Chapter Three Part Two - Run

Lincoln slipped out of the kitchen as quiet as a mouse. There was another hallway on the opposite side of the kitchen that led to some other part of the house. Tawnee and I finished our pancakes in silence. When she moved to take the dishes to the sink, I cleared my throat.

"I can see you're afraid of him."

Her shoulders drooped. She did not look at me. I stared hard into her back. It was a long time until she answered.

"I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of how he will react."

I scoffed, rotating in my chair to face her. "That's the same thing! It's obvious to anyone that he's unstable - he grabbed my neck, Tawnee, and pushed me down into a chair. What sane person does that?"

She spun on her heels, nostrils flaring as she glared at me. "Lincoln is not unstable, Lily. What he has has nothing to do with being out of control. He's just. . .different."

I paused. She said my name. How do they know my name?

"Who told you my name?"

Tawnee opened her mouth, then closed it. She repeated the action once again before spinning around to the sink.

"How do you know my name, Tawnee?" My voice was louder. Ribbon, who had been dozing on his cushion in the corner of the room, raised his head, collar tags tinkling together.

I lowered my voice and said, "Huh? Who told you my goddamn name?"

She mumbled something incoherent.

"What?"

"Lincoln!" She whirled around, mouth parted as she sucked in a breath. "Lincoln told me your name."

"And how does he know my name?"

Earlier I had been flustered; my anger intensified with her coyness. My hands balled into fists as I awaited her answer.

Tawnee held up a finger and shook it at me, dropping her head to the side. "I don't have to explain anything to you. If Lincoln wants you to know then he'll tell you."

"He doesn't speak," I said. "Is he retarted or something?"

She glared daggers at my face.

"Lincoln is not retarted. I told you, what's wrong with him has nothing to do with being slow." She paused, finger dropping and brows furrowing at the same time. "Well, maybe a little bit."

"Oh, my God," I said. "I've been kidnapped by a beefy moron." I touched a hand to my forehead and laughed humorlessly.

"Stop it!" Tawnee shouted. That made Ribbon stand up. A growl broke the tension in the kitchen.

Tiredly, Tawnee scrubbed her face with both hands. She reeled on the dog, something I wasn't expecting.

"Shut up! Go lay down!"

Startled, I watched as Ribbon stared at Tawnee for a second longer, snorted, then turned and trotted down the hallway. My eyes skipped over a steak knife that rested on the counter Ribbon past. I did not eye the blade for too long, returning my gaze to Tawnee. We were alone.

I looked to Tawnee. Guilt tickled my conscious. It was obvious to see that she didn't want to be in this situation anymore than I did.

Purple bags rested beneath her lower lids. Streaks of blood could be seen near the edges of the whites of her eyes. Her makeup, though light, was smudged around the corners and in other places fairly easy to apply. Like she didn't have to energy to fix anything.

Tawnee took in a breath and shook out her short, yellow-blonde hair that reached just above her shoulders. A small smile appeared on her lips. A sad smile.

"He's not a bad person." Her lips pulled down slightly. "He just doesn't always do good things, you know?"

I didn't know, and didn't get a chance to ask. I was halted when I opened my mouth to speak.

There, in the threshold that led down the other hallway, stood a little boy.

He was the most adorable thing I saw second to Tanner.

The toddler was wearing pajamas with Deadpool masks tacked all over the white fabric. His smallish hands were tucked into fists as he rubbed his eyes, trying to rid them of sleep. Once his arms dropped to his sides, two big gray eyes blinked repetitively at me, then Tawnee. The roundness of his cheeks reminded me of a chipmunk - a sweet, innocent baby chipmunk.

"Mommy?"

My heart melted.

Tawnee perked up immediately. "Morning, Sweetie. How'd you sleep?"

I couldn't help but think how fucked up this situation was. I had been kidnapped by a man who lived with his sister and her. . .son?

"Okay," the little boy mumbled. He yawned. "Is dare break fast?"

Tawnee took a step to the stove. "'Course. Go on and sit down."

He stumbled across the linoleum. He rubbed a hand over his short, yellow-blonde hair that mirrored Tawnee's color.

