Chapter 2

Sara's Introduction

Sara’s eyes fluttered open. For a brief moment, she forgot where she was. Her eyes focused on a large wall clock and then she remembered. She laid still in case he was close by. He had been extremely unpredictable for the last few weeks. Some days he would bring her nice, hot meals and talk with her as if they were friends. Some mornings he would set bread and water just inside the door, then come down and give her a beating later. Once, he ignored her completely for two days. She got no food, no water, and (thankfully) no beatings for 48 hours. By the end of the second day, she had almost wondered if he had left town. A thousand scenarios had gone through her head. Had he finally been found out? Had he been arrested for her murder? Would anyone find her before she dies of dehydration? But, the next day, he had come back with a vengeance. He gave her dry toast and water for breakfast and a few hours later, he came in and beat her like he’d never beat her before.

Today was, luckily, a good day. Glancing at the calendar on the wall, she could see that today marked exactly three months of her being held captive in his basement. Some days she wondered if she would ever get out of his basement. She felt hopeless most days, but some days were different. Some days, he gave her hope that he might let her go. But then he would take it right back and the abuse would continue, allowing hopelessness to sink back in.

Sara thought back to the day she woke up down here three months ago. She had a vague recollection of being hit by Patrick, knocked to the floor, and things going black. The next thing she remembered was waking up in a bad, tied to the head board. She had screamed loudly, begging for help. Patrick had rushed in with terror on his face. He had tried to calm her down without success and finally hit her and knocked her out again. She woke up again several hours later, but this time in what looked like a music studio. She listened for something�"anything. She didn’t hear Patrick. She didn’t hear anything. In fact, the room fell eerily silent. The harder she listened, the quieter it seemed.

Suddenly, Patrick had appeared in the door. He closed the door behind him and she had retreated, afraid he was going to hit her again and he cried. She wasn’t sure what he was crying about. She was the one with blood on her face from being knocked out�"twice! He had walked toward her slowly, arms outstretched. She stayed in the fetal position, crouched in the corner of the room. She could only imagine what he was going to do to her next. But when he finally reached her, he took her in his arms and rocked her, weeping loudly. She remembered it being one of the strangest things she had ever experienced. He had apologized profusely, promising that he would be good to her and she wouldn’t find anyone better than him. Later that day, feeling more confident, she had begged him to let her go home. He once again beat her unconscious, leaving her on the floor of the studio to recover.

It seemed like all that took place just yesterday. She couldn’t believe she had been there for three months already. She wondered if her husband or daughter had looked for her or if they just assumed she was dead. She couldn’t count how many times she wished she had told someone�"anyone�"about Patrick and who he was. They may have found her by now if she had.

Snapping back to her present situation, Sara realized she could smell bacon. She looked at the table by the door to see a plate with two pieces of bacon, scrambled eggs, and a slice of buttered toast. Next to the plate was a small bowl of peaches, a glass of milk, and a rose. But why the rose? He did this often. When he was feeling remorseful or had beaten her badly the night before, there was always a rose on the table the next morning. Today it was a white rose�"a sign of innocence, purity, and a new beginning. A card was attached to it and read simply Let’s start over. She scoffed at those three words. Surely, he was kidding. Did he really expect her to forgive him for kidnapping her and beating her for the last two months? Of course he didn’t. He had to be messing with her.

She glanced around the room slowly, searching, but found no sign of him. She looked at the clock again. 8:30. He usually left for work at quarter till 8, so she assumed she was safe to at least sit up. As she inhaled, she smelled the bacon again and her stomach growled. He had been angry last night and gave her nothing for dinner, so she slowly got up and walked to the table next to the door. She devoured the food within minutes, barely stopping to breathe. She knew she should slow down and enjoy it, especially since she didn’t know when she would eat a good meal like this again, but she was so hungry. The baby inside her was growing and she needed more sustenance than Patrick was giving her.

She thought of Randall and her pregnancy with Myla. He was so wonderful to her�"running out in the middle of the night for whatever she was craving, giving her feet and back rubs each and every time she complained, and insisting she not lift a finger to clean, cook, or anything. She remembered one time in particular she had called Randall on her way home from work, complaining about her aches and pains and telling him how exhausted she was. And her day wasn’t over yet. She had to stop and pick up her dry cleaning, grab something for the two of them for dinner (there was no way she was cooking after the day she’d had), and drop a package off at the post office. When she got home and opened the front door, there was a trail of flower petals leading through the living room, up the stairs, and to the bathroom door. She pushed it open slowly. Randall was standing there with a glass of sparkling grape juice. There were candles and flower petals all over the bathroom. It smelled like lavender�"so soothing. Soft music was coming from the radio sitting on the counter and the claw-footed bathtub was filled with water and bubbles.

Sara smiled at this memory, willing for herself to be able to go back to that moment in time�"to start over with Randall and be the wife and mother she should have been. But she couldn’t. She had messed up. As horrible as Patrick was being, no matter how crazy he got, she just couldn’t forget the fact that this was her fault. Some days she felt that she deserved the beatings. If she didn’t have a baby inside of her, she would simply end it. She had thought about it several times before�"even planned it out once. All she would have to do is break the mirror hanging on the wall and use the shards to cut her wrists. She could do it in the morning, just after he leaves, and by the time he got home from work, she would have been long gone. But she wondered what he would do with her? Would he take her to a hospital? Call an ambulance? Or would he simply bury her in his yard, unborn baby still possibly alive in her belly? She couldn’t bare the thought, so she shook her head to get rid of it.

She refocused her attention to the tray in front of her. She hadn’t touched her peaches yet. She took the bowl of peaches and the glass of milk over to the cot and sat down on it, propping herself up with several pillows and covering her legs with the blanket. She ate the peaches slowly, savoring each bite. Once again, she scanned the room filled with mostly recording equipment. Her eyes fell on a picture she hadn’t seen before. It was small and tucked in a corner shelf, half-hidden behind a speaker. She got back up and went to get a closer look. It was a family picture of Patrick, his wife, and his son. They were wearing hats, coats, and gloves, and standing proudly in front of a large, but lopsided snowman. They were all smiling, including Patrick.

For the first time, Sara saw him in a new light. She had never seen him that happy since she’d known him. She had seen glints of happiness when they were talking and laughing, but nothing like in this picture. His wife was beautiful. She had short brown hair and brown eyes. She was thin and quite a bit shorter than Patrick, but they seemed to somehow fit together perfectly. Sara suddenly found herself feeling sorry for Patrick. He had lost his wife and the authorities never found out how she died. She remembered reading the story in the paper. They called it suicide, but there was never any proof that it was. Her car had been driven off a cliff with her in it in the middle of winter. Sara wondered if that was part of the reason that Patrick had kidnapped her. Did he think he could somehow avenge his wife by taking another man’s wife? The thought was obviously absurd, but with Patrick’s emotional and mental state, Sara didn’t doubt that it had gone through his mind at one point or another.