Read Online Still Missing by Chevy Stevens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chevy Stevens
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Women, Abduction, Identity, British Columbia, Women - Identity, Self-realization in women
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He stole Christmas from me. Along with a lot of other stuff, of course. You know, like pride, self-esteem, joy, security, the ability to sleep in a bed, but hey, who's complaining?
Well, at least I tried with the tree.... Maybe next year will be different. Like you told me, I need to allow for the possibility I won't always feel the way I do now, and it's important to take note of small signs of progress, no matter how insignificant they may seem. Today when I stepped out onto my front porch I caught the scent of snow in the air and for a couple of seconds I felt excited. We haven't had any snow yet this year, and as soon as there was even an inch out there Emma and I used to tear around in it. She's so damn funny to watch. She runs, slides, pounces, digs, and eats it. Always wished I knew what she was thinking. Probably, Bunnies, bunnies, got to get the bunnies. Sometimes I'd toss a handful of treats into the snow so she'd actually find something.
Afterward I'd have a hot bath, make a cup of tea, snuggle up by the fire with a book, and watch Emma's feet twitch as she reenacted the fun in her dreams. All those memories came back, and I felt good. Like I had something to look forward to.
The good feeling left as soon as I remembered last Christmas, though--trust me, spending an entire winter inside a place with shuttered windows takes "cabin fever" to a whole new level. And then, by the middle of January last year, I was four months pregnant.
On the mountain, I lived for the moments when I got to read--The Freak had good taste--and I didn't even mind reading out loud to him. While those pages were turning, I was somewhere else. And so was he. Sometimes he kept his eyes closed, or he'd lean toward me with his chin in his hand and his eyes glowing, and other times, during intense scenes, he paced around the room. If he liked something, he'd place his hand over his heart and say, "Read it again."
He always asked me what I thought about what we'd read, but at first I was hesitant to express any ideas and tried to paraphrase his opinions. Until the time he slapped the book out of my hand and said, "Come on, Annie, use that pretty head of yours and tell me what you think."
We were reading The Prince of Tides --he liked to mix up the classics with contemporary novels, and they usually featured screwed-up families--and it was the scene where the mother cooks up dog food for the dad.
"I was glad she screwed him over like that," I said. "He deserved it. He was an asshole."
The second the words were out of my mouth, I panicked. Was he going to think I was talking about him? And "asshole" wasn't exactly ladylike. But he just nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "Yes, he didn't appreciate his family at all, did he?"
When we read Of Mice and Men , he asked if I felt sorry for "poor dumb Lennie," and when I told him I did, he said, "Well, isn't that interesting. Is it because the girl was a slut? I think you were more bothered about the poor puppy he killed. Would Lennie be so deserving of your sympathy if she were a nice girl?"
"It would be the same either way. He was messed up--he didn't mean to."
He smiled and said, "So it's okay to kill someone as long as you don't mean to? I'll have to remember that."
"That's not what I--"
He broke into laughter and held up a hand, while my cheeks burned.
The Freak was careful with the books--I was never allowed to place them facedown when they were open or dog-ear a page. One day when I was watching him carefully stack some books back on the shelf, I said, "You must have read a lot as a kid." His back stiffened and he slowly caressed the binding of the book he was holding.
"When I was allowed." Allowed? A strange way to put it, but before I could decide whether I should ask about it, he said, "Did you?"
"All the time--one of the bonuses of having a dad who worked at the library."
"You were lucky." He gave the books a final pat and left the cabin.
When he paced around, ranting about
Well, at least I tried with the tree.... Maybe next year will be different. Like you told me, I need to allow for the possibility I won't always feel the way I do now, and it's important to take note of small signs of progress, no matter how insignificant they may seem. Today when I stepped out onto my front porch I caught the scent of snow in the air and for a couple of seconds I felt excited. We haven't had any snow yet this year, and as soon as there was even an inch out there Emma and I used to tear around in it. She's so damn funny to watch. She runs, slides, pounces, digs, and eats it. Always wished I knew what she was thinking. Probably, Bunnies, bunnies, got to get the bunnies. Sometimes I'd toss a handful of treats into the snow so she'd actually find something.
Afterward I'd have a hot bath, make a cup of tea, snuggle up by the fire with a book, and watch Emma's feet twitch as she reenacted the fun in her dreams. All those memories came back, and I felt good. Like I had something to look forward to.
The good feeling left as soon as I remembered last Christmas, though--trust me, spending an entire winter inside a place with shuttered windows takes "cabin fever" to a whole new level. And then, by the middle of January last year, I was four months pregnant.
On the mountain, I lived for the moments when I got to read--The Freak had good taste--and I didn't even mind reading out loud to him. While those pages were turning, I was somewhere else. And so was he. Sometimes he kept his eyes closed, or he'd lean toward me with his chin in his hand and his eyes glowing, and other times, during intense scenes, he paced around the room. If he liked something, he'd place his hand over his heart and say, "Read it again."
He always asked me what I thought about what we'd read, but at first I was hesitant to express any ideas and tried to paraphrase his opinions. Until the time he slapped the book out of my hand and said, "Come on, Annie, use that pretty head of yours and tell me what you think."
We were reading The Prince of Tides --he liked to mix up the classics with contemporary novels, and they usually featured screwed-up families--and it was the scene where the mother cooks up dog food for the dad.
"I was glad she screwed him over like that," I said. "He deserved it. He was an asshole."
The second the words were out of my mouth, I panicked. Was he going to think I was talking about him? And "asshole" wasn't exactly ladylike. But he just nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "Yes, he didn't appreciate his family at all, did he?"
When we read Of Mice and Men , he asked if I felt sorry for "poor dumb Lennie," and when I told him I did, he said, "Well, isn't that interesting. Is it because the girl was a slut? I think you were more bothered about the poor puppy he killed. Would Lennie be so deserving of your sympathy if she were a nice girl?"
"It would be the same either way. He was messed up--he didn't mean to."
He smiled and said, "So it's okay to kill someone as long as you don't mean to? I'll have to remember that."
"That's not what I--"
He broke into laughter and held up a hand, while my cheeks burned.
The Freak was careful with the books--I was never allowed to place them facedown when they were open or dog-ear a page. One day when I was watching him carefully stack some books back on the shelf, I said, "You must have read a lot as a kid." His back stiffened and he slowly caressed the binding of the book he was holding.
"When I was allowed." Allowed? A strange way to put it, but before I could decide whether I should ask about it, he said, "Did you?"
"All the time--one of the bonuses of having a dad who worked at the library."
"You were lucky." He gave the books a final pat and left the cabin.
When he paced around, ranting about
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