Little Deadpool pulled a chair out, the one on my left side, and hoisted himself on to the seat. It was only when he was sitting down comfortably that he remembered my presence.

"Who you?"

Tawnee froze. I don't think she factored the idea that I might tell her son what a monster Mommy and Uncle Lincoln were.

Though my life may have been ruined, I didn't want to drag the kid into the mess.

"Lily," I said. "What's yours?"

"Cywer James, but Mommy calls me C.j."

"Cyler James," I echoed. "Long name for a small kid."

C.j. held up his hand and shook his head seriously, saying, "No, no. No. That is not right."

I fought back a smile.

"Cywer is my firs' name, James is middle. Is not one big, long name, Lily. Got it?"

"Got it."

"C.j., why don't you watch some Netflix on Mommy's phone for a few minutes?" As Tawnee said that, she walked over and pressed an iPhone into his tiny hand. Earbuds dangled from the device. I salivated at the sight of a chance for outside communication. Tawnee also placed a small plate of pancakes in front of the boy.

He popped the buds into his eardrums. The world around C.j. became moot. Tawnee looked at me.

"Thank you," was all she said.

"For what?"

"Not saying anything. He doesn't - He wouldn't -"

I leaned back in my chair, waving her off. "He's a kid. I have a little brother. I wouldn't want someone doing that to my family." I didn't say it out loud, but I was secretly hoping she would thank me in the way of helping me escape this place.

Her brows drew together. "You have siblings?" She glanced at C.j., who picked idly at his pancakes.

"Just one. Why?"

"So you understand that even though you did this for me, I can't help you."

"Why not?" I demanded it, sitting up in my chair again. "I can't stay here, Tawnee! This is not my home! Lincoln is not my family!"

Tawnee eyed C.j. "This is my family. If Lincoln wants you to be apart of it then I'm going to support him."

"This is fucking wrong!"

"I owe him," she said. Tawnee's hazel eyes burned with a fierce promise that I did not know. "Lincoln is my brother. I'm sure you would do anything for yours."

I stood up, face flushed with hot anger. Did she not see how he acted? Did she not know that he was clearly not right in the head? What could be so important that she had to protect her brother after he kidnapped me? I did not say a word. Tawnee's eyes challenged me to speak. C.j., once entrapped in his video, looked at me then, gray eyes wide. Like I was a monster.

I could not let him view me that way. As a 'boogeyman'. Not when he already had one in his life.

I sat down. A minute later he returned his focus to the phone. Tawnee's mouth parted as she released a breath.

This was a disaster. How had everything turned so upside down? My life was no longer mine to keep. It would be run by a quiet man in a catcher's mask and his loyal sister. I dug my thumb and forefinger into my eyes. What to do? If I ran right then, to that front door, there is no doubt Ribbon would catch me in my wake. If I ran right then, to that front door, there is no doubt Tawnee would call for Lincoln.

Be smart about this, I told myself. Learn what you can from Tawnee to use against him!

"Can we talk?" I asked.

"About?"

"My new life." My voice was dull, defeated. It sickened me to sound so weak, but when Tawnee's brow creased in the middle, I knew her look of sympathy meant that she would.

"A few questions," she said softly.

I would take what I could. "Where am I?"

Her lips pressed. "Next."

I blinked. "What does he do for a living?"

"Our father owned a general store in town. He passed it down to Lincoln when he died. Lincoln expanded it, adding a carpenter's workshop and garage."

"So he's rich," I muttered.

"Not as much as you think, but yes. It is a small town."

Then why the hell would he want to kidnap a girl when he could have all the gold diggers in town? I snorted.

Tawnee's eyes tightened. "I don't know exactly what you're thinking, but I can guess."

"What, then?"

"Why he doesn't have a girlfriend, if he makes good money." Tawnee leaned over the table, pressing a finger down on the wood. "He can see right through people. Right through their ugly intentions. He's smarter than you know."

"Obviously," I said sarcastically. I placed my elbow on the table, resting my chin in my palm. "Can't speak, but he's an Einstein."

"Listen-"

"Mommy?"

