Chapter Six - Routine

A week had passed and a routine had been developed. The routine went as follows; breakfast with Lincoln as our chef - I said, "our," to include the company of C.j., Tawnee, and I - simply because Tawnee didn't dare to take on the task. During the meal Lincoln would stare at me the entire time. The first couple of days it was strange but I eventually grew accustom to that act and didn't feel odd whenever I noticeably missed my mouth from the improper handling of my fork or popped a sunny-side egg mid-flight, causing the yellow gook to spatter across my cheeks. After everyone finished his or her food, Lincoln would disappear downstairs, the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, which Tawnee informed me of as the basement.

That was when Tawnee assumed the duties of watching me. Lincoln was never gone for long. He would return, and he would take me to the living room to watch television or a movie. I was never interested in what he chose to watch because I was more focused on the fact that he always had to be touching me whenever we were sitting by one another on the sofa, whether it was a hand, an arm-around-the-back-of-the-couch-sling, or knee touching.

Once he gained his fill of the t.v., the day followed with lunch, prepared by Lincoln. Then Lincoln would disappear again, depositing me in my room and locking the door. I would not see the Maddox's again until supper time in which the meal was cooked by Lincoln. After supper I would sit with Lincoln on the couch until promptly 10:50 p.m. Then, at 10:50, it was bedtime.

I learned all of this in one week but had yet to gather anything new about Lincoln. Except for the fact that he probably had a mild case of OCD because of how well (and often) he cleaned the kitchen during and after each time he dirtied the counters. It was at the end of the first week, when Lincoln disappeared after breakfast and C.J. brought his headphones to the table, that I finally was able to speak with Tawnee.

"There's something wrong with him," I blurted.

Tawnee, who had been reading another Cosmopolitan, glanced up from the page. Her eyes flicked to C.j., who had his earbuds in while he colored a deer in his coloring book. Her concern about his attention made me think - how much does C.j. really not know?

She turned to me and nodded. A sadness seemed to glaze over her eyes.

"What is it? Why is he like this? It was your parents, wasn't it? Did they beat him-"

Tawnee held up a hand. "Keep your voice down. He's not deaf, that's for sure."

"Tell me," I demanded, my voice softer, "I think I have a right to know. He's retarted, isn't he?"

"No! Stop saying that! My brother is not retarted."

Tawnee paused. Her fingers flexed into her palms, then out. I waited.

"He has Jacob's syndrome."

I leaned back into my chair. Jacob's syndrome. The name wasn't foreign; I recalled learning about it in my tenth grade biology class. It was something only boys could have, and it wasn't necessarily bad, either. A simple mistake in the genetic code. I had trouble remembering anything more in depth about Jacob's syndrome.

"Tell me about it. Was it the reason he'd taken me?"

"No," Tawnee scoffed. She thought for a moment before she murmured, "I can't say why he did that."

"What?" But I'd heard her clearly. I just wanted more clarity on her statement.

"Not the point. Jacob's syndrome." She cleared her throat. "Lincoln has it. That's one of the reasons why he's so tall and lean, you know. Not just a set of powerhouse genes. The doctors related it to his short fuse, too. The aggression, I mean.

Tawnee forced a smile. I didn't comment.

"Anyway, it was worse when he was younger. God, you should have seen little Lincoln. He was six-foot tall in seventh grade. Seventh grade! But he was a twig."

Tawnee placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. I could see the memories play through her eyes like a projector focused on a screen.

"He was bullied. Had it bad. Lincoln was tall but he didn't know how to defend himself. God, I'd told him so many times to just look tough. But he didn't have the balls to hurt a fly."

I snorted. Lincoln, not hurting anyone?

That was when Tawnee looked at me. "I know exactly what you're thinking. His temper really kicked up after he had finished puberty."

"What happened?"

Tawnee pushed back from the table, slinging an arm over the back of her chair. C.j. had yet to stop coloring.

"He got bigger. Stronger. Taller." Tawnee leaned forward as if she was going to share a secret. "Lily, he got so damn big. And mean." She paused. "He lit a girl's hair on fire."

I blinked. What?

"For no good reason, if that's what you're thinking. He kept a journal -"

"Tawnee, a journal?"

"Yes, but he burned it. I had read about half of it before that happened." Guilt colored her cheeks pink. "He caught me looking it one night and. . ."

"And?" I pressed. I had a feeling that I already knew the answer.

Tawnee looked at C.j. "I had no business reading it, anyway. That was when I came home for Thanksgiving one year, a couple months before Lincoln graduated."

"What'd your parents say?"

"Our mom died when Lincoln was just turning two. He doesn't remember her. Our father? William Maddox was a drunk. He didn't give a damn about anything after mom died."

I tried to imagine growing up without a parent. I couldn't. So it was easy to see how Lincoln struggled with his disease and a nasty father.

"Tawnee?" An ache found its way in my throat.

"Yes, Lily?"

"What's he going to do with me?" I whispered.

I did not want to know the answer. I had to ask. When Tawnee's eyes glanced down at the table, I wished that I hadn't.

"I don't know, Lily."

At that moment the door to the basement opened. I nearly jumped out of my chair. Tawnee visibly stiffened. C.j. did not notice.

