Poison Ivy

She didn’t get scared until she realized she was in the trunk of his car.   

She had pretended to be more dead than alive when he pulled her out of the water. He threw her over his shoulder after trying to revive her.

It's tough to know what to do with a wet, naked and nearly drowned woman.

The blood rushing to her head and the fake/real hyperventilating might have added to her grogginess. She lost the coin toss during that crucial moment when he was trying to decide between the back seat and the trunk.

The trunk is for corpses, she thought, nearly ready to pass out again.

That thought kept her lucid until he parked. And then she heard him slam his car door. He walked away. Every second he didn't return made her wonder about the finite supply of oxygen molecules at her disposal. When he did return and opened the trunk, she nearly cried tears of joy. No matter what he did to her from that moment forward, he didn't eave her for dead in his trunk.

That was the moment she decided to accept anything and everything he did to her. If she needed to be his sacrifice, she'd accept the martyrdom. Hopefully, it wouldn't involve too much pain. She'd even go back to her dating strategy: When things get dull or awkward: FORCE A SMILE. Make him think he's fun and fascinating. And that you are his favorite movie ever. All the Love she had been holding for him all these years should be able to overcome his meanest moods, she heard herself thinking optimistically.

She covered her eyes at the sudden brightness of the day.

"Here," he said, "Put this on, keep your eyes covered," he tried not to touch her as he gently tied some kind of cloth around her head. Later, when she took it off, she'd see it was a standard red handkerchief, straight out of Central Casting.

"Don't ever take it off," he said in a voice that was artificially low.

"I won't. I promise," she said, trying to curl into a modest pose, at least as demure as one could be when positioned naked in someone's trunk.

"Here, put this on," again, his words were redundant as he covered her in what felt like a sheet. It was much too much fabric and nearly made her trip as she got out of the car. In any other situation, she would have gladly made a joke, asking him to close his eyes, or would have just climbed out naked. Especially since he had just seen her, but this seemed to be his choice in the matter.

He walked her into a house and then up a series of carpeted stairs and then led her into a room. She was worried he'd put her on a bed and beat/rape/murder her then and there. With the blindfold, she had no sense of a warning shadow of him raising a hand to her to knock her out. She trusted him, but was terrified. Or rather, she trusted him on the computer. But this man next to her was a stranger. Someone she hadn't seen for 20 years.

He kept talking in that low voice, encouraging her up the stairs. It was like something you'd out on when reading a bedtime story. When reading the part of the evil villain. But he was being sweet to her, guiding her gently by the elbow, even catching her as she started to trip on the sheet and one of the stairs. She fell into him, partly on purpose, to see what he felt like. He felt tall and strong, the way she remembered him.

"I remember hugging you when we were kids, " she blurted out. "Hugging you was like hugging a building," Whenever she had told him that as teenagers, he'd laugh. It was a secret code for them.

He didn't respond. Except to say, "I'm glad you remember hugging me. That was a long time ago,"

She decided not to push.

When he led her finally to a chair, it was a deep and comfy Lazy Boy recliner. He carefully arranged the sheets, making sure she was sitting on some and that there was enough to cross her on either side to tie a knot together. To keep her in a cocoon, tied to the chair.

"Comfy?" he asked. "Let me get you some soup,"

She heard his footsteps go down the hall, the muffled sound of human on deep carpeting. It smelled new. The house must be new. He was being so sweet to her.

Well, she had waited 20 years for this moment. She could wait until the soup was ready.


==

A few minutes later, however, she began to realize that she was in the worst jam of her life.

Her feet were beginning to itch. They weren't bound, and it took her several minutes of calming down from the overall panic to realize that her feet had been alternating in the scratching dance. Her toenails were not long enough to do any good. Maybe it was bugbites.

He was downstairs, it seemed; she could hear him talking on the phone.  His ringer had the same sound as her Blackberry, she flinched instinctively the first time she heard it.  Somehow, she was slightly relieved to think that she had left it in her car.  Bad: she couldn’t call.  Good: she had a really great excuse for not delivering that set of recommendations on that project.  That branch was quickly sinking anyway, it could easily self-implode without the band-aids she was being paid to offer.

Band aids.  Cream.  Good god, what if it is Poison Ivy. What was that stuff called?  Iva-Rest?  She could picture it.  A white bottle in the back of her bathroom mirror cabinet.  What did he have? Would he let her raid his medicine chest? When could she ask? Stop thinking about it. Stop scratching!!

The blindfold didn’t bother her too much.  She wasn’t gagged, and was very happy about that.  Her list of Positives and Negatives was growing.

The sheet kept her warm.  But what she really craved was a bath.  Preferably in oatmeal water.  Anything to stop this itch.

Both feet were free, and she’d use one to scratch the other and then switch, even when she was trying not to. Not what she should do, not what a Good Girl would do, but then, he’d know her limits.  He’d know that when she said “Banana”, that she wanted a Time Out.  Maybe she could worm one hand out from under the sheet.  Of course he loved her, the sheet was tied in a squareknot and she had plenty of room to wiggle herself free.  She just had to be careful and not let him know, not just yet anyways.

He seemed nervous. When he came up the stairs, she could hear the spoon rattling on the plate.  This was not something he had planned for.  He had never been any good at planning.  Organizing, she would always have to help him out.  As long as she played along, used Stockholm Syndrome psychiatry on him, he’d be sweet and gentle with her.

