Kidnapper in Mind 02

Chapter 2 ( - Her neck muscles straining from the silent scream. Her body trembling increasingly, waking up her husband as the bed shook. - )

In any other days, the alarm clock that illuminated her body had no significant importance. Today, it was unknowingly crucial to the survivor. It sat harmlessly on a small walnut circular end table at the side of her bed. The clock read 2:27 A.M. The time slowly ticked as the woman with wide open glazed eyes sat. Scared. Stuck in memories. At 3:00 A.M her mouth opened unnaturally with no sound coming out. Her neck muscles straining from the silent scream. Her body trembling increasingly, waking up her husband as the bed shook.

                At first, he believed he was dreaming. Reality and sleep mixed in his mind. He twisted his body awkwardly to look at the source of the motion. As far as he knew, earthquakes were not possible where he lived. He was confused and it showed in his weary eyes. His hair was stuck up on one side and flat on the other. He clumsily pushed and kicked the comforter off, feet tangling. He rubbed his eyes, yawning, and stretching. When he finally observed his wife’s face, it put him in high alert and panic. Something was wrong and not knowing scared him. He moved and sat up to be at her side. He pulled her into his chest and made soothing sounds as he rubbed circular patterns at her back.  He worried his bottom lip with his teeth before getting the courage to speak in hopes he wouldn’t startle her already addled mind.

                “It is okay,” he mumbled as his wife’s mouth closed slowly and she buried her face into his chest unconsciously. He rocked her back and forth as you would with a small child. She had yet to wake fully and he couldn’t help but feel useless. Her nightmares had steadily been getting worse since that man came on the news. The Professor’s face had been plastered on all televisions, online, and newspapers. The husband was happy that the execution was going to be done when the country slept. The monster didn’t deserve recognition nor anyone to morn him…including his sicko fans. The husband leaned back and smiled as he noticed the time. It was past three and the torment was at its end. They had been invited and he had quickly declined. His wife had become pale and it had taken days for her to recover from that call. She had almost fainted when the name of her tormentor had been uttered. The name of Alexander Free.

                “Honey?” the woman called out in confusion. Her voice muffled by his shirt. She pressed her hands to his chest and pushed away. He let her because he wanted to see her eyes. He was thrilled to find that the glazed-look she had was gone. He placed his hand gently on her cheek, rubbing it with his thumb lovingly. His eyes looked deeply into her own with relief. “Was it—”

                “You had another nightmare,” he confirmed, cutting her off, knowing what she wanted to know. It was a routine he followed many nights and was willing to continue if he had to. Years of being her protector had him aware of the time she needed to get over and forget. Though, he doubted the forget would ever happen. He sighed heavily and pulled them both down to lay on the bed, keeping her head on his chest and arms holding her comfortable. He dragged one hand into the tresses of her hair and she made a hum of bliss as he massaged her scalp. Though he had the inability to wake her up when she was at her worse, at least he could give her a feeling of comfort and security when the terrors were over. He yawned from the serene silence that fell in the room. One yawn became another and then many. His eyes started to flutter shut as weariness came upon him.

                His wife noticed as she looked up at him and smiled happily. “Sleep,” she mumbled.

                “I have to make sure you are okay,” he slurred out languidly. She chuckled at him. She loved this man. He was her life. He was the light who had brought her out of the darkness of insanity. He had stood and stayed next to her at the worse of her life when he didn’t have to. He did what her parents couldn’t when she had entered the world from her imprisonment. She had become a stranger to them. They had wanted their little girl back and that was impossible. He had accepted who she was and her fears.

                “Your job is done. You woke and comforted me,” she said. “You did enough. Sleep, my love.” His hand slowly stilled in her hair and she dragged her finger down his nose repeatedly, lulling him into a deep slumber. When he started to snore softly, she put her hand over his heart. Its steady beat brought a soft smile to her lips. She looked up at his features and stretched her neck to give him a chaste kiss on his lips. A large smile went on his face at the touch of her mouth and he pulled her even closer.

                She breathed in and out heavily, inhaling in his scent, a small yawn materializing at the familiarity. Her eyes burned and though her body was heavy with exhaustion, her mind ran rampant. She wished she had the ability to sleep as her husband. She couldn’t with the knowledge of what was today. She knew he was dead but he was still there in her mind.

Her hand rose to touch the area between the hairline and behind her ear. The skin was puckered and tender, even after all the years that had passed by. She traced its design, feeling the etched number: 57. That was her brand, her mark, and her place in the line of the other victims. She was fifty-seven out of seventy. She had not been his last victim and it tortured her that she had survived. Every day that guilt pulled her down. What made her special? As far as she knew, she had been like the rest. Others had killed like she had to. Others had done what had been asked by him like she had. Yet, they all were dead. Burned or buried. She slowly pulled away and out of her husband’s arm when she knew it was futile to go back to sleep. He moved and pulled a pillow in his grasp, snuggling tightly to it. She chuckled and lay on her side, facing away from him.

                Her eyes moved to the clock. It was forty-five past three. She was glad to know there will be nobody to morn him. Nobody to comfort him. He was dead and she hoped it had been painful. She hoped he had been scared in his final moments and had cried as they had strapped him to the chair. Did he beg like those he had harmed had? Did they stare at him with same lack of mercy as he had to his victims? Her eyes closed at the mixture of feelings she felt. There was happiness. No one will be stolen and harmed ever again. But there was this sick feeling to her stomach as if something bad was going to happen. With it, she felt as if she had forgotten something important that she knew but failed to recall.

                “It is all in my head,” she whispered to herself.

                Just as her worries left and her mind emptied, she woke again not long after. She couldn’t breathe! Her lungs were not working. Her heart was stuttering, beating irregularly. She went to call out for her husband, but her jaw locked. Then there was a jolt of electricity from an unknown origin that traveled to her stomach. She stood and struggled to the bathroom. Her feet shakily taking her to the toilet where she sat down, the plastic seat cover bending slightly under her weight. This had to be a dream. This pain couldn’t be real. Her hand searched for the light switch on the wall, blindly finding nothing, increasing her fear and frustration. When she finally touched the switch, she flicked it up quickly. The dim lighting of the room startled her momentarily. The pain was constant and her mind couldn’t tell if it was getting worse. She had to be having a stomachache or a very disturbing adverse effect to food she had consumed in the last six to eight hours ago. “The pain will go away,” she mumbled to herself over and over again. “Just a few more minutes. It will go away.”

                It didn’t.