Airel - Aaron Patterson [79]
I opened the door and stared straight into the dark eyes of my captor, which prompted a sharp gasp and a long, “Shhhhhhhhh—” aborting the rest of the curse.
He smiled, his lips drawn thin. “Morning,” he said. “I hope you’re feeling well.”
I recovered quickly, rebuilding the wall by reattaching the mask to my frightened face, glaring at him. “Well actually I’m feeling pretty good. Better than I have been, since you asked.” He turned to walk and I followed. “But I think I may need a doctor to find out what’s wrong with me. I started getting sick a month or so ago.” I didn’t know why I told him, but somehow I felt I must.
“You’ll be fine. You need a good breakfast, and there is much to talk about. It will become clear in time—and try not to think of me as your captor or kidnapper,” he looked at me. “I only did what I had to do.”
He stopped short when he saw the look on my face. I had no interest in being his friend or buddy, if that was what he was looking for. I remembered something from a movie, where victims actually started to like their captors, building a sick version of a relationship—I was not afraid of that happening to me.
“I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to know you, and the first chance I can find to escape, I will. I’m trying to make the best of all this, but don’t pretend anything’s normal.” I didn’t care if he had tried to nurse me back to health or any of it. he was a murderer and a kidnapper. And that was just the stuff I knew about him.
His eyes grew hard. “Have it your way. But know this: you cross me or try to escape, I will kill you. Do not mistake my generosity for weakness.”
He ground his teeth, turned, and walked away. I followed him, wondering if I had made my situation better or worse. We descended the stairs together, and for the briefest of moments I imagined what it might be like to descend the same magnificent stairs in an impossible five thousand dollar princess gown on the arm of my Michael. Instead I was walking at a distance from my kidnapper that more than suggested repellence.
He wore jeans and a tight black t-shirt with a white intertwined ivy design laced from the hip to the shoulder. It was an interesting shirt; I couldn’t quite place where he might have gotten it. He moved smoothly for his size; he looked like he was a panther. Maybe it was the black shirt. Nothing about him was wasted. Not even his words. He seemed to think long and hard before he spoke in order to avoid saying something he might later regret.
He led me to the far side of the ballroom and through a set of heavy glass doors. I saw a round table and three chairs under a white umbrella in the morning sun, looking like a slice of Paris. The porch was a hundred feet long at least, and surrounded with bushes and plants of all kinds. I saw Michael standing by the edge of the porch and my heart skipped a beat.
I ran past the killer and threw my arms around Michael’s big shoulders, hugging him tight. “Michael,” I said breathlessly. “I’m so glad to see you!” I pulled back, looked at him, and hugged him again. I had to hold back a tear. I hadn’t had time to realize how much I had grown to care for him, but suddenly it was realized. I didn’t want to let him go.
“Airel, I was so worried about you. How are you feeling?” He seemed better and back to his normal confident self.
“Great! I’m fine, all better.” I was fine, better than fine. I was alive, I felt great, and I had Michael next to me. How could I not be fine, even in the black-eyed face of my captor?
Michael held my hands and looked at me with his deep blue eyes. These were the eyes that could look into my very soul, and I gladly allowed it. “Are you sure, though? I mean, are you still sick?”
“I’m better; I think it was all the stress and maybe something I ate or drank.” I gave our captor a glare and said it just loud enough for him to hear.
Michael smiled and nodded. “Good.