Keep Me
Page 67
* * *
When we land in a small airport near Chicago, there is a thick layer of snow on the ground, making me grateful that I decided to wear my old Uggs. It’s already evening, and the wind is bitterly cold, biting through my winter coat. I barely register the discomfort, however, all my thoughts consumed by the ordeal to come.
There is no bulletproof car waiting for us. Nothing to draw attention to our arrival. Peter calls a taxi for me, and I get into the back of the car by myself, while he heads back to the plane.
The driver, a kindly middle-aged man, tries to chat me up, likely in the hopes of figuring out who I am. I’m sure he thinks I’m a celebrity of some kind, arriving on a private jet like that. I give monosyllabic responses to all his questions, and he quickly catches on to my desire to be left alone. The rest of the drive passes in silence as I stare out the window at the night-darkened roads. My head pounds from stress and jet lag, and my stomach roils with nausea. If I hadn’t forced myself to eat a sandwich on the plane, I would probably be passing out from exhaustion.
When we get to Oak Lawn, I direct the taxi to my parents’ house. They’re not expecting me, but that’s for the best. It makes the whole thing look more authentic, less like a setup.
The driver helps me unload a small suitcase I packed for the occasion, and I pay him, tipping him an extra twenty bucks for my earlier rudeness. He drives off, and I wheel my suitcase to the door of my childhood home.
Stopping in front of the familiar brown door, I ring the doorbell. I know my parents are home because I see the lights in the living room. It takes them a couple of minutes to get to the door—a couple of minutes that feel like an hour in my exhausted state.
My mom opens the door, and her jaw goes slack with astonishment as she sees me standing there, my hand resting on the handle of the suitcase.
“Hi Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I come in?”
Chapter 25
Julian
At first, there is only darkness and pain. Pain that tears at me. Pain that shreds me from within. The darkness is easier. There is no pain in that, only oblivion. Still, I hate the nothingness that consumes me when I’m in that dark void. Hate the blankness of non-existence. As time passes, I come to crave the pain because it’s the opposite of that blankness—because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.
Gradually, the dark void recedes, lessens its hold on me. Now, alongside the pain, there are memories. Some good, some bad—they come at me in waves. My mother’s gentle smile as she reads me a bedtime story. My father’s hard voice and harder fists. Running through the jungle after a colorful butterfly, as happy and carefree as only a child can be. Killing my first man in that jungle. Playing with my cat Lola, then fishing and laughing with a bright-eyed, twelve-year-old girl . . . with Maria.
Maria’s body broken and violated, her light and innocence forever destroyed.
Blood on my hands, the satisfaction of hearing her murderers’ screams. Eating sushi in the best restaurant in Tokyo. Flies buzzing over my mother’s corpse. The thrill of closing my first deal, the lure of money pouring in. More death and violence. Death I cause, death I revel in.
And then there is her.
My Nora. The girl I stole because she reminded me of Maria.
The girl who is now my reason for existing.
I hold the image of her in my mind, letting all the other memories fade into the background. She’s all I want to think about, all I want to focus on. She makes the hurt go away, makes the darkness disappear. I may have brought her suffering, but she’s brought me the only happiness I’ve known since my early years.
As time crawls by, I become aware of other things. Besides the pain, there are sounds and sensations. I hear voices and feel a cold breeze on my face. My left shoulder burns, my broken arm throbs, and I’m dying of thirst. Still, I seem to be alive.
I twitch my fingers to verify that fact. Yes, alive. Almost too weak to move, but alive.
Fuck. The rest of the memories flood in, and before I even open my eyes, I know where I am, and I know I probably shouldn’t have fought the darkness. Oblivion would’ve been better than this.
“Welcome back,” a man’s voice says softly, and I open my eyes to see Majid’s smiling face hovering over me. “You’ve been under long enough. It’s time for us to begin.”
* * *
They drag me along a hard cement floor of what appears to be some kind of a construction site. From the looks of it, it’s going to be an industrial building, and the room they haul me into has no windows, only a doorway. I think about fighting, but I’m too weak from my injuries to have any chance of success, so I decide to bide my time and conserve what little strength I have left. I’m guessing I will need it to cope with what they have in store for me.
They begin by stripping me naked and stringing me up with a rope that they loop over a beam in the unfinished ceiling. They’re not gentle about it, and the cast on my left arm breaks as they tie my wrists together and draw my bound arms up over my head. The agonizing pain in my injured arm and shoulder makes me pass out, and it’s not until they throw ice-cold water on my face that I regain consciousness again.
In a way, I admire their methods. They know what they’re doing. Take away a man’s clothes, and he immediately feels more vulnerable. Keep him cold, weak, and injured, and he’s already at a disadvantage, his psyche as battered as his body. They are starting off on the right foot. If I hadn’t put others through this myself, I would’ve been begging and pleading right about now.
