I pushed her away from me, feeling her teeth tear from the skin of my shoulder, the moisture that was more blood than anything else. I glanced down at the jagged wound, the blood that stained the crisp, white fabric of my shirt and was momentarily consumed with rage. I glanced back at her and caught her defiant look, my hand raised on its own, she wasn’t the first to feel the sting of my hand, nor would she be the last. My fingers curled into a fist and I moved.

I don’t know if it was the instant fade of her bravado that stopped my hand, but her arms curled protectively over her head, her body sinking to the ground in a crouched fetal position. I sneered, angry at myself for holding the blow, as much as I was at her for giving in so easily, being so afraid of the pain. I stood there above her for a long moment, my chest rising and falling as if I had been jogging for a fair bit. I spat out a single word even as I shoved her back onto her ass with my foot.

‘Bitch.’

My hand went to my shoulder as I turned, my fingers feeling the jagged edges of skin under my shirt. My fingers were moist, I could smell the blood, my blood, as I pulled the shirt open forcefully, sending the buttons in every direction. I tossed it on the ground, casting a glance at her before I opened the small medicine cabinet behind the bar. She was as I left her, her eyes looking at me with a defiance and wariness that wore on me, I watched her rub her mouth, as if she could wipe away the lingering flavor of my blood. I cursed softly, more from frustration than anything else when I applied the gauze to the wound which leaked crimson steadily.

I threw the stained cloth into the sink and moved my arm slightly, watching the skin move. It was already clotting, a pattern of teeth could be seen amid the stain of blood and torn skin. She had made her mark on me first, it would seem. I snapped my fingers and pointed to a place a few feet in front of me. ‘Come here, Annerire.’

Her head tilted at an angle that would have been amusing had the circumstances been different and I, not been bleeding and angry. She didn’t move, the tilt of her lip suggested even that she thought to best me. I regretted again not striking her. Pain translates to fear and fear is a powerful bargaining chip in these negotiations. I carefully closed the box and slid it further onto the counter, my voice was soft, a cold anger was starting to harden in my gut.

‘Make no mistake that I will retrieve you if you do not come. Make no mistake that I will do so with any measure of force required. Do not have me repeat myself.’

She pushed back a strand of her hair and stood, circling around one of the club chairs that was near her. I watched her, turning as she moved, keeping my gaze steady on the caged animal before me. My shoulder stung and I clenched my jaw, she was frustrating me, moving as slowly as she was, moving in no forward pattern, but in a semi circle around me. I mentally measured the distance between her and the door.

It was only a moment later that I moved to place myself between her and it. She wouldn’t have gotten far, but the chase tends to send me where I did not want to be at the moment, in violence. I should have recognized that was a lost battle. I already smelled blood, that it was my own was merely a minor setback and would ensure that she spilled that much more.

Her hair was wild, a mass of black that I remembered her pulling back more than once in a pony tail. It’s odd how memories assail you even as you force yourself to make these new ones. I took a step towards her and she bolted, darting over one of the chairs. I moved, unwilling to allow her another moment of calm to steady herself. This was now my time. I had allowed her enough time alone, enough patience, enough God Damned peace. It was time to pay the piper.

My price was high.

Author’s note: Do yourself a favor and read part I, II & III before jumping into the fray.

He didn’t answer her, not that she expected him too. She took a deep breath and swallowed back her next words as she watched him put down the small tray he was carrying. Her hands ran through her hair and when he turned back to face her, she took a step back. It was automatic, but she cursed herself silently when she saw the smirk on his face. Her chin lifted and she crossed her arms over her chest.

‘So what’s your plan, Marco?’ She nearly whispered the question, the pressure in her chest felt like it was squeezing the air from her lungs as she looked at him, unwilling or unable to keep steady eye contact as she waited for the silence. He would answer her on his schedule - that she knew. Her unsteady legs carried her over to a chair and she sat on the edge, cursing herself, playing everything she had imagined happening in her head. Where was her strength now? Where was her willingness to attack?

Her breath quickened as she watched him pull off his jacket and toss it over one of the many club chairs that littered the room. Why wasn’t he speaking? Her nails were making moon shapes into her palms, digging in so that pain, if nothing else could keep her grounded. When he moved closer, she retreated further into the chair, drawing her legs up against her chest and wrapping her arms around them, as if to shrink away from him, to disappear. Her breathing was jagged and she had given up trying composure, openly staring at him as a wounded gazelle would a lion.

He sat on the edge of the chair closest to her so that her head tilted back to see his face. He stared down at her with the same intensity she remembered from years ago, before his black hair had become so littered with gray. She jerked back as he lifted a hand and saw the amused glance he gave her at the overreaction. He carefully removed the cufflinks at his wrists, rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. Every gesture was methodical. He moved as if he had all the time in the world and that unnerved her even as she acknowledged that they were, indeed, in a place of his choosing. Her silence, her quiet jail, had quickly become overcrowded.