“Hi."

“Hi."  She smiled. His letter. He's quoting his letter. It's the only word that comes out easily for him.

"That soup smells really good. Is it Tomato?"
"You guessed it. Straight from the can to the microwave,"
"The way all the best cooks do it,"
"Here, can I help you . . ."

He fed her, silently. Tenderly. She complimented him some more, tried to make some small talk, but he went quiet on her again.

Finally, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m a little uncomfortable, but it’s not AWFUL”

“Good.  I’m glad to hear that.  I, um… I have to leave for a couple hours.  When I come back, you better be exactly the way I left you, you hear?”

“Certainly.  I’ll be good.  I promise!”  She said in what she hoped was her sexiest little kid voice.

He took the dish and the smell of the soup away. Closed the door behind him.

And then another one, further off, closed, taking all the air out of the house in a single breath.  Maybe that was the front door.  She waited a few more minutes, itching, first with both feet, then with one of her hands.  Then, she heard a car start up and drive off.  Not sure if it was his, she slipped both hands out of the tie in back and began digging into the skin at her ankles with both hands, cursing the fact that her fingernails weren’t longer.  She only took off the blindfold to take a look at the damage to her skin.

Her eyes quickly got used to the darkness of the room, which had edges of light at the windows and under the door.  She was careful to leave the blindfold right on the seat and the sheet hung over one side of the chair, in case she needed to slip everything on quickly.

She tried the door very slowly and to her surprise, the doorknob turned.  It wasn’t even the type of door that had a lock.  Imagine that!  How careless of him!  Either that, or he was just a rotten kidnapper.  A noise came from downstairs and she instinctively slunk back into the shadows.  Realizing it was closer to a house-settling sound than a henchman’s rifle, she walked into the hallway.

She was on the second floor.  The house was permeated with that New Carpet smell and she was pretty certain that her barefeet were the first to grace his new blonde wall to walls.  For a moment, she had an instinct to wash her feet, still sandy from the water. But being naked, and practically kidnapped, she decided to let it slide.

 Peering out the windows, she didn’t see another house, only trees. At least this meant that another house couldn’t see her.

Her voice called out but nothing came back to her except dead air.  

It couldn’t be this simple.

Looking around, she noticed a strange thing. There wasn’t any furniture.  The balcony she was standing on looked out over a Living Room Area.   A few skylights added to the illusion of space and gave the room much more light.  She opened a few doors and found one room with a bed in it, the covers unmade and disheveled, like a stubborn teenager had slept there.  In the attached bathroom, she found a shaving kit, toothbrush and toothpaste, but not much else.  One bar of soap.  The unremarkable bathroom opened onto another surprise, a generously sized bathtub with built-in jets.  Like the one their parents had had when they were kids; a poor man’s hot tub.

Before she even began thinking about her plan, she flipped the hot water on.  She ran it over her ankles and let the force of the faucet relieve her skin.  For a minute or two, it was absolute heaven. Something about the heat activated the nerve endings in her skin.  She sat on the edge of the tub, lost in this thought.  Allowing the sheer pleasure of an itch, properly scratched, to come through her body.  But somehow the water wasn’t enough.  Couldn’t go deep enough.  She was hoping for that release, just beyond this sensation, like an orgasm that is just out of your reach.  The itch and the relief from it ebbed away and she opened her eyes again.  

There was only a hand towel, dirty with streaks of mud (she hoped) on the floor.  Nothing else to dry off on.  The plug to the drain was secured with the same type of chain that they used at the bank to keep pens from being stolen; she unwound it from the faucet and let the water keep running so she could have a proper bath.

She had no idea how long he’d be gone and wanted to spend her time in the house usefully.  

Going down the stairs, she tried to call out a few more times, but there was no answer.  Now she noticed a few cardboard boxes, one that said “Office” in black permanent letters, on its side in the front hallway.  There was a laptop plug with one end resting on the box and the other still plugged into the wall, but no laptop.  He’d probably taken it with him.

The driveway was visible from the glass frame around the front door and a few of the side windows as well.  Trees set the house off from the road, which she could not see.  Nobody around to hear you scream, she thought.  Trapped in a bad horror movie, she thought.

Walking into the kitchen she did find a few things to eat, just now realizing that she was still hungry. Fear was always a great appetite stimulant and now she realized she might have to hoard some food as well.  A loaf of store brand bread (which she stole two slices from, careful to tie the red wire twistie back just as it had been).  A large jar of peanut butter in the refrigerator was waiting for her.  She took it out and began to attack it with a large spoon.  Not liking her peanut butter cold and solidified, she opened a cupboard and hid it in there.  Maybe she’d take it up to her room with her.  If she was going to play the part of a hostage, she’d better be careful to manage her stock better.  She took it out and left it on the counter, where she’d remember it.  Squirrels would be proud of her, she thought.The kitchen had few supplies, but she found what she needed.  Several packets of instant oatmeal, apple and cinnamon flavored.  Now I’m just in a surreal comedy.  He’ll come back to discover I’ve drowned myself in oatmeal.  Or turned myself into a giant vat of oatmeal.  Maybe the movie of my life will be porn, nothing but a naked woman and a tub of watery oatmeal .

She headed upstairs to drown her sorrows in peanut butter and watery oatmeal until she could think of something better.

The only thing she knew was that he wanted her to escape.

And that she didn’t want to.

1407 words