Page 60 of Letting Go

I start to fall limp just as Matt releases my nose. I suck the air as fast as I can and wrench hard to the right, but Mike grabs me even tighter and Matt pinches my nose again. This time Matt grabs the back of my head and hangs on tight, pinching hard while Mike sets me in the back of the car and bounds my hands in front with more duct tape. I'm fighting and fighting and fighting, and even faster, I weaken. I start to fall back into the seat, passing out, just before he releases.

"Quit fighting me or I'll just keep doing this," says Matt. My head lolls backward as Mike pushes me deeper into the car.

I can’t get air into my lungs fast enough. My head hurts.

Matt starts explaining. "You're gonna sit there. You're gonna sit there like a lady, even gonna put a seatbelt on you," Matt says, sliding a seat belt across me. He drags his fucking filthy hands across my breast. "There, now you're pretty as a picture."

"This is for you," he says. "Remember, God gave you these for a reason," and he squeezes my left breast.

Fuck you.

"Don't touch her," says Mike. "She is not to be touched, only to be revered."

"Revered my ass," mutters Matt, as he settles in the front passenger seat.

They back out, pass the trucker with his 16-wheeler. Mike waves. No one can see me in the back through those tinted windows.

Maybe I can throw myself out the door before the car gathers too much speed. I'll just fling myself out onto the road. But then what? Nobody knows I'm here and nobody knows I've left.

Just as my head starts to clear and I realize we're heading north, Mike whips around and puts a bag over my head. He starts to tie it around my neck but I pull back. My arms hurt, there's nothing I can do except sit here. My head pounds. I try to lean forward to whine or something to have them take this tape off. I think I'm going to be sick and I'll drown if they don't remove the duct tape from my mouth. But the nausea subsides after a minute or two. Instead, fear twists like a knife: the bag makes everything dark, enclosed, all the things I hate. I start to wheeze, sucking down more air than I need, the blackness around me a malignant reminder that I cannot move, I cannot scream, I am completely powerless.

The vertigo becomes almost unbearable and the air driving into my lungs will not stop.

Calm down. Stop breathing so hard. You'll pass out.

I know these things. I've passed out before from hyperventilating. I nearly did with Bryce in the car two days ago. And he's not here. But I can't stop. I arch up in the seat trying to escape myself. The sound of my own breath is loud, raspy. I started to lose consciousness I can feel my brain sort of sliding away from itself.

"What the hell?" is all I hear before everything goes black.

When I wake up, all I know is I'm lying on a floor.

It's hard, cold, and vibrating from an engine. There's noise all around me loud, loud noises, and I can't figure out where I am. I seem to be rolling pitching way too much for a truck. The hood is gone from my head but my head throbs. I've got a concussion. I know I've got a concussion. I need to be in a hospital. Can't mess around with concussions.

I try to open my eyes. There's more blackness and rhythmic hits of wet spray buffet my face. The duct tape across my mouth is also gone, but my hands are still bound in front of me and I can see the silver of more duct tape.

"Ah. Sorry. You must have tried that door with your head," he says. "That wasn't supposed to happen. That bump on your head I mean. I am very sorry."

I turn my head slowly so the place doesn’t spin, and look up. There's Reed being all British.

Reality comes in pieces and I see him sitting on a bench seat. The reason the place won’t stop moving is because we're in a boat. A small speed boat and I'm on the deck behind him. I roll to my back to get the spray out of my face.

"What have you done?"

"What?" he yells above the roar of the speed boat. Then he hears me is second later. "I'm saving you from yourself."

I try to raise my voice and my head feels like it's going to explode. "You've just committed a federal crime."

"What's that love?"

Talking hurts too much.

He glances over his shoulder as he leans down and cuts the motor. The sun is just rising, and he's moving around, tossing a rope. Then he turns to me and squats down.

"Did I hear 'crime'? You signed a contract," he says before standing up, "You signed the contract that you would stay and work as my cook for ten years."

"That's not a valid contract." Bile rises in my throat. From being with him again or the concussion—I can’t tell.

"Oh, it really is, he says. "You can't just leave."