Missing Like You

TWENTY-NINE

ISABELLE DONOVAN
THURSDAY JUNE 23, 2022

Day seven. I would say that not much has changed, but that's not true. A lot has changed, especially in such a short period on time.

I woke up this morning and the normal feeling of dread and dismay that I've grown accustomed to feeling during my past seven days here was no longer there. I felt rejuvenated and well-rested, as though I actually slept thoroughly throughout the night. There was a fresh change of clothes waiting on the dresser for me this morning, as well as French toast with maple syrup and a bowl of fruit. My captor seems to be treating me quite well, though he still hasn't told me my reason for being here.

After our walk through the woods on Tuesday night, I felt more comfortable with him. It's hard to explain and I probably sound crazy, but I don't think he's as dangerous as he makes himself out to be. If it weren't for the fact that he was keeping me locked in this cottage, I'd honestly think he was just a regular guy. Our conversations come naturally now, no longer forced and one-sided like they were in the beginning. We talk about things that matter. He tells me a bit more about himself every day. He asks me questions about my life and I tell him without holding back. It feels kind of nice, being able to talk to someone without fear of judgment. I've never attended therapy, but I think this might be what it feels like. Talking freely and openly with another person with the knowledge you can truly say anything.

Tonight he comes in and asks if I would like to watch a movie with him in the living room. At first I'm so taken back by this suggestion that I think it can't be real. But sure enough, it is. Who would say no to that?

I walk timidly out of the bedroom and into the living room. He lets me have the couch to myself as he makes himself comfortable on the reclining chair. He asks what I want to watch and I have no idea. "Nothing scary," I tell him. "Or sadistic."

He ends up putting on Fight Club, then goes to the kitchen. I look at the television, then glance at the front door. It's so close, I could get there in four strides if I really tried. I look back and watch him as he opens cupboards and begins pouring something into bowls. It seems easy, but that's because I'm not thinking clearly. I know very well what will happen if make an attempt at escape. The door won't open because I don't have the key and he'll be on me in seconds, gun drawn from his belt. He probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot me if he had to. I mean nothing to him.

It's then that I decide it's not worth it. I know I don't stand a chance. My life is not worth the risk.

I've never shot a gun before. When I was younger my dad used to shoot targets on trees in the forest near our house. He offered to teach me a couple of times, but I had no interest. I am now regretting that decision.

I think about all the missed opportunities I've had in life, from passing up on shooting lessons, to never taking a self-defence class. I am essentially useless. No one prepared me for this. I didn't think there'd ever come a day where I'd have to know any of these things. But alas, here I am.

He materializes from the kitchen, two bowls in his hands. He comes towards me, placing a bowl of popcorn on the couch next to me. Then he returns to his seat on the chair and focuses his attention on the screen in front of him. I watch him as he eats. I eye the bowl beside me, then eventually pick it up and do the same.

Once the movie is over, he picks up the remote and turns off the television. Our bowls are both empty and sit on the coffee table in front of us.

He looks at me. "First rule of Cottage Club," he prompts, expecting me to finish the line, but I don't find it humorous. "You like Brad Pitt?" he continues anyways.
"I do."
"What's your favorite Brad Pitt movie?"
"Benjamin Button, hands down. What about you?"
"Seven," he says. "You know that one?"
I roll my eyes. "Of course I know that one. And of course you choose his only movie about a serial killer."
"Why do you say it like that?"
"Because you're probably a serial killer."
He laughs at this. A surprised laugh. "You seriously think that?" he asks. "You think I'm a serial killer?"
I shrug.
"Isabelle, I have never hurt anybody in my life. I would go far enough to say that I wouldn't even hurt a fly."
"Well you hurt me."
"No, I really haven't."
I don't respond.
"Think about it," he says. "I have not laid a finger on you. You have not been harmed in any way since you've been here. That says a lot, doesn't it?"
"You have a gun."
"But have I used it?"
Again, I don't respond.
Instead, I say, "I don't doubt you wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on me if you needed to."
He stares at me not saying anything. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."