"You should never have been there in the first place." His head is tilted down and his voice is soft, so that I can barely make out the words. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. "If Eli hadn't taken you to London...if you hadn't snuck away to visit..."
"But I did," I whisper. Does he think I haven't thought of that before, a million times already?
"I don't like it. I don't like knowing that you'll probably never know who or why. And somehow it just makes it all worse because it should never have been you."
He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are red and his voice is thick. "My poor, sweet baby girl. Oh, god, it should never have happened to you."
--
Later, I am leaning back in the cushioned outdoor rocker and read the social worker's dialogue I just wrote. My intent is for the filmmaker to overlay her voice on top of scenes showing the children trapped and scared in the hot warehouse into which the kidnappers had driven the bus. So while the social worker is giving the parents hollow comfort, the children are terrified.
The trauma of a kidnapping is like the death of a child. It will always be with you. It will haunt you at the oddest times, and there is no defense against the rush of fear, of grief. And, sometimes, of guilt.
I'm not sure if I've got it right on the page of the screenplay, but in my mind, the scene is perfectly clear. The terror. The uncertainty. The cold even in the warmest room, because there is no way to soothe the icy fear that fills your veins and makes you shiver.
I don't know how those kids found comfort, but I survived only because of Dallas. His strength and, yes, his touch.
I sigh, then put my laptop aside and stand. I need to focus on the work. My memories can help me, but I can't let them take over.
I cross to the edge of the terrace and look out over my neighborhood at the stunning townhouses filled with people and their secrets. In a weird way, it's comforting to know that they all have secrets. They all have things they regret, things they want, things they lost. Some have probably suffered more than I have.
I barely know these people, but I know I'm not alone, and it's a nice feeling. I breathe in, wondering if my social worker should say something like that to the parents. Maybe in act two, when--
I catch a glimpse of the outdoor clock and curse. It's already close to four and I'm not showered or dressed. Damn.
I hurry back inside and then down the stairs to my bedroom. I know Brody will forgive me if I'm late, but it will drive me crazy. I start stripping off my clothes the moment I'm through my door, and by the time I've crossed to my bathroom, I'm naked.
I get the shower going, and step in. I tilt my head back, and as I let the water wash over my face, I'm still thinking of Dallas. Still thinking of the dark and the terror. There'd been the Jailer, who came to me only once, his face hidden and his voice altered. And the Woman, who brought us food. She always wore a loose, flowing gown like a caftan, so shapeless it was impossible to tell if she was thin or curvy. She kept her hair hidden beneath a hood, and she wore a carnival-style black mask.
After the initial horror of cat food and starvation, she came somewhat regularly, leaving overcooked slabs of meat or cold cans of vegetables on the floor. There were no knives, no forks. And only one bottle of water at a time.
But mostly she stayed away, and in the gray light, Dallas and I lost ourselves in each other.
The first time had been sweet and tender and wonderful despite the hell of our situations and surroundings. It had been an escape. A release.
Hell, sex had been a sanctuary into which we disappeared as often as we could, losing ourselves in each other. Comforting. Soothing. Making silent promises that we would always be there for the other. That somehow, together, we were strong enough to survive.
We weren't always together, though. Sometimes the Woman came to separate us. To take me away to a dark room where I'd be tied to a cement table. Bound and left there for hours, terrified that this was the end. That the bitch would simply leave me there to die.
As bad as that was, it was worse when she took Dallas from me. The not knowing was like torture to me--and, honestly, I think that torture is exactly what they did to Dallas during those long, lonely hours. Because each time they brought him back he would pull away from me. Not forever, but at first. As if he was afraid to touch me. As if each moment they kept us apart was a brick in a wall dividing us, and with each return we had to break through that wall and find each other again.
We did though. We always did. And each time he pulled me close and thrust hard inside me, it had been both a victory and a tragedy. We were alive, yes. But we knew damn well that we might never touch each other again.
Nothing was taboo between us, nothing shameful. We loved each other. And so help us, we were trying to cram a lifetime into those dark days that might be our last. We never thought about the consequences, and in retrospect we were lucky I didn't get pregnant. I don't know why--maybe I'm not fertile. Or maybe I was so thin from near-starvation that there was no way it could happen.
Even if we'd thought about it, though, we wouldn't have stopped. As far as we knew, we'd be dead before the sun came up. But more than that, we needed each other. Hell, we saved each other.
And each time Dallas kissed me--each time he held me close and moved inside me--each time he made me explode so that for at least that moment I was free--I knew that I would always need him. Would always love him.
And somehow, I would always find my way back to him.
Now, in the real world with our past haunting us, I just have to figure out how.
I know that I need to get dressed, but when I leave the shower, my mind is too full of Dallas, and my body too tense with the need for release.
I hesitate, but I want this. The touch. The fantasy.
And so I stretch out on the bed, my body damp, and slide my hand between my legs. I stroke myself, slowly at first and then with more purpose, my fingers sure as I draw them over my swollen clit, now wet and slick.