We hadn't noticed C.j. Our discussion was too heated to pay attention to anything else.

The earbuds flopped to the floor as he yanked them free. His eyes were unfocused. A hand rested on his stomach. The pancakes laid half-eaten on his plate.

"I'm going to throw."

I didn't know what that meant, but Tawnee must have. She sprang from her seat and pulled him out of his chair, saying, "Honey, wait until you see the toilet."

They disappeared from the kitchen with the sound of shuffling feet.

I felt bad for the kid when I realized what he meant: puke.

But it was at the same time I realized I was completely alone. No one was there to 'watch' me. I was unsupervised, unchained, and most importantly, not defenseless.

I abandoned my chair and nearly ran to the counter. My fingers curled around the handle of the steak knife. Adrenaline kicked into my veins. Another object lay nearby, and as I thought of the ferocious dog that patrolled the house, I grabbed it all the same.

I raced down the hallway towards the foyer. Ribbon was around somewhere.

I reached the door. I didn't bother trying to open it, because six locks were installed on the side. Six bolts, all the turning kind. The door was not unlocked, I found out, when I tried to open it right away. Even when I flipped the locks to the other side, the door would not open. I started to shake a little. Time was of the essence.

A snarl sounded from the room to my right. I turned, spotting a flat-screen television on the farthest wall, resting above a warm looking fireplace. A long beige-brown couch faced the t.v., and on the sofa stood a very alert Doberman.

"Ribbon," I said stiffly. I moved away from the door.

Trust was important to dogs. I knew that. If he knew I was trying to escape, he would feel obligated to stop me beforehand.

Ribbon jumped over the back of the couch. His gigantic paws thudded against the carpeted floor. Teeth out - some white, some yellowed - saliva gathered in a puddle on the tip of his tongue.

I took a breath, adopting a soft tone that he might like, and said, "I got something for you, boy." I held up my hand.

A switch had been flicked; Ribbon's ears turned up, his stump of a tail began to wag, and he stepped forward. Those big, brown eyes of his doubled in size, reflecting the juicy egg that sat in my hand.

"Do you like eggs?"

His tongue flicked out and licked the sunny-side up breakfast treat. "Of course you do, you big bear." He hobbled it from my hand.

Egg remains splattered the carpet. Ribbon licked the floor hastily. I would have felt bad if I had cared. I went back to the door.

Gears in my head turned as I eyed the locks. Maybe I was thinking too much. Maybe, in order to open this door, I had to think like a lunatic.

I thought of my Uncle Kenny.

I switched the three locks on the bottom of the door, then tried the knob again.

It worked.

It worked!

A cool breeze pushed the door fully open and I nearly cried with joy.

"I keep four locks on the door," he always said, while at the same time scratching his forever-mangy beard, "I keep two of them unlocked, so if a thief tries to break in, he'll always be locking another one."

I never thought I would meet anyone as deranged as him. Lincoln Maddox seemed to be the runner up.

Slipping out the door, I closed it quietly. It clicked when it slid into the frame. I took a few backwards steps to look at the house.

The structure was simple, elegant, like everything else in the home. An overdone type of log cabin. Very nice, two floors with an attached garage. It was a shame such a beautiful house belonged to a twisted man.

I did not want to stay any longer. Knife in hand, I took a step.

There was a small dirt driveway a few yards from the front door. A stone walk connected the paths, and when I reached the road, I started to run.

Trees lined the road on each of my sides. Left and right. Hundreds of them. I slowed my pace to a steady jog. How long would it take for me to reach civilization? My luck seemed to be plentiful so far - my escape seemed to prove as much. But I did not want to tire out quickly. It would not be long until they realized that I had found a way out.

I'd wanted to think that if escaping was that easy that I'd be okay in the end. That I wouldn't suffer from awful nightmares or traumatic anxiety. Damaged and broken, like most victims. I would get over it.

Right?

Hopefully. But I would never be able to trust someone with gray eyes again.

The sun was high in the sky. Noontime. The driveway hadn't stalled. It was only after about five minutes that it bent to a slight curve. I stopped.

