Missing Like You

TWENTY-SEVEN

ISABELLE DONOVAN
TUESDAY JUNE 21, 2022

He returns a few hours later and stands at the door, waiting for me to say something. I'm still angry about earlier. I should have never asked another question. But I've learned my lesson. I won't be that foolish again.

"What time is it?" I ask him.
"It's seven-thirty."
"Can I have a clock in here?"
He thinks about this. "Why would you like a clock in here?"
"To know what time it is."
"You don't need to know the time. Time is a social construct. It only exists to provide boundaries."
"Humans live around time. It may be a construct, yes, but humans created it for a reason. To keep track of things, to organize our lives."
"There's not much to keep track of in here, Isabelle."
I want to scream. "Why can't you just give me a fucking clock?"
He smiles. "Okay. You want a clock? I will give you a clock."
I sit very still. "Really?"
"Sure. If it makes you happy."
"Okay."
He doesn't move.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" he asks me.
I eye him. "Where? To the kitchen and back?"
"No. Outside."
"I thought I wasn't allowed outside."
"It's the first day of summer. I thought it would be nice."
"Are you fucking with me? Playing some sort of sick, twisted game?"
"No."
I hesitate. "Okay," I slide slowly off the bed and stand. "Let's go for a walk."

He unlocks the door as if it's the most mundane thing in the world and leads me out of the bedroom and into the main area of the cottage. I'm out here a few times a day for bathroom breaks, but somehow, this feels different. If he's serious about letting me outside, I can potentially break free from him and escape.

I have no idea where exactly it is that we're located, and my sense of direction is poor, so I don't really have much on my side helping me here. I'd run for as long as I could, until I found a road, and then I'd have to flag down a car, get someone to help me, drive me to safety.

Surely he'd come after me. This man wouldn't simply just allow me to escape. I know the only way I'd truly be able to get away is if I kill him. Am I capable of that? Guess it's time to find out.

He links his arm through mine and together, we walk through the cottage, towards the front door, and before I know it, I'm standing outside.

"I have handcuffs in the car," he says to me. "And ankle cuffs."
I stare up at him.
"Don't make me use them."

We walk forward a few steps, his grip tight on my arm. Before we left the cottage, all I could think about was possible ways to kill him. I envisioned hitting him over the head with a rock, pushing him down, throwing him in a river. But now that we're outside and I feel the sun on my skin and the smooth air on my face, my mind is clear and blank. I can barely formulate a single thought or worry because for the first time in five days, I feel serene.

The feeling is inexplicable. After being locked in a room for that long with no contact to the outside world, this feels like a breakthrough. I feel a hope ignite in my chest. I open my mouth and breathe the air into my lungs. I feel happy. Happy! I am so fucking happy!

But just as fast as the feeling of freedom and liberation come, I register my surroundings, which include JD and his arm looped through mine. Not so free after all.

That's when I feel something hard pressing against my ribcage. I look down and squint my eyes, trying to make out what it is. And that's when I realize: it's a gun.

"The first evening of summer," he says to me.
I swallow and look back up at him. It's my first time seeing him out of the cottage. He looks good. He has a light shadow of stubble shading the lower half of his face. His eyes are bright and glistening in the natural lighting. I notice how sculptured his jaw is, how nonchalant he appears as he looks forward, walking ahead.
His arms are firm and muscular. I try to ignore the sensation it gives me to be this close to him, touching him.
"Did you grow up around here?" I ask as we walk through the forest, the trees draped above us.
"I told you, I'm from New York."
"Yes, but this could be a family cottage or something. You could have come here as a kid."
He looks at me. "I didn't."
"Okay," I say, looking ahead. "Did you have a cottage growing up? I didn't. I always wanted one."
"I did not," he says. "My parents were city dwellers. The concept of a cottage would have made them lose sleep at night."
"Boring. Cottages are fun. They can be an escape."
"Especially if they're on a lake," he says. "That's the epitome of summer."
"Yes," I say. "If only we could go swimming right now."
"You like swimming?"
"I love swimming. Is there a lake around here?"
"I don't think so."
"Are we still in Pennsylvania?"
"Yes."
Hope ignites in my chest. I can't be too far from home. "When I was little, I used to call Pennsylvania Pencil Ville."
This gets a smile out of him.
I continue. "My parents made me memorize all of the states and their capitals when I was six."
"Tough parents."
"Yes, but tough parents make smart children. Want to name all fifty with me?"
He laughs. "Not particularly, no."
"Alabama," I begin.
He waits a moment, debating whether to play my little game. Then he says, "Alaska."
"Arizona."
"Arkansas."
We continue doing this until we've gotten through all fifty states.
"Now," I say, looking to him with a smile. "Can you name Canada's?"
"Canada doesn't have states."
"I know. I meant provinces."
He makes a face.
"You can't, can you!"
He laughs, his face breaking into a smile. "How many even is there? Eight?"
"Ten provinces, three territories."
"Interesting."
"Very. Ever been to Canada?"
"I've been to Toronto once. For work."
"What is it you do again?"
He gives me a look and I give up. "I've never been to Canada," I say. "But I'd like to go. It looks beautiful."
"Where else would you like to go?"
I think about this. "Malta. Croatia. Perhaps somewhere in Eastern Europe."
"You like the tropical, sunny places."
"Well, yes, don't you?"
"Sure."
"Where would you like to go?"
"London, mostly," he says. "And Russia."
"Interesting."
"My grandparents were from Russia," he tells me, and for the first time, I feel as though I have something over him. He's revealed the most personal piece of information yet. Besides the fact that he was married once. I suppose that was quite personal as well.
"Are they still alive?" I ask.
"No, they died when I was young."
"Did they speak Russian with you?"
"Yes. But I didn't know much. Still don't."
"Tell me something in Russian."
"No."
"Please."
He's quiet for a moment. "Okay. Fine. What would you like me to say?"
We're still walking through the forest, his arm in mine. Everything about this encounter feels natural and not at all what it actually is. To an outsider, it would appear that two young lovers are on a nature-walk, enjoying the first day of summer together. When in reality, it is a captor and his captive taking an evening stroll to get some air. He's torturing me with this taste of freedom and he doesn't even realize it. But I'm not going to complain. I'll take any bit of the outside world that I can get.
I realize suddenly that I have long forgotten about my plan of escape. I think any and all thoughts of this were eradicated once I saw the gun. Besides, I'd be foolish to try something. He's bigger than me, stronger than me, probably knows these woods better than me. He'd kill me if I tried anything.
"I don't know," I say to him, drawing a blank. "Surprise me."
He thinks for a moment, then he says, in a light Russian accent, "Vy prekrasny."
I stare at him. "What's that mean?"
He gives me a sideways glance, looking into my eyes for a brief second. Then he focuses his attention back to the trail ahead. "Vy prekrasny," he says it again. "You are beautiful."