Mr. X Page 4

  Chapter 3

  Jay

  Thursday, August 15th, 2013. 11.30 p.m.

  Something’s holding him back. I don’t know what, I don’t know why, but I will find out.

  He keeps checking his watch, twisting in his seat as he watches me lie here, getting all drowsy and shit. It’s fucking annoying not being able to move whatsoever. He tied me up really well. I guess he doesn’t want me running off again¸ which means a simple distract and run tactic won’t work on him anymore. He’s too smart. If I want to escape his grasp, I need to listen and worm myself into his favor so that he can’t do anything else other than release me. He needs to want it himself, and I’m thinking it’s already happening. He didn’t kill me. He kissed me.

  It must be the kiss.

  He knows my name, but I don’t know his. He said I don’t remember him, but why would I? What does he know that I don’t know?

  If I’m going to survive this I need to play on his feelings. Play on his heart, if he even has one. There’s something he isn’t telling me, and it’s the only thing that is keeping him from killing me, apparently. I have to do as he tells me; maybe that’ll get me freed. That kiss meant something to him. It even meant something to me, although I have no clue why. It feels like I should already know what the kiss means. As if it’s tucked deep away in my brain, and it’s trying to escape. Something’s missing.

  Suddenly my vision becomes hazy. The huge headache I’ve been experiencing the last couple of minutes doesn’t help with getting my eyes to focus again. I feel like I’m about to explode. All I can think about is getting my fix. I know what the cause is. Withdrawal.

  Crap, why did I have to take my last hit ages ago?

  Sweat drops roll down my chest and legs. It’s getting so hot, I feel like a volcano erupted right beside me. Goddammit, I hate this feeling. And the worst thing is, I can’t do anything about it. My stash is in the bathroom, but I can’t get up.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I stop wriggling. “Nothing.” I don’t want to tell him, because he could use it against me.

  He squints, glaring at me with those dark eyes of his. He’s waiting for me to tell him. Maybe I can make use of this.

  “I have to pee,” I say.

  His eyebrow lifts in such a cocky way it makes me want to slap him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. Do you want me to piss the bed?”

  He blinks a few times, silently judging me. Then he sighs and gets up from the chair, grabbing his gun from the table as he walks toward me. One by one he releases my bonds, slowly taking off the rope while keeping his eye solely on me. His gaze haunts me, but at the same time stops me from moving. I think he knows.

  The look in his real eye is just so … demanding.

  He controls me with it.

  His leathery gloves linger on my skin as he releases my feet. His hand moves up all the way along my leg. It’s soft and gentle, as if he’s appreciating the curves of my body. Somehow it tingles where he touches me. I suck in the air as he passes my breasts.

  “Don’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I know you like it.”

  I suck in my lips, feeling betrayed by my own body. I don’t want to like whatever he does, but my body reacts to his touch without my consent. Goose bumps appear on the places he touched and my skin feels like it’s on fire.

  He leans forward and unties my hand. “No matter how much you don’t want to admit it, you know there’s something between us. Something you feel, but can’t remember.”

  “There’s nothing between us,” I snap. I don’t want to give him the impression I’m easy.

  His lips curl up into a smile, just like before. Then he gets his gun out. “Up.”

  “But you didn’t untie my other hand.”

  “You can do that yourself.” He flicks the gun as if he’s in a hurry.

  I work to get my hand free from the rope. It’s difficult with one hand, but I manage. There are red burn marks on my wrists and ankles, and they sting. My heart pounds as I move my feet off the bed. I’m afraid that if I make any sudden movement he’ll shoot me. If I’m not dead, it’ll hurt like a bitch. I’d rather prevent that.

  He’s at the door, holding the gun steady as I walk toward the bathroom. I know I can’t make a move now. Besides, I’m fucking weak with these withdrawal symptoms weighing me down. Can’t be weak in the presence of a man holding a gun.

  I slowly open the door and go inside. Turning around, I look at him, waiting for the okay to close the door. Instead, he walks in my direction and promptly stops right in the doorframe.

  “Can I pee now?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Then I’d like to close the door, please.”

  “You can pee without the door being closed.”

  I frown. “I can’t do it with you watching.”

  “Then you won’t be peeing at all.”

  I sigh and clench my fists. His cocky half-smile makes me want to punch him.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a stranger seeing your pussy. You’ve been putting it on display with that dance of yours at the club.”

  “What? No, I haven’t. I may be a dancer, a stripper, and occasionally a hooker, but I don’t do sex and I don’t show my pussy. The pussy is off limits.”

  He smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

  My jaw drops, and I have to stop myself from punching him in the face. God, my knuckles are itching.

  “Are you going to pee, or not?” he says.

  I turn around. “Fine.” I lower my pants and sit down quickly before he can see anything, although the cheeky look on his face makes me think I’m already too late. Crap.

  I turn my head away from him and gaze at the wall instead. I’m not going to feel humiliated because of him. I won’t allow it. When I go to grab some paper, I notice he’s turned around as well. It surprises me, because I imagined him watching the entire time, being the asshole that he is. Maybe he has a shred of dignity in him after all.