My fatigue caught up with me fast. I hadn't drank anything in at least twelve hours. My breaths, I noticed, felt wheezy, like something was partially blocking my throat. How much more time did I have until Lincoln or Tawnee realized I was no longer in the kitchen?

The answer: not enough time.

I heard a few heavy thuds over my wild breaths. A snap of a stick. But when I turned around to look I was already too late.

A black blur slammed into my shoulders, tackling me to the ground. I screamed in terror, which turned to pain, as his two-hundred-something pound body crushed me into the uneven, craggy ground. I coughed mid-shriek, sending dead leaves and granules of dirt across the ground. My vision was limited to the trees that had been turned on their sides as the world took on a horizontal angle.

I thrashed my body left and right. The attempt was useless. My one arm was trapped beneath my stomach, the bone of my wrist digging into my hip painfully. I kicked and squirmed to no avail.

Lincoln grunted as he situated himself on top of me, pressing a hand to the back of my neck, the other on the small of my back. He pushed most of his body up, resting a knee onto my thigh.

"Get off! Let me go!" I screamed, face growing hot.

It didn't surprise me that he chose not to answer.

And in all of the sudden chaos I forgot about the knife. That is, until the plastic black handle was underneath the palm of my flailing hand. I grasped it tightly, letting my body go slack.

That confused him.

Lincoln stopped pressing down on me so hard. He believed he had won.

He had another thing coming.

I jerked my arm backwards feeling the blade connect with something despite the odd angle of my limb.

Lincoln grunted again. Warm liquid dripped on my fingers. Blood. It had to be. Lincoln's heavy body lurched to the side and then the knife was ripped from my grasp.

His body rose from off of me and in the same instant a hand was thrust into my hair. Five fingers weaved into the locks. I felt the pain even before he ripped my skull backwards, and wailed pitifully. He yanked me up from the dirt. He started walking, tugging at my scalp, as I followed behind him stumbling like a baby deer.

Lincoln stalked towards the direction of the house. The hold on my hair grew more firm, or maybe it was because I was pulling away. Either or, I could not stop the needles of pain that stabbed through my head. Black dots appeared in my vision. I shut my eyes. I didn't want to see them. See him. See my escape crumble before me.

It was a long jog just to get that far; tears brimmed in my eyes as I imagined the painful journey back to the house that was my captor's and what might lay in store for me there.

*

Falling unconscious wasn't a part of my thoughts. Maybe that was why it happened so easily.

When I woke up it was dark again. I didn't remember walking through the front door.

I made to stretch out but didn't reach far. My arms couldn't go behind my head as they usually did; my knees couldn't fully extend and pop; my back felt slightly crooked near my tailbone - my movements were barred by tight walls that pressed on either side of me.

Unable to see, I slid my hands around anxiously. Wall on top, wall on left, right, behind, underneath - wall at my feet.

I forgot how to breathe. The darkness pressed on me like a weight. Incredibly close quarters made me feel like I was suffocating.

I was trapped in a box.

"Hey," I called out. "Hey, let me out!"

I smacked my hands against the side of the box, the roof, kicked the bottom with my shoes. "Let me out!" I screamed, squirming. My fingers scrabbled along the edges to look for a sort of hinge, something that would open the fucking thing.

If there was one thing I hated more than being kidnapped, it was being trapped in a small space.

Calm down.

That did not work.

My breathing increased. Harder, faster. Desperately I tried to relax my body. That only caused my muscles to tighten in response. Cramps bloomed under my thighs and in my toes

You can do this.

"I can't do this," I sobbed. "Please, please, please! Let me out!"

I banged my fists against the walls. Hot tears pressed at my eyes. I was not handling this well. Not at all.

"Lincoln! Tawnee! Somebody, please godamnit, Ribbon! Fuck!"

My voice went hoarse as a baseball-sized lump lodged in the middle of my throat. I was going to die in a box.

Footsteps sounded outside. They were faint, so quiet I almost didn't hear them.

"Lily? Is that-"

I opened my mouth to ready a scream, an answer, a moan, anything.

"Lincoln, what the hell?"

