The Stolen - Jason Pinter [34]
No, there was a smell in the room, something different,
something rotted. She didn't belong there. Yet when she
cried, nobody came.
The girl smelled something that reminded her of her
dad's breath after he came home on Sunday evenings.
Mommy said he was watching the football games at the
bar with his friends. His breath had that sweet smell, and
her mom never let her get too close to him when he was
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like that. There was a smell in the air that reminded her of
that. Reminded her to be afraid of getting too close.
After a few minutes her eyes adjusted. The room was
small, about the size of her baby brother's bedroom. There
was a small bench by the wall, and the floor was made of
wood. A slit of light shone from a crack under the door,
but other than that she couldn't see a thing.
Her throat began to choke up. She didn't know this
place. She wanted to feel her mommy's arms. Wanted to
smell her daddy's sweet breath.
Suddenly she remembered walking home from the
park, remembered feeling a hand clamp over her mouth.
She couldn't remember anything past that.
The girl let out a cry of help, then ran toward the door.
She gripped the knob and twisted as hard as she could, but
it didn't budge. She pushed and pulled and cried, but the
door stayed shut.
Finally she collapsed onto the floor and began to cry.
She wiped the snot away from her nose. She needed a
tissue. She could wipe it on her clothes, but she loved the
sundress she was wearing. Bright pink with pretty sunflowers. Her mom had picked it out for her at the mall, the
same day she'd bought that nice barrette in the shape of a
butterfly that mommy wore to the park.
She began to cry again. She screamed for her mother.
For her father. And nobody came.
Then she lay back down, curled into a ball, and hoped
maybe somebody could hear her through the floor.
And that's when she heard footsteps.
She sat back up. Looked at the door. Saw a shadow
briefly block out that sliver of light. She wiped her eyes
and nose. She held her breath as the doorknob turned.
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Then nearly screamed when it opened. She would have
screamed. If she wasn't too scared.
There was a man in the doorway. He was bald, with
thinning hair and glasses that were too small for his head.
He was wearing light jeans with a hole by one knee. On
his hands were leather gloves. When she saw the gloves,
she finally managed to scream.
The man flicked a switch on the outside of the door, and
a lightbulb came on, bathing the room in harsh white. She
closed her eyes, blinked through the glare, then opened
them. The man was now barely a foot in front of her. He
was staring at her. Not in a scary way, not like bad men on
television did. In the way her daddy did when he tucked
her in at night. He'd taken the gloves off. He held them
out to her, then made a show of putting them in his pocket.
"Don't be scared," he said. "I would never hurt you."
The man reached out, took her chin in his hands. They
were callused, rough. She was too scared to move, felt
her head pounding, mucus running down her nose and
onto his hand.
When he noticed the snot on his fingers, the man
reached into his pocket. She closed her eyes. When she
opened them, he'd taken out a handkerchief and was
wiping her nose, her face.
"That's better," he said. He had a glass of water with
him. He handed it to her. "Go on. Drink some."
She took it, her hand trembling. She didn't know what
was in it, whether he'd poisoned it, whether he'd spit in it,
but she was so thirsty she downed almost all of it in one
gulp. When she was finished, he took the clean side of the
handkerchief and wiped her mouth.
Then he handed her two small pills. She looked at him,
looked at the pills.
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"You must have a bad headache," he said. "This will
make you feel better."
Then he smiled at her.
She didn't know how he knew about her headache, but
if the pills would help...
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Hurts," she moaned.
"It