Lost - Chapter Three

I haven't posted anything for this story in months, so please bear with me.

The world passed me by in a steady kaleidoscope of color – dusty brown mixed with vibrant green, chipped paint with suburban whitewash. Extraordinary, how different everything seemed to be as I lay there. Perhaps my dark surroundings made the world seem so much brighter. Or perhaps the weeks of travel had made me more perceptive to such things.

There was the tiniest hole from which I could peer out of, and to which my face was often pressed. I thought of my father frequently; of warm summer nights in the backyard, the smoke of the neighbor’s bonfires sticking sharply in my nostrils. Of dried grass that prickled your feet, like walking on sparklers. Of a cheap, garage-sale telescope, and my father’s sonorous voice as he recited the constellations. The man who knew everything and never finished high school.

All of that didn’t matter anymore. Orion couldn’t help me now.

There were ruts and bumps along the way, sending me crashing into the walls of my confinement. I used to try to stretch, to keep limber so that I would be ready the day the sky came falling down and that trunk flew open. But it was three months – three long, agonizing months – and I hadn’t tasted any more freedom than what that tiny peephole allowed through.

A rough, jarring sound interrupted the bubbling snarl of a motorcycle. My left shoulder rammed into the wall, followed by a sharp snap as bone gave way to upholstered metal. I screamed, not so much from the pain, but in the hope that someone, somewhere might hear me.

The motorcycle revved, overruling my wordless plea.

My mouth worked in feverish desperation, trying to form coherent words. The papery skin of my lips tore easily, beads of salty blood pooling in the cracked flesh. I pressed my hands to my skull, feeling the throbs of pain beneath my fingers.

A single word echoed in my mind, keeping time with the agonizing pulsations.

Psyche . . . Psyche . . . Psyche . . .

He never called me by my name. Even in his emails to me, before I had seen his face – before he threw me into his trunk – I was Psyche. I didn’t know his real name, only that he wanted to be known as Eros. Perhaps he knew of my fondness for mythology; perhaps using those names made him feel clever.

I didn’t care what name he used. I would call him a liar either way.

All at once, my mouth ceased to work. A cold thrill of fear swept through me, the palms of my hands slicked with sweat. My voice had waned to a dead silence, my heart fluttering erratically in my chest.

My name . . . what was my name?

Psyche . . . Psyche . . . Psyche . . .

The car pulled forward suddenly, the tires squealing against the asphalt. My battered body tumbled into the wall, my cheek smacking against the upholstery. I didn’t realize that I was crying until a sob tore from my lips, my hands curling jerkily into fists.

Tonight. It had to be tonight.

Every night, he pulled into a cheap motel, some dive that catered specifically to the disreputable. I always slept in the bed – he would sleep beside the door, blocking my only exit.

Something inside me – some intuitive sense – told me that he wouldn’t hurt me if I tried to get past him. Gripping my aching shoulder, I inhaled deeply, a fragile smile creeping across my face.

Elise. My name is Elise.