That was Tawnee. The apparent hostility in her voice gave me hope. She must have been talking to-

"She's a human being for Chrissakes, you can't-"

There was a crack so loud and so horrid sounding that I winced in my small compartment. A long silence followed. Seconds that felt like hours ticked past until Tawnee spoke again, much softer, much more docile.

"Fuck you," she whispered. I barely heard it, I had to strain my ears.

Panic surged through my body. The quiet foot shuffles sounded again, but faded not long after.

She had stepped in to help. She tried. Right? I would like to think so, at least. Because when I heard the much more distinct, heavier footfalls I knew that it could only be Lincoln.

In that moment I was at my weakest; in that moment I hated myself.

"Lincoln," I whimpered, staring at the roof of the box. The steps halted.

"Lincoln, please, please let me out. I promise I won't run. Ever again. Please."

I had to get out of the box; I had to; I had to.

Something landed on the outside roof of the box. Scraped softly along the top - I imagined it was his calloused hand sliding across the surface as he was kneeled next to the edge. Had I appealed to him so easily? Maybe I had more power than I thought.

A loud, sharp scrape echoed through my space, and the compartment vibrated for the briefest second. Then a sound like pulling a knife through cardboard grounded just above my head. White light slithered through a sudden opening. It caught my eyes quickly and spiked confusion within my thoughts. It happened again and again all along the top, light breaking through when there was a hole. I wasn't scared right away - until it happened along the side and something slit the skin on my bicep.

I gasped. A hot sensation radiated from the spot. It stung worse than a paper cut, and I could feel warm liquid begin to pool on the spot: blood.

And then I imagined Lincoln, sitting beside the box with a fucking knife in his hand. Him, stabbing it repeatedly, and I thought I was going to faint when I screamed a pitch that I had never reached before.

Lincoln stabbed the box over and over again, like a kid playing whack-a-mole. More light poured through the hundreds of holes. I could see the blood on my left arm then, gooey redness running down the length of it. I pressed my body down as far as possible, gritting my teeth at the rasping sound of the knife penetrating the box.

"Stop it you psycho!" I pounded the side of the box once.

It stopped.

I could only hear my laborious breathing. The pounding of my heartbeat. Blood pumping through my veins at an alarming speed. My senses had been heightened, alerted, more aware than normally. It wasn't exactly the best sensation. Because when the box moved, when it was suddenly tipped on a corner, I felt as though I was being thrown off a cliff.

The box rolled and with it I went. Gravity tossed me onto the side of my arm, and I cried out in shock. Then I was rolled again, landing on my stomach. The light disappeared. The box I was cradled in stopped moving. Heavy breathing filled my ears; it was still my own.

Lincoln did not like being called a psycho.

Within the limited space of the crate I wriggled my body, attempting to roll over onto my back. Even with the smallness of my body it was harder than I thought. Before moving far, the box turned again.

That time it wasn't as abrupt for forceful; that time when the box rolled over it was careful yet fluid. Light shone through the tens of holes that covered the surface. I was plopped onto my back, skull knocking against the wood.

"Ow."

Had he a change of heart? Did he feel guilty about tossing me around and stabbing a knife through the box to torture me? Or would he rather hurt me face to face?

I opted for the latter because the next thing I knew the top of the box lifted and a cream-colored ceiling replaced the darkness I had been temporarily consumed in.

Lincoln, complete with his catcher's mask, peered over the side. I cringed back into the bottom of the box. If he noticed my fear he did not appear annoyed or disappointed. He didn't appear anything, actually. Stoic would be the perfect word to describe Lincoln.

He reached into the box and grabbed both my arms with his hands. The small space had me crammed. Room to fight back did not exist. He lifted me with ease.

My legs were unsteady when he brought me up from my supine position; how long had I been in that thing before I woke up? It was a question only Lincoln could answer. He would never answer.

I glanced around the room. Wood, planks and boards, littered the floors in piles. Pieces were stacked against the wall, the bigger kind, thicker. There was a power saw in one corner of the room, a window on the left. A light that looked like it belonged in a dentists office dangled over top of the machinery. Another workbench was by the door, bits of metal like nails, hinges, and locks lay on top. I remembered what Tawnee told me before, about Lincoln and carpentry.

