'm sorry I've been difficult, I just wasn't sure, you know, at first, but I've been thinking maybe...maybe it's not too late for me to start a new life." How much should I hesitate? If I was too positive he'd never buy it.
"Difficult?"
"I mean, it will take a while for me to get used to everything and all, but I'm beginning to see that maybe I could like it up here. With you."
"You think so, do you?" He dragged out each syllable.
Forcing myself to make eye contact again, I tried to convey as much sincerity as possible.
"Yes, I do. You understand a lot of things most men don't."
"Oh, I definitely understand a lot of things most men don't." His face broke out in his award-winning smile. Bingo.
When he rubbed lotion on me, I said, "I really like that scent." His smile grew even bigger.
After I put on the dress, I twirled for him and said, "It's exactly what I would have picked out."
Back on the bed I moaned for him and kissed him back, but cautiously, as though I were awakening to his touch. His pants sped up and I counted the seconds between them like contractions. Inside, I died.
With his breathing heavy and his face flushed, he lay on top of me. Worried he would lose his erection--and then lose control--I reached down and fondled him before things could turn ugly. It had to be done.
Deep inside myself I curled into a ball and hid from my own words as I whispered, "I've waited for this moment."
His arms tensed and his face turned dark with rage. He clamped his hand down on my throat. His hand tightened as I clawed uselessly at it.
"I could kill you at any second, and you talk like a whore? You should be terrified. You should be begging. You should be fighting for your life. Don't you get it? "
He finally released my throat, but my relief was interrupted by a blow to my stomach. He pounded my body with his fists, against my breasts, face, crotch. I struggled, but his fists were everywhere at once. The blows rained down until I couldn't feel them anymore. I had passed out.
It's strange, Doc, when The Freak called me a whore and beat me, I felt pain but no sense of outrage, because I wanted him to hurt me. Even while my body struggled against him, my mind cheered him on. I deserved the pain. How could I say those things? How could I touch him like that?
I did a lot of things on the mountain, a lot of things I didn't want to do and a lot of things I didn't want to believe I was capable of doing. But that time? When I wonder how I became the zombie I am now, how I could have gotten so lost, it always traces back to that moment--the moment I put my soul on the shelf to make room for the devil.
SESSION SIX
Yesterday, I sat in a church for a while. Not to pray--I'm not religious--but just to sit in the quiet. Before the abduction I'd probably passed that church a thousand times without noticing it. We're not exactly a churchgoing family, my mom and stepdad were usually too busy sleeping their "religion" off on a Sunday morning. But I've gone a couple of times over the last few months. It's an old church and smells like a museum--in a good way, a survived-lots-of-shit-and-still-standing kind of way. Something about the stained-glass windows works for me too. If I were to get all deep on you, I could say the idea of all those broken pieces being made into something so damn pretty appeals to me. Good thing I'm not that profound.
The church is usually empty, thank you, God, but even if there is someone else inside, nobody ever talks to me or even looks at me. Not that I would make eye contact.
When I first
The next night in the bath, I said, "You're very gentle." He stared at me hard and I made myself look into his eyes.
"Really?"
"Most men, you know, are kind of rough, but you have a nice touch."
He smiled.
"I'm sorry I've been difficult, I just wasn't sure, you know, at first, but I've been thinking maybe...maybe it's not too late for me to start a new life." How much should I hesitate? If I was too positive he'd never buy it.
"Difficult?"
"I mean, it will take a while for me to get used to everything and all, but I'm beginning to see that maybe I could like it up here. With you."
"You think so, do you?" He dragged out each syllable.
Forcing myself to make eye contact again, I tried to convey as much sincerity as possible.
"Yes, I do. You understand a lot of things most men don't."
"Oh, I definitely understand a lot of things most men don't." His face broke out in his award-winning smile. Bingo.
When he rubbed lotion on me, I said, "I really like that scent." His smile grew even bigger.
After I put on the dress, I twirled for him and said, "It's exactly what I would have picked out."
Back on the bed I moaned for him and kissed him back, but cautiously, as though I were awakening to his touch. His pants sped up and I counted the seconds between them like contractions. Inside, I died.
With his breathing heavy and his face flushed, he lay on top of me. Worried he would lose his erection--and then lose control--I reached down and fondled him before things could turn ugly. It had to be done.
Deep inside myself I curled into a ball and hid from my own words as I whispered, "I've waited for this moment."
His arms tensed and his face turned dark with rage. He clamped his hand down on my throat. His hand tightened as I clawed uselessly at it.
"I could kill you at any second, and you talk like a whore? You should be terrified. You should be begging. You should be fighting for your life. Don't you get it? "
He finally released my throat, but my relief was interrupted by a blow to my stomach. He pounded my body with his fists, against my breasts, face, crotch. I struggled, but his fists were everywhere at once. The blows rained down until I couldn't feel them anymore. I had passed out.
It's strange, Doc, when The Freak called me a whore and beat me, I felt pain but no sense of outrage, because I wanted him to hurt me. Even while my body struggled against him, my mind cheered him on. I deserved the pain. How could I say those things? How could I touch him like that?
I did a lot of things on the mountain, a lot of things I didn't want to do and a lot of things I didn't want to believe I was capable of doing. But that time? When I wonder how I became the zombie I am now, how I could have gotten so lost, it always traces back to that moment--the moment I put my soul on the shelf to make room for the devil.
SESSION SIX
Yesterday, I sat in a church for a while. Not to pray--I'm not religious--but just to sit in the quiet. Before the abduction I'd probably passed that church a thousand times without noticing it. We're not exactly a churchgoing family, my mom and stepdad were usually too busy sleeping their "religion" off on a Sunday morning. But I've gone a couple of times over the last few months. It's an old church and smells like a museum--in a good way, a survived-lots-of-shit-and-still-standing kind of way. Something about the stained-glass windows works for me too. If I were to get all deep on you, I could say the idea of all those broken pieces being made into something so damn pretty appeals to me. Good thing I'm not that profound.
The church is usually empty, thank you, God, but even if there is someone else inside, nobody ever talks to me or even looks at me. Not that I would make eye contact.
When I first
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