Her fingers brushed her eyes again and she found them wet. Her world blinked in and out from blurry to clear. He was the same and still so different than before. His control was there, but it seemed etched with something cold, something she couldn’t put her finger on. He still hadn’t shown his temper, the entire reason for her fleeing after such a week. She watched him roll up the sleeves on his arms, caught the sound of his breath as the music paused between songs. She squeezed her arms around her and shut her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. He was looking at her.

She flinched from the look as if he had touched her. He either didn’t notice, or didn’t care because his face was set in that stoic pose that she found so attractive before. Now she knew it masked everything he didn’t show, like an undertow in the ocean, seemingly calm on the surface until you are caught and eventually drowned.

He nodded his head to the side and motioned for her to rise as if they were in different roles, old roles. She remained still, staring at his profile as he folded his arms and waited for her to comply. The chair felt heavy as if the leather had wrapped itself around her limbs. She wouldn’t go willingly, not a second time. He closed his eyes and she imagined him to be counting, but the thought left her when his voice resounded, a deep baritone that sent a jolt of awareness down her spine.

‘Come here.’

She sank further back into the chair, shaking her head, her voice was choked, dry, her vocal chords felt as if they were sticking to the back of her throat. She swallowed that dry lump in her throat. ‘No.’ She hated the mousy quality of her voice, wished she had the strength to scream it.

He didn’t look at her, in fact, his demeanor was unmoved by her statement. He spoke in a cool tone. ‘I don’t believe the request, or the circumstance in which you find yourself, affords you the opportunity to be bold.’ He turned his head and glanced at her, his lips thinning out.

She heard his words, rolled them over in her head over and over as she stared back at him. By the time she opened her mouth to speak, his hand was already reaching for her, wrapping around her upper arm as he pulled her easily from her cove within the leather grip of the chair. She reacted instinctually, jerking her arm in his grasp, finding the band of his fingers tightened painfully on her with each motion which only served to renew her rebellion. Her fist beat his hand where it held her in a bruising grip.

He said her name somewhere in the cloud her mind became as she struggled, her nails prying at the edges of his, trying to peel them from her skin. It only served to get her shook, his other hand taking control of her free arm. She stared into his face still for only a moment.

Then she bit him.

A break from our regularly scheduled programming. I’m still very much writing the next installment, so fear not that you will remain in suspense.

Did I tell you that I can play guitar? I took lessons for most of my childhood in damn near anything my parents thought would distract me from my typical teenage angst. I thought for a long time that the effort was simply made to keep me busy, away from bothering them, but as I grew older, I saw it for them wanting me well rounded. I was a difficult teenager and often engaged in power struggles with my father which I rarely won.

As I grew older, I withdrew from them, something absent from my sister’s upbringing as she cleaved to them even as she rebelled. While I hated many of the lessons I took, flute was never a favorite, I also developed a fondness for the guitar. I poured money into my habit, and found friends in that circle of alternative thinkers - The Kurt Cobains of the world.

I don’t think this was the goal of my parents when they enrolled me in classic guitar, but I always had a way of turning the tables on them. As I acquired talent, I fancied myself as a lead singer of a band, my voice wasn’t lead singer-esque, but then I didn’t care - Axl Rose could do it, after all, why couldn’t I?

I had the usual band friends, who shared that dream. We never moved beyond garage and local talent shows, but the dream was there. Drugs - they were there and in any variety you can imagine. Good, upscale neighborhood had the best selection - something I found ironic and a far cry from the inner city image you normally associate with them. I never touched them - in fact, the most I ever did was cigarettes and those have been given up since.

Still, I said nothing when others around me chose to indulge. I found it funny to see them trip out on what they were seeing that wasn’t there - how they found an empty can a source of endless amusement, how shadows took shape into demons and how their fear would evaporate. I had mind blowing sex with more than one woman tripping on a mixture of cocaine and X.

I accepted it as simply what they did. Creative souls with too much depth for such a shallow world. By the time I spoke up, many of them were too far gone into their habits to care. What can you do for someone that doesn’t want your help? I couldn’t save them all, but I set out to save one. He wasn’t my best friend, none of them were with such divisions in our choices, our life paths, our goals, but he was a friend. He was someone I wanted to see rise to the top.

I told his parents. I turned him into the police when I knew he went out to get high. I never told him, of course, until years later and even then, after he was clean, he hit me for the trouble I caused him. I was due it, I was the reason he had a juvenile record. We became pretty close in the years that followed.

Why is this coming to my mind now? I saw his mother today. He died last year of brain cancer.