  As I grab the roll, I discover the items I use to snort with. Everything fades. My mind goes completely blank, because all I can think of is getting high again. My body craves the addiction, and I need to give in to it.

  So I grab the stuff, create a neat line on my leg and snort it up.

  The moment he hears it, he steps inside. “You fucking liar.” He grasps everything out of my hand and points the gun at me.

  “No!” I scream, fighting him for the drugs.

  “You’re pathetic,” he says.

  I don’t care what he says. I lunge for his gun, but he pulls it out of my reach. I fall down on the ground, my panties still around my ankles.

  He laughs. “You want this?” He dangles the packet in front of me. “Too bad, little bird. It’s mine now.” He flicks the gun and says, “Get up.”

  I fumble with my panties and pull them back over my ass before I crawl up from the floor. The mirror to my left shows me I’m a complete mess, which is something I’m used to. However, when he says it, it hurts. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because he says he knows me. It’s as if there was a me before all this that wasn’t as fucked up as I am now.

  Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. I’m stuck here with this man who is still deciding what he’s going to do with me. Whether I’ll be killed or not is out of my control, but I know I have an effect on him to some degree. Not that it’s of any use right now. I’m already getting high and I couldn’t care less what happens to me. So long as I can stay in this trance, even if I die, I’m all good.

  ***

  He pulls on the rope, securing it tightly to the bedpost. My mind has already drifted off into wonderland where everything is cute and magical rainbow ponies drift through the clouds. A ridiculous smile is on my face. Maybe it’s because of the funny things I’m thinking about, or maybe it’s because he’s touching me again.

  The rope isn’t as tightly wrapped around my ankles and wrists as before. He sits down beside me and
cups my face, forcing me to look at him. “You’ve been bad.”

  I giggle.

  “I know this must seem so funny to you, but you didn’t comply. You were supposed to go pee, and that’s it. Taking drugs wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “What deal?” I say, snorting.

  “That you obey me and in turn I give you what you need.”

  I burst out into laughter. “I don’t need anything from you.”

  His grip suddenly tenses and his lips become thin lines again. “Your life. You want it. It’s mine. I can take it away any time I want.” He releases me again. “And don’t you forget that.”

  “And yet you didn’t,” I say.

  About to get up, he pauses. His eye drifts back to mine, an attempt to see through the veil I hide behind. His hand slips up my leg. My breath falters. He raises an eyebrow. “Just because I haven’t yet, doesn’t mean I won’t.” His hand moves up my thigh, stopping right before my pussy. I try to squeeze my legs together, but he jams his other hand in too, forcing my legs apart. “I was thinking of having a little fun time first. I deserve it.”

  My eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

  His lips quirk up into a smile. “Oh, I’ve already started.”

  The sharp pain bites my skin before I have time to register what happened.

  His hand comes down on my inner thigh, fast and hard. I squeal, but he places his hand on my mouth, preventing the sound from escaping.

  “This is your punishment for trying to defy me.”

  He grabs my thighs again, forcing them apart, and slaps me again. It stings and brings tears to my eyes, but what I hate most is that the blow reverberates in my most sensitive parts. That my skin feels all burned and tingly, and that my body responds to it.

  I hate it.

  His eyes narrow and he starts rubbing the spot he just hit. Leaning forward, his head hovers right in front of mine. “I think you like this.”

  “Fuck you!” I thrash around in my bonds, but he steadies me with his forceful hands.

  “You can say that, but your body thinks otherwise, Jay.” His hand slips up my thigh just a little more until he reaches that one spot I deemed unavailable to everyone except me. I gasp as he presses his thumb down on my panties, right on top of my clit.

  “There.” He licks his lips. “It doesn’t matter if you remember or not. It doesn’t matter if I kill you or not. It doesn’t matter if you like this or not. Your body wants it. You have no choice but to obey, because I am in control now. I am the only one who can save you.”

  “Save me? You’ve done nothing but threaten to kill me!” I buck my hips sideways to escape his fingers, but it’s no use.

  “Correct. I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do with you.”

  What? I knew it. He’s unsure of his choice, although I have no clue why. His fingers leave my body and I breathe a sigh. I’m not sure if it’s from relief or because my body was excited. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. His hands … they feel so familiar.

  Or maybe that’s the coke talking.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I remind myself that I am bound to this bed, left to his every whim, and that I must do what he asks if I want to survive. I know this man is capable of shooting me down any moment he wants. I have to be careful. I have to give him what he wants in order to escape.

  But what does he want?

  I hear the gun rattle against the bed, and it makes me painfully aware of the fact that I’m vulnerable and scared. Death haunts my mind, my memories, and soon I’m taken back to my childhood. A short glimpse of something untouchable, something surreal. A woman in a black dress. Her chestnut hair wavy and long, her chocolate-colored eyes filled with fear. A staircase.

  I force my eyes open.

  My heart beats rapidly, although I have no idea why. I blink a couple of times to reassure myself that I’m still in this room, captive, and that this image I just saw was a figment of my imagination.

