Parking Lots

I was left in an empty bathtub for two days straight. During these two days, I spent lengthy periods of time sobbing and screaming and begging for mercy to someone that I didn’t even think was on the premises. I’d traded my contacts in for my glasses the night before, as I had been heading to bed, but they’d been removed from my face, leaving me to stare into a room full of objects that I couldn’t make out whatsoever. My wrists were handcuffed to two metal supports on either side of the tub - the kind that handicapped people used to get themselves in and out of the shower.

The restraints kept my hands just far enough away from my body and the walls for me to make myself comfortable. I couldn’t itch my back, couldn’t wipe away my tears, and couldn’t move more than a couple feet up or down. Ultimately, being able to stand in a hunched-over fashion did very little for me. I had no food to eat, no water to drink, and no way of relieving myself.

Needless to say, I’d given up holding in my piss about thirty six hours ago.

Two whole days stewing in my own juices. Two days tearing at the walls as if I could make a pair of metal cuffs break from sheer force alone. Two days screaming for help that was never going to come. Two days losing my fucking mind, and nothing to show for it.

And then he came home.

I thought that I’d run myself dry. I thought that I couldn’t muster up any more energy to fight or to cry or to move. I was wrong.

A door slammed in the distance, signaling that someone was home. Tears poured out of my eyes almost immediately. I pulled my legs into the bathtub, as if it would make me any safer. I squished my body against the wall, trying to look as small as possible. Footsteps came closer to the room I was in - closer, closer, closer - until my attacker was right outside of my door. I watched the knob turn in what felt like slow motion, praying to a God that I thought I didn’t believe in that someone would save me.

No one would.

In walked a towering, darkly garbed figure that I would refer to as a living, breathing monster for the next eternity. I couldn’t make out the features of his face without my glasses on, but I could tell that he wasn’t impressed. He grabbed something off of the sink counter and leaned in close to me, his hands coming towards my face in a motion that was painfully slow. I cringed away from his touch, but couldn’t get far enough away from him to avoid it. He had slipped the aforementioned glasses back onto my face. I suddenly missed not being able to see.

He was gaunt, his pale features decorated with shadows that outlined the his bone structure in a terrifying way. His hair was a dirty blonde color - short and choppy in a way that told me he wasn’t a regular church attender. I tried to take in his look as best I could for what little time I had. If I made it out of here alive, I’d need to draw the police the most accurate picture possible.

Something about the look in his eyes told me that I wouldn’t need to worry about my art skills any time soon. I tore my gaze away from the man, hoping beyond hope that if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. The man leaned over to the shower faucet, unperturbed by the fact that I’d been sitting in my own filth for days, and pulled up on the little tab that held the water in the tub, turning on the shower after he did so. Ice cold water poured down on my head, making me cry out in shock. He ignored my discomfort, his hand still on the knob controlling the heat. I shrunk away from the spray of the water, not getting much farther than a few inches to my right.

Without warning, the shower got hot. Very hot. It was so much worse than the cold.

“Fuck, fuck. Please, oh my god. Make it stop,” I cried out in pain, my skin burning under the heat of the water, “I’ll do anything, please. It hurts, it hurts.”

He did not acknowledge my begging. The water got hotter, if that was even possible. His hand left he knob, closing the lid to the toilet just behind him. He took a seat, listening to the violent serenade of my screaming with an almost serene look on his face. I begged him to stop the shower several more times, the bathtub beginning to fill up with the water that still felt just as hot as when it first smacked into my skin. He responded only by flushing the toilet.

I shrieked as the water became even more scalding, the flush taking away any amount of coolness from the already fiery shower spray. He still wouldn’t speak to me, just watching my frantic attempt to shield myself. He wouldn’t speak for nearly ten whole minutes, my skin being used to the heat at that point.

“My name is Andy,” He introduced, his voice monotonous and deadly, “And you are…?”

My brain was fried, my mouth was dry. I could only stare back at him, my sniffles loud and obnoxious against the white noise of the water hitting the nearly full tub. The silence that came from me seemed to annoy him.

Andy’s face contorted into a disgusted sort-of rage. He uncuffed my right hand, careful to keep me in the spray of the water. With one grip on my free wrist, he fisted his fingers through my unkempt hair, shoving my face close to the water. I tried to keep myself from being forced under, but he had the advantage in strength and in position. My head became submerged in the steaming bath water, my lungs already screaming for oxygen. I struggled against him violently, my wrist being bent at an angle that I was sure would break it if he pressed any farther. The skin of my eyes burned against the temperature, more tears welling up in my sinuses.

I stopped struggling, trying to conserve my energy. I was only wasting what little oxygen I had left.

He tugged me back up, pulling my head back so I had to look at him through a pair of wet lenses. Andy - I wanted to puke every time I realized that he was a real person, with a real name - shook his head disappointedly, like he was finding a bruised apple amongst the bushel he’d purchased. I was plunged back under the water.

The next time he dragged me to the surface, he spoke. “I don’t want to kill you, but I’m more than willing to. You would know that, wouldn’t you?” Andy’s voice kept its monotone, a strange familiarity in his tone, in his depth, but I was too distracted by the fact that I had no fucking idea what he was talking about to think on that tidbit of information, “If you keep being difficult, it may become unavoidable, but I will be as reasonable as I can be. Are you willing to cooperate?”

I nodded, wide-eyed and breathless.

He continued in his evil ramblings, “Now, what do you have to say to me?” Silence ensued his question, my confusion growing steadily rampant the more this horrible man spoke to me. Andy’s eyebrows furrowed once more, his irritation painfully evident - literally. He pulled me closer to his face, both of my wrists under pressure now, as the other handcuff tore at my skin. I could feel his hot breath against my cheeks, making goosebumps spread across my rashing skin. His grip in my hair got tighter, pulling at the matted strands, and he jostled me around, making my already weak mind infinitely more dizzy than before.

“What do you have to say to me?” Andy repeated, his voice filled with a lifeless venom that I had never heard from any other person before in my entire life.

His verbal rage almost hurt more than his physical rage did, and I gasped at the intensity, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll cooperate, I promise. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Shaking his head at my pathetic state, he released my hair, but kept a tight grip on my free wrist. “Now what’s your fucking name. I was trying to be nice,” He spat, digging his dull fingernails into my palm. Somehow, I didn’t think he knew how to be nice.

My mind raced too fast for me to make a decent decision for my next words. For the rest of my life, it would be my worst mistake, what I would say next. “Alethea,” I said, voice quaking with absolute terror, “It’s Alethea.”

Andy did not respond at first, his eyes trailing over my face, looking for the lie that he knew was hiding beneath my skin, behind my eyes, in the skin of my teeth. He could not find anything there. He could not see anything beyond the pure, genuine fear painted into my expression. For the umpteenth time since meeting him, since being forced to sit in his God-forsaken bathtub, he shook his head at me. Leaning over to the faucet once more, he unplugged the drain, restrained my free wrist again, and left the room shortly afterwards, shutting the door behind him.

I was left there for several more hours to sit in the spray of the shower that never seemed to cool. I decided, after much deliberation, that I would probably be dead within the week.

If I had known what was to come, I would’ve found a way to kill myself in that tub.

Notes

... I have no excuse for myself...

Leave a comment if you want more. I'd really appreciate the feedback.
It'll only get worse from here on out, to be honest.

Au revoir.