When we land in a small airport near Chicago, there is a thick layer of snow on the ground, making me grateful that I decided to wear my old Uggs. It’s already evening, and the wind is bitterly cold, biting through my winter coat. I barely register the discomfort, however, all my thoughts consumed by the ordeal to come.
There is no bulletproof car waiting for us. Nothing to draw attention to our arrival. Peter calls a taxi for me, and I get into the back of the car by myself, while he heads back to the plane.
The driver, a kindly middle-aged man, tries to chat me up, likely in the hopes of figuring out who I am. I’m sure he thinks I’m a celebrity of some kind, arriving on a private jet like that. I give monosyllabic responses to all his questions, and he quickly catches on to my desire to be left alone. The rest of the drive passes in silence as I stare out the window at the night-darkened roads. My head pounds from stress and jet lag, and my stomach roils with nausea. If I hadn’t forced myself to eat a sandwich on the plane, I would probably be passing out from exhaustion.
When we get to Oak Lawn, I direct the taxi to my parents’ house. They’re not expecting me, but that’s for the best. It makes the whole thing look more authentic, less like a setup.
The driver helps me unload a small suitcase I packed for the occasion, and I pay him, tipping him an extra twenty bucks for my earlier rudeness. He drives off, and I wheel my suitcase to the door of my childhood home.
Stopping in front of the familiar brown door, I ring the doorbell. I know my parents are home because I see the lights in the living room. It takes them a couple of minutes to get to the door—a couple of minutes that feel like an hour in my exhausted state.
My mom opens the door, and her jaw goes slack with astonishment as she sees me standing there, my hand resting on the handle of the suitcase.
“Hi Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I come in?”
Chapter 25
Julian
At first, there is only darkness and pain. Pain that tears at me. Pain that shreds me from within. The darkness is easier. There is no pain in that, only oblivion. Still, I hate the nothingness that consumes me when I’m in that dark void. Hate the blankness of non-existence. As time passes, I come to crave the pain because it’s the opposite of that blankness—because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.
Gradually, the dark void recedes, lessens its hold on me. Now, alongside the pain, there are memories. Some good, some bad—they come at me in waves. My mother’s gentle smile as she reads me a bedtime story. My father’s hard voice and harder fists. Running through the jungle after a colorful butterfly, as happy and carefree as only a child can be. Killing my first man in that jungle. Playing with my cat Lola, then fishing and laughing with a bright-eyed, twelve-year-old girl . . . with Maria.
Maria’s body broken and violated, her light and innocence forever destroyed.
Blood on my hands, the satisfaction of hearing her murderers’ screams. Eating sushi in the best restaurant in Tokyo. Flies buzzing over my mother’s corpse. The thrill of closing my first deal, the lure of money pouring in. More death and violence. Death I cause, death I revel in.
And then there is her.
My Nora. The girl I stole because she reminded me of Maria.
The girl who is now my reason for existing.
I hold the image of her in my mind, letting all the other memories fade into the background. She’s all I want to think about, all I want to focus on. She makes the hurt go away, makes the darkness disappear. I may have brought her suffering, but she’s brought me the only happiness I’ve known since my early years.
As time crawls by, I become aware of other things. Besides the pain, there are sounds and sensations. I hear voices and feel a cold breeze on my face. My left shoulder burns, my broken arm throbs, and I’m dying of thirst. Still, I seem to be alive.
I twitch my fingers to verify that fact. Yes, alive. Almost too weak to move, but alive.
Fuck. The rest of the memories flood in, and before I even open my eyes, I know where I am, and I know I probably shouldn’t have fought the darkness. Oblivion would’ve been better than this.
“Welcome back,” a man’s voice says softly, and I open my eyes to see Majid’s smiling face hovering over me. “You’ve been under long enough. It’s time for us to begin.”
* * *
They drag me along a hard cement floor of what appears to be some kind of a construction site. From the looks of it, it’s going to be an industrial building, and the room they haul me into has no windows, only a doorway. I think about fighting, but I’m too weak from my injuries to have any chance of success, so I decide to bide my time and conserve what little strength I have left. I’m guessing I will need it to cope with what they have in store for me.
They begin by stripping me naked and stringing me up with a rope that they loop over a beam in the unfinished ceiling. They’re not gentle about it, and the cast on my left arm breaks as they tie my wrists together and draw my bound arms up over my head. The agonizing pain in my injured arm and shoulder makes me pass out, and it’s not until they throw ice-cold water on my face that I regain consciousness again.
In a way, I admire their methods. They know what they’re doing. Take away a man’s clothes, and he immediately feels more vulnerable. Keep him cold, weak, and injured, and he’s already at a disadvantage, his psyche as battered as his body. They are starting off on the right foot. If I hadn’t put others through this myself, I would’ve been begging and pleading right about now.