  The man with the scar is sitting beside me. He’s stroking his gun, his face blank as he stares ahead. I guess I’m not the only one thinking about other things. Reality sucks and we are both avoiding it.

  I wonder if he has a conscience. If his soul might still be salvageable. If I can save myself before he claims my life. I wonder how far I have to go to get my freedom back.

  If I even want to succeed, I should know his name. If only for the sake of knowing the name of the person who wants to kill me. As a memento for the next life. I deserve to know.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  His eye darts back to me as if he’s pulled from his thoughts. He looks at me like I’m a ghost that’s come to haunt him. His hollow, fake eye even stares at me, the expression on his face vapid and emotionless. Then his lips part slowly, separating in a strangely sensual way. “You can call me Mr. X.”

  “X?”

  “Mr.”

  “Mr. X …” I repeat.

  He nods. I frown. I look at his disfigured eye, the fake one, and the gashes and scars that cover it. It’s the only reason he would call himself X. Of course. I quickly look away, afraid that if I stare too much he’ll punish me for it.

  He clears his throat and starts taking off his gloves, finger by finger, like it’s some tedious task he rarely undertakes. I watch him do it, since I have nothing else to do anyway. As the black leather is removed, tattoos become visible. The black that stains his skin sends shivers down my spine. Skulls and tribal tattoos. But scariest of all are the letters on his knuckles. In silence I gaze at his fingers, trying to see what it says. However, his hand partially covers the text.

  He turns toward me and I try to move away, but can’t. He grabs the blanket at the end of the bed and pulls it over my legs. “Thought you might be getting cold,” he muses, and then laughs like it’s funny as hell.

  I don’t care. All I can stare at are his knuckles that spell out the words ‘GO TO’ and on the other hand, ‘HELL.’

  I swallow away the lump in my throat. When his eye catches me staring at his tattoos, I want to make a run for it. But of course, I’m tied, and can’t go anywhere.

  “This is a message,” he says, pointing at his knuckles.

  “A message for who?” I ask.

  A devious smile appears on his face. “For whomever I’m going to kill next.”

  My eyes widen as he says that, and a rush of adrenaline shoots through my body. I was right. He’s used to killing people. I know that in this moment I have only one chance to ask this question. To connect the dots that might make it easier for me to understand my situation and find a way out. His scar. It must all be connected.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, looking up at his eye.

  His eyes narrow and he growls. It’s low and gruff and makes me anxious, because I know he could punish me. I’m willing to risk it. Whatever it costs me, I will find out his secrets and use them against him.

  “For death begins with life's first breath and life begins at touch of death.” – John Oxenham

  Chapter 4

  X

  I raise my hand and look at it. My muscles are cramped, my fingers like blades, because I could cut her right now. If I wanted to. I’m still not sure, but her asking that question gets my blood boiling. She dares ask me that? She dares to look at me like that? Pointing out my one visible flaw is not something most people can afford without losing a few fingers or their eyes in the process.

  However, she’s different. I know who she is and what she’s become. I know what she’s done to me, but I remember everything. She doesn’t.

  I want her to remember. I want to see the look on her face the moment it all comes back. I’m not going to kill her before I can make her see our past, present, and future. I want to see the horror in her eyes as she realizes there’s nothing. Only death. It follows us like a parasite, clinging to our bodies, making us diseased until we shrivel up and die.

  Life is worthless. Better sp
end it in all glory than waste it regretting everything. I’m the glory, she is the waste. Blinded by amnesia. How incredibly ironic that she, the girl who was the cause of all my misery, asks me about the scar she caused.

  I shrug and shake it off, laughing a bit.

  “You’re not going to tell me?” she asks after a while.

  “No.”

  Just thinking about it brings back the horrific memories I’d rather forget. It has a twisted sense of humor, this brain of mine. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to scrape out the last few inches of my soul. That one bit that keeps nagging, keeps making me furious. Control is an illusion. We have no influence on our history, nor our future. Only our present, which is abysmally small. Realizing this took me a few years. I never let an opportunity to manipulate my present pass.

  Like now.

  ***

  Nightmares haunt me. No matter if my eyes are closed or open. Hatred follows me wherever I go. This room … always this room. The fire is crackling in the distance. Goose bumps scatter on my skin as I watch them walk toward me. I know the pain that will follow. I have to escape it, but I can’t. Bound to a chair, I have nowhere to go. My captors are people I know, people I used to trust.

  Not anymore.

  They talk, but I don’t listen. They are evil incarnate and I participated in their every sin. Now they betray me. I can’t believe I let them win.

  Eternal void surrounds me as they punish me in the most severe way possible. I’m not dead, even though every passing day I feel less alive than before. My face is ruined. My sight is gone.

  I can still feel it burn.

  Friday, August 16th, 2013. 5:00 a.m.

  A couple of knocks on the door pull me from my nightmare. I shoot up from the chair and realize I had fallen asleep. Dammit.

  Jay is still lying on the bed, tentatively observing me from a distance. She’s probably plotting her way out, which doesn’t surprise me at all. It’s her, after all. We were never really that different.