Do drugs cause cancer? I doubt it, but the thought of it lingers.

Still, I pulled out my old guitar this evening and strummed the opening chords to the first song I ever learned. I leave you with it now.

[http://randomtruth.net/blog/Music/Stairway.mp3]

It is a massive file, so be patient.

on a side note: If you have Bob Segar’s or Metallica’s version of ‘Turn the Page’ please email me.

This contains non-con and is part 3 of the story. If you wish to read parts one and two, follow the links. I don’t know about other writers, but I re-read the previous installments often simply to ensure that details I may have overlooked don’t get forgotten.

I do like being told that I rock. I also like to know about errors, flaws, grammatical mistakes, flow or character problems that I may encounter. Do you find the change of perspective difficult to follow?

And no, I do not write professionally - at least, I do not write fiction.

It has a long while before it will be exhausted from my mind, enjoy the ride while it lasts.

*** *** *** *** *** ***
Day 24: Synopsis

Allwd freedom of room, comforts of bath. Seems over hysteria. Patient. Introspective. Eat’g well, no apples. (!) Plays hd & sk w/camras she can see. Has identif’d 9 of 17.

She has been without my contact since her first night here. I felt that distance, however illusional it may be, would be best to allow her to adjust to the changes demanded of her. My impatience is growing. I watch her on the monitor and my teeth grit at how casually she seems to have adjusted to her new routine. I want to see her clawing at the walls, but she barely even glances at anyone that enters the room to leave her food.

I find it amusing that she refuses to take the apple. Is there such symbolism in an apple? Obviously so, other fruit doesn’t go untouched, but oh that apple, that - she will not bring to her lips.

My mouth waters at the very thought of her eating an apple. I shift between two thought processes, one scientific, one visceral. I want to study her under this unpressured, but contained existence longer, but even my logic acknowledges that this wasn’t a wholly unselfish endeavor. I wanted to punish her for running.

There was a time I saw her as more than just an experiment, but that seems another lifetime away. We were here…now. My actions had triggered more action, required that steps be taken to see it done, see the dance played out.

I picked up the phone on the first ring, casually changing the monitor to a better angle as I watched her flip through music. I had only provided her music for entertainment, my choices were exact, thoughtful. ‘Yes?’

‘The artist says he can be here tomorrow, but he’s asking 4K to do the job you want.’

I scribbled the number on a notepad and nodded my head for some reason. ‘Fine. You’ve checked him out?’

Tony laughed on the other end of the phone. ‘Oh yea. I’ve got dirt for weeks. Lots to lose. Should I send him your way?’

I smiled, I liked people that had strings I could pluck. ‘At 8. That should give him plenty of time to work. Make certain the flight is ready for tomorrow, and send Lou up. I’ll need his help.’

I placed the pen on the table and smiled. Tonight’s entry would require an addendum.

*** *** *** *** ***

She heard the door opening, but didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. Who else would it be? It almost felt like a hotel, with unremarkable people coming and going, silent and focused on their work. She had given up trying to talk to them, plead with them for her release. Everything seemed to go ignored, her tears, her threats - it didn’t matter to them obviously, that she was here against her will, held by some man she remembered, but only as a ghost from her memory. Different, somehow, but he still pulsed with energy.

One thing was certain, this was no hotel. The windows looked down at a lit valley that seemed miles and miles away, separated from her by distance, time, freedom and millions of sharp, sadistic rocks. She tried to remember if he had mentioned anything about having a home in the desert, but nothing was coming to her mind. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything but doze in and out while listening to this music that, while varied, was surprisingly soothing.

She’d accepted that her food was drugged. It could be the only explanation for the sense of calm she had. She knew she was being watched, that somewhere cameras she hadn’t covered with drapes or clothing still monitored her somehow. She waited for someone to notice and remove them, but they never did. She was puzzled. Nothing had happened, no one had molested her, no one had even given so much as a reason. It was an odd, but not wholly intolerable prison. Still, a cage is a cage.

She lifted her hand to her temples, rubbing her forehead slowly before standing and stretching. Music from some band she hadn’t heard before.

She rubbed her palms down over her thighs and stood up, closing her eyes, her head falling back as the notes of music drifted in the air. She felt this wave of sadness bubble in her for a second and blinked back tears. Why was this happening? Why now?

The thought process trailed directly into anger as it always did and she whipped around to yell at the person that she heard earlier. The profanity died on her lips as she stared at him, her jailer. She had no doubt that standing before her was the person who held all of the cards, who made the choice to imprison her.

For all of her anger, her voice still quivered as she spoke, her eyes still welled with tears as she faced him, her fingers curled into her palms. ‘Why?’ She hiccupped slightly, and a tear rolled down one cheek before she angrily smeared it away with her fist. ‘Why did you do this to me?’