Blood Doll (8)

            Hours have passed since I sought refuge in the closet. No longer am I so frightened. A sense of serenity has sifted into my flesh, into my marrow. Faint ringing presses against my eardrums; both in and out of the closet are silent. Even the television has been turned off for possibly an hour. My bladder pounds profusely, but I know I am unable to venture so much as knocking on the door to be let out.

            I wonder, if he is not watching the telly, what he is doing. The front door has yet to be opened, else my ears have overlooked it. No kitchen utensils have been put to use. Not so much as a whisper has passed through this door.

            The question of whether he is even still here pervades my thoughts. For the hundredth time, I convince myself he would not be so cruel as to leave me here. Too soon, though, the uncertainty is guided along by other thoughts. Soon enough it is forgotten, and my mind is consumed with other things.

            Footsteps enter the room adjoining the closet. My breath catches in my lungs, and my body stiffens until it is almost immobile. Light spills from under the door. It washes the bottom half of the closet, me included. Enraptured, I watch as a shadow approaches the other side of the door, and listen as the doorknob joggles. With a squeak the door opens, shedding fluorescents fully upon me.

A darkened figure stands in the doorway, blocking the light partially. We are in close proximity to one another, as I have seated myself right in front of the door. With a foot of space between us, I could reach out and easily touch his jeans. Instead, craning my neck, I search his face in curiosity and inspect the way in which he hastily steps back.

            Pressured silence greets us. Mason seems almost frozen in place, as do I. An iceberg made from our combined tension frosts our veins. Our eyes meet, though, vanquishing a small portion of the apprehension surrounding us. Mason holds a hand out for me, and I hesitate minutely before accepting.

            When I am standing, he ushers me out of the closet before fiddling in it himself. If I contain any want to lock him inside, now is the perfect time to do so. Incredulously, I wonder if he realizes his vulnerability. Just one shove could send him stumbling, enabling me to slam and lock the door. I could walk through the, now closed, bedroom door, out of the apartment, and find my whereabouts from there.

            Despite this knowledge, I am unsure of what to do.

In the end, I stand in the middle of the room and scrutinize Mason’s back. He exits the closet with an overwhelming stack of blankets. These he quickly unfurls on the floor at the foot of his bed.

“Are you going to let me out now?” I inquire in puzzlement.

Mason tosses a pillow from his bed onto the nest of blankets. “Nope.”

My muscles clench. “And why not? Have I hurt you like you have me? I don’t even know you. You’re just a sadistic lunatic who locked me in a closet. You can’t keep me here.” I stalk to the bedroom door and attempt to fling it open, but the knob refuses to even turn. While trying to flip the lock, I find that it uses a key, of which I have none. A few swear words drop from my tongue. “What person in their right mind installs this kind of lock here?” I demand.

Mason is merely watching me when I spin to face him. “Let me out. Where are my things? I’m calling the cops.”

“No. You’re not calling the cops, and you’re going nowhere until I’m sure you’re sober, or clean, or whatever you’re on is out of your system,” Mason replies tersely.

For a moment, I am purely devoid of speech. “You think I…” Shaking my head, I clarify, “I don’t do those things. Trust me. I’m clean, sober, whatever you want to call it. Now let me out.”

He holds his ground, even going so far as to take a menacing step toward me. “I’m not going to be held responsible for whatever could potentially happen to you. So you’re staying here, where I know nothing will happen.” When I begin to object yet again, he says, “Just until morning, okay? You can go then, but, God, I’m too tired to deal with this. Can you make it till morning?”

What is the worth to argue? There seems none. My escapes are obstructed and I highly doubt Mason would allow me to call the cops should I somehow manifest a phone. All odds, thus far, have been pointed against me.

“I’m calling the cops the moment I walk out of this apartment,” I reply.

Weariness does indeed begin to creep into Mason’s posture. Languidly, he runs a hand through his black hair. “Maybe you’ll change you’re mind in the morning,” he murmurs, obviously unable to convince himself, much less me.

“We’ll see.”

The evidence of my forfeit sets us both at ease. My emotions settle, leaving behind a strong aftertaste of annoyance. Luckily, my brain is not prone to headaches, as I would have been cursed with a migraine by now. In addition, my bladder reminds me of its capacity with a hearty pounding.

With a sigh, I ask, “Can I at least use your bathroom?”

Mason’s index finger directs me to a door to my right, opposite the closet. “The door doesn’t lock, so I wouldn’t try,” he advises.  

“I wouldn’t so much as dream of it,” I mutter before slamming the door and flicking on the light switch. I relieve myself quickly, then sit on the floor with a sigh of frustration and run my hands through my hair. While I strive to collect myself, I absentmindedly pick at a bandage strapped across my stomach. I have not the strength, though, mentally or physically, to lift it, to peek at the wound underneath. The thought sickens me.

The reality of the predicament I have put Ang in sinks heavily into my mind. She is likely hovering between her cell phone and front door, awaiting my arrival. By morning, her slight concern will be notched to a clinical freak-out-session at my continued absence. As Mason probably has my cell phone, there is no way to contact her, much less anyone else. I am unsure exactly where I even am. No one but Ang would take my call seriously anyway. Like Mason, others would believe me to be high off of something.

It is not certain I would call anyone but Ang had I my cell phone.

My mind is jumbled well past practicality at what has occurred by now, and an extreme case of exhaustion has crept into my muscles. The last thing I want to do is face my problems. Such a thing is inevitable, though. For a moment I close my eyes, then stand and exit the bathroom.

Mason has changed into pajamas and now takes a step toward me before thinking better of it and halting. “You can take the bed,” he says. When at first I do not move, he merely watches me. Uncertain, I debate whether or not to demand to be let out. In the end, I climb on the bed without a struggle, fidget to find a comfortable position under the covers.

            I watch as Mason swats the lights off. Minute sounds of him situating on the makeshift bed reach my ears, then all is silent. Though my eyes are open wide, I can see nothing through the darkness. The atmosphere around my body seems almost alive. Slowly, as silently as possible, I turn onto my side and force my eyes closed. Emanating from the pillow is the unfamiliar scent I have breathed in just recently. Mason’s scent.

            Hours pass, and I believe morning is not far when I am able to doze off.