Lincoln strode from the threshold around the table until he was at my shoulder. His hand extended from his side as he offered me his palm. I didn't know what he had in store. I still had a small amount of free will that I wanted to remind him about. I stood from my chair and stepped around him, ignoring his outstretched hand.

I gave him a pointed look.

Lincoln crooked his neck towards the basement. I took the lead, hauling in a deep breath. The basement was unknown territory. Was it normal? Or was it the ground in which he tortured people? I took the stairs as slow as I could. About three steps down, I heard the door click closed behind me. My steps turned hurried.

I reached the last stair, and was slightly taken aback from what I saw. A short walkway led towards an arch that revealed a room equivalent to that of a college dorm common room. Numerous couches of different material were placed around the room, one genuine leather, one plush taupe sofa angled in the center of the room that faced a mounted television on the west wall. A miniature fridge sat near a sweet looking bar on the back wall. Various brands of alcohol cluttered the shelves.

He appeared right behind me. I felt his breath on the top of my head. My teeth clenched together and I skipped over to the wall. Lincoln walked by without a glance in my direction.

He went to the couch, reaching down towards the coffee table that rested in front of the over-sized love seat. Lincoln grabbed a remote and turned on the t.v. The screen displayed a DVD logo. Lincoln looked at me.

I remained against the wall. My feet itched to run the opposite direction, away from him. Far, far, away. He crooked his index finger at me. I was forced to approach him.

He motioned to sit down. I strategically placed myself close to the arm of the couch to be as far away as possible. The television turned black, and Lincoln plopped down on the sofa on the middle cushion. Much too close.

Previews showed but I wasn't focused - my thoughts were turned towards Lincoln, about how near he was. Not touching, but too close for me to be at ease. That was not the same as the living room. The basement felt more private, more man-cave; more intimate. That made me shudder.

When I finally settled into the film, I noticed it was a movie about kidnapping starring Charlize Theron. There was so many things I wanted to scream at Lincoln.

The film dragged. Halfway through, Lincoln decided to move. He kicked his feet up on the other side of the couch and without warning, dropped his head in my lap. My hands flew in the air before they became trapped beneath his skull. I was caught off guard - I wasn't sure how to respond.

Lincoln kept his eyes on the television. I wondered how he could see well in that stupid mask.

I hated him. I hated him. Why must he always do something to provoke me? He obviously knew I loathed every time he touched me yet he did so anyway.

I awkwardly lowered my hands, my left elbow resting on the back of the couch, my right arm on the side of the couch. Never had he made me feel so uncomfortable.

We finished the movie in that position. Even when the credits started to roll Lincoln didn't move. It was then I noticed that he had fallen asleep; his eyes were closed, his breathing longer and lighter.

Would it be smart to wake him? I wanted to push him off of me. He was dead weight, though, and when he woke up he might just kill me. So I tried to slip away.

Carefully and quietly, I moved my hands to cup the back of his neck and head. I lifted him a few centimeters - barely - but enough to wriggle my butt over the corner of the couch. I had gotten one leg over when I heard him stop breathing.

I looked down, finding his gray eyes already fixed on my face. A few moments passed in which we stared at one another. And then he moved, sitting upright but keeping his gaze on me.

I gulped, whispering, "May I leave now?"

Lincoln looked at the television, scratching the back of his head. I watched him, my eyes skimming over his form. I noticed a bulge in his jeans, more prominent than it usually was. I waited for an answer.

He turned to me again. Stared. About a minute came and went before he quickly reached a hand up, placing it along my jaw. I flinched. He noticed but his hand stayed.

Chills raced through me at the feel of his rough palm, his thumb sliding across my cheek. And then, fast as light, he pounced.

Lincoln grabbed my waist, pulling me back onto the couch before placing his entire weight over my body, trapping me. My lungs forgot how to function. My vocal chords forgot how to produce sound. I was stunned into submission.

His head appeared in front of my face, his hips pressing into my own. My arms were crunched toward my chest, the only type of barrier between us. Those gray eyes blinked at me once, twice.

I exhaled. And then he grabbed my right wrist and forced my hand down in between us so that it came into contact with his crotch.

"No," I wailed. His erection pulsed through his jeans at the sound of my voice and it made me sick to my stomach.

I did what I had to do - I grabbed the lump in his jeans and squeezed as hard as I could. The defense worked; Lincoln grunted and pushed off of me. He rolled off of the couch and onto the floor.

I jumped off the sofa and ran towards the steps. Heat from exertion and panic colored my skin red. I tripped on the first step, horror overwhelming my senses at the thought of Lincoln chasing me down. When I reached the door I barreled through, slamming it close.

Tawnee was at the fridge, a yogurt cup in her hand. C.j. had kept his place at the table.

"Lily?"

I gulped, sucking in breaths. Leave, leave, I told myself. I ran through the kitchen towards the main door.

"Lincoln!"

Ribbon started barking. Tawnee kept yelling. I yanked on the doorknob, sobs clawing out of my throat.

"Lincoln!"

I twisted the locks, left, right, right, left. The door didn't open. Ribbon's barking became louder.

"I'm so sorry, Lily."

I turned halfway around before something crashed against my head and everything went black.