tried to look on the bright side. At least I wasn’t tethered to the floor and spread apart the way Stephanie was. I could pull my knees up to my chest and cover myself somewhat. So at least there was that.
I tried to talk to Stephanie. After many times of saying her name, she finally turned her head slowly toward me. In her eyes, I saw nothing. Whether they were empty because she’d given up or because he’d stripped her of everything that made her a person, they were empty.
I asked her if she was okay, but she said nothing. A few minutes later, she closed her eyes.
The temperature in the basement was cool. With no clothes and no blanket, I did the best I could to stay warm. I curled up in the fetal position and eventually fell into a restless sleep.
Throughout my life, I’d occasionally had nightmares. Usually, I was being chased by a man trying to kill me. Sometimes, he stabbed or shot me , and I always woke right before I died. This time, when I woke, the nightmare that haunted my sleep was nothing compared to the nightmare taking place only a few feet from me.
I slowly rolled over, every muscle in my body aching. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, I focused on Stephanie and what was happening to her. I wished I’d stayed asleep.
Ron was beating her with a fireplace poker. Over and over, he raised the poker and brought it down with a thud against Stephanie’s frail body. But that wasn’t the scary part. The scary part of the scene was the lack of movement coming from Stephanie.
I watched carefully but saw no signs of life. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t yell or scream. She did nothing. She was dead. She had to be.
After many more blows to her lifeless body, Ron stopped. He threw his head up toward the ceiling. I could see his back and shoulders heaving as he gasped for air. With his back to me, I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t think I wanted to.
Moments later, I didn’t have a choice. He whirled around and glared at me. He raced across the room toward me and in a flash he was standing beside my mattress looking down at me, still holding the poker.
“T his is your fault,” he screamed, pointing the poker at my face.
Still pushing away sleep, I asked, “How the hell is this my fault?”
“I went to your room this morning to get you up and dressed. But you weren’t there,” he said, his voice rising and falling as he spoke.
“No. I’m not there. Because you brought me down to this dungeon,” I screamed up at him. “I didn’t ask you to bring me down here. I didn’t want this. So it’s your fault,” I yelled , clearly having learned nothing yet.
His nostrils flared with anger. My attention focused on the poker and I thought maybe I should stop yelling at him. I knew I should, but I also knew that my back-talking sassiness was what he liked most about me. It was a fine line that was sure to be the downfall of me once I stepped across it at the wrong time.
For a while longer, he stood over me , though he had at least lowered the poker and now held it at his side. I watched as he slowly calmed down. His nostrils stopped flaring, his chest quit heaving with his heavy breathing, and he finally relaxed his grip on the poker.
As he calmed down, so did I , though I was still terrified. I’d watched him kill Stephanie. And if she was already dead before I woke up, then I’d watched him beat the hell out of a corpse. Either way, I knew I wasn’t dealing with the average feller. This man was truly a psychopath, flying from one extreme to the next in the blink of an eye. Professionals who had spent years studying and researching people like him didn’t know how to deal with them, so how was I supposed to know how to handle him? And unlike the pros, my life depended on it.
He tossed the poker aside, but too far for me to reach. Even if I turned myself around and stretched my body as far as it would stretch, I wouldn’t have been able to reach it with my foot. Even in his madness, he
I tried to talk to Stephanie. After many times of saying her name, she finally turned her head slowly toward me. In her eyes, I saw nothing. Whether they were empty because she’d given up or because he’d stripped her of everything that made her a person, they were empty.
I asked her if she was okay, but she said nothing. A few minutes later, she closed her eyes.
The temperature in the basement was cool. With no clothes and no blanket, I did the best I could to stay warm. I curled up in the fetal position and eventually fell into a restless sleep.
Throughout my life, I’d occasionally had nightmares. Usually, I was being chased by a man trying to kill me. Sometimes, he stabbed or shot me , and I always woke right before I died. This time, when I woke, the nightmare that haunted my sleep was nothing compared to the nightmare taking place only a few feet from me.
I slowly rolled over, every muscle in my body aching. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, I focused on Stephanie and what was happening to her. I wished I’d stayed asleep.
Ron was beating her with a fireplace poker. Over and over, he raised the poker and brought it down with a thud against Stephanie’s frail body. But that wasn’t the scary part. The scary part of the scene was the lack of movement coming from Stephanie.
I watched carefully but saw no signs of life. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t yell or scream. She did nothing. She was dead. She had to be.
After many more blows to her lifeless body, Ron stopped. He threw his head up toward the ceiling. I could see his back and shoulders heaving as he gasped for air. With his back to me, I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t think I wanted to.
Moments later, I didn’t have a choice. He whirled around and glared at me. He raced across the room toward me and in a flash he was standing beside my mattress looking down at me, still holding the poker.
“T his is your fault,” he screamed, pointing the poker at my face.
Still pushing away sleep, I asked, “How the hell is this my fault?”
“I went to your room this morning to get you up and dressed. But you weren’t there,” he said, his voice rising and falling as he spoke.
“No. I’m not there. Because you brought me down to this dungeon,” I screamed up at him. “I didn’t ask you to bring me down here. I didn’t want this. So it’s your fault,” I yelled , clearly having learned nothing yet.
His nostrils flared with anger. My attention focused on the poker and I thought maybe I should stop yelling at him. I knew I should, but I also knew that my back-talking sassiness was what he liked most about me. It was a fine line that was sure to be the downfall of me once I stepped across it at the wrong time.
For a while longer, he stood over me , though he had at least lowered the poker and now held it at his side. I watched as he slowly calmed down. His nostrils stopped flaring, his chest quit heaving with his heavy breathing, and he finally relaxed his grip on the poker.
As he calmed down, so did I , though I was still terrified. I’d watched him kill Stephanie. And if she was already dead before I woke up, then I’d watched him beat the hell out of a corpse. Either way, I knew I wasn’t dealing with the average feller. This man was truly a psychopath, flying from one extreme to the next in the blink of an eye. Professionals who had spent years studying and researching people like him didn’t know how to deal with them, so how was I supposed to know how to handle him? And unlike the pros, my life depended on it.
He tossed the poker aside, but too far for me to reach. Even if I turned myself around and stretched my body as far as it would stretch, I wouldn’t have been able to reach it with my foot. Even in his madness, he
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