I felt sick looking at it all. Had he. . .built that box just for me?

I tried to yank my arms free of his the moment I regained stability. "Get off me."

He pinched harder. I winched. Lincoln stared down at me, gray eyes dark and unyielding. I had a thousand things to say to him, all vile and unladylike, but I couldn't bring myself to speak.

Then he yanked me forward. I gasped and stumbled against the top lip of the box, inadvertently falling against his chest. I got a mouthful of his shirt before a band of muscle - what I assumed was his forearm - wrapped underneath my thighs and I was lifted into the air. He threw me across his broad shoulder in a swift motion. I thought I was going to slip right over, but at the last second his hand grasped the back of my knee.

My vision consisted of Lincoln's solid back, the backs of his sneakers, and most importantly, the floor. He turned around and began to walk.

"What the hell?" I said. I wriggled my left arm free, as it was caught between my stomach and his shoulder, and began to slap the middle of his back. "Put me down!"

He didn't listen. It didn't surprise me. The floor changed from carpet, to wood, to carpet again. But within my line of view I caught sight of a hole in the side of his shirt. It was pretty big. Big enough that I was able to see a white bandage slapped over his skin. And when I studied him more I could feel a small, almost undetectable limp to his gait. But I did notice it, so I smiled to myself.

Blood started to rush to my head. I craned my neck up to look where our destination might be.

We passed a small office. There was a desk with a bookshelf near the wood. An off-white couch was pushed against the wall. Countless closed doors floated by thanks to Lincoln's fast gait. We passed the kitchen. And then we were in the hallway of my little room. Though I couldn't quite see everything, I did see a dresser drawer lying against the wall.

Lincoln's hands found my hips. I hissed and yanked at his wrist.

I was lifted into the air again only to be dropped a second later. My back landed on something soft, relieving my fright. That was until I looked up and saw Lincoln standing above the bed.

I had to remind myself that he was a person. He wasn't some masked ghoul, some supernatural existence, a member of the undead. Lincoln was a person, a human being - I shouldn't be so terrified of him. I shouldn't be on the verge of pissing myself in his presence. But for God's sakes, it ultimately scared me what people are actually capable of. That people are willing to hurt others for some sick kind of enjoyment.

I swallowed.

He reached an arm outwards. Memories of this morning assaulted me; holy crow, was that really only a few hours ago? I shuffled back into the bed, sinking into the wood of the headboard. It did not help that the bed was small, maybe a full size.

His hand stopped, frozen in place. I looked up at him.

The mask was very plain. It covered the edges of his face, shielding his complexion with the black metal rungs. A gray mesh came up the lower half concealing his chin and mouth and most of his nose, save for the top of the bridge. I could only see his eyes, the dark gray irises, and thick, dark eyebrows that matched his equally dark hair. Half of the top of his forehead was covered by a light gray cushion that bordered the oval edges of the mask. I never really observed him before; I was much too conscious of where his body was, where his hands were. Now, as I looked at him, he seemed like he could be a friendly person. A clean person, as his short hair was cropped close to his head and he smelled distinctly of soap. I noticed that when I had been thrown over his shoulder.

I hated that I was horrified by such a person, such a normal-looking person. He appeared to be like any college basketball player, body wise, and I had to assume he had an equally normal smile. After all, he was a person. But why would he want to hurt me?

Lincoln dropped his hand. Then at his sides, both of them balled into fists. I bit the inside of my cheek, worrying the skin. What did I do wrong?

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. The door swooshed close with a loud bang. I jumped. I closed my eyes. This was not going to be as easy as I hoped.

What did he want? He had done nothing but try to keep me here for nothing more than my general presence. Granted, he had touched me earlier, but I didn't believe it was in a sexual manner; I had struggled and he had climbed on top of me to restrain me.

My brain worked for hours upon hours. Long after the moon was high in the sky. Eventually I fell asleep, eager to rid my thoughts of Lincoln Maddox, only to find him in my dreams.