Behemoth

Clean and slightly mollified from my night at the bar, I turn off the faucet handles to the shower and and step out. Chilled air from the hallway assaults my body. There's a towel on the back of the bathroom door from my shower yesterday and I lunge for it, quickly creating an imperfect toga around my wet skin to keep out the cold.

My bedroom will be warm, at least

. I throw myself through the doorway, one hand holding onto my toga, and make a dash for the room at the end of the hallway.

Tomorrow, I am calling maintenance again. There's no excuse for it to be this frigid in here.

The stupid radiator clanks in agreement.

Wet footprints form a ghostly trail along the oak floorboards behind me, but I'm too hurried to care. Watermarks on the floor are the least of my concerns right now.

Warmth, here I come.

I run through my bedroom door in triumph, and crash face-first into a brick wall.

At least, it

feels

like a brick wall, until two impregnable arms come up and wrap themselves around my slight biceps and clasp behind my back, constricting my entire body.

My ribs creak, unaccustomed to such violence.

I yelp involuntarily, evacuating precious air from my lungs that I am unable to get back. The muscles of my chest contract, preparing to scream. But drawing breathe is impossible. His arms are too tight. A strangled, desultory wheeze is the only sound that escapes my lips.

How can this be?

For a moment I am stunned. This is impossible.

I try to scream again. Nothing, except a burning agony in my lungs where air ought to be, but isn't.

Why is he here? Is this a joke?

Please, please, please

be a misunderstanding. Let me go and you can find the right person. I'm not her. Please.

My thoughts evolve into panic: this is real. I've wasted milliseconds figuring that out; milliseconds that could be the difference between escape and failure.

Maybe the last milliseconds of my life

, I think morosely.

Is this what death feels like? Endless and painful and surprising? Unconquerable?

Like how a mouse feels when a python takes it by surprise.

I refuse to be the mouse.

Fight or flight isn't even an option here: it's either fight or give in. I refuse to give in. With the sudden clarity that comes from decisiveness, I rear back in an attempt to throw him off guard.

You need to live

is the mantra I hang onto as I struggle to push my arms out and up, beyond the ring of solid steel that anchors them down. They're as useful as two flimsy plastic straws, smushed against my sides and utterly immobile. No amount of tugging or twisting makes any difference.

In frustration, I ball my fists and beat them forward again and again into the ironclad abdomen in front of me, hoping vainly that my pitiful love-taps of self-preservation will miraculously convince him to let me go.

Asphyxiation is the number one cause of accidental infant deaths. At work, we train to recognize the sleeping positions that are most likely to cause it, and we learn mandatory CPR training. But no one ever tells you what to do when the asphyxiation is calculated and malicious. Society likes accidents--accidental births, accidental deaths, accidental injuries. We sweep them under the rug as an unfortunate but inexorable fundamental truth of the human condition. But the real dark shit in life isn't what we do to each other out of carelessness--it's what we do to each other with absolute and unerring purposefulness.

There's no doubt in my mind that this is an act of purpose. Somewhere, somehow, my suffering is the result of calculated evil. There is no other explanation for this. But I'm too far gone into the darkness to give it any more thought than that. Black dots dance in my vision, and my neck is in agony from how I've twisted it: out and up--like a swimmer, drowning--trying to keep my face away from the soft cotton and hard abs that threaten to cage in my nose and my mouth, the opening and closing of which are the only suggestion that my descent into unconsciousness is not yet complete. And this thing--this man--presses me to his chest, his stomach, his groin, like a tide enveloping a sandy beach, slowly but relentlessly, as if savoring the dawning hopelessness that his unhurried actions lend to the situation. Every inch he takes away from me forces me to recognize the fact that the weapons he uses against me are all strong, all indefatigable, all pieces of this living, breathing instrument for my slow and inescapable demise.

Maybe it'll be over soon

is my last conscious thought, as I finally lose my freedom to a force against whom I have no chance of winning.

BEHEMOTH

She ran straight into the arms of the most dangerous person in her world:

me.

With all the weird shit that's been going on in her life, you'd think she would be a little more careful.

I sigh while I finish my work. It's typical. No sense of self-awareness in people these days. "Oh, it's my bedroom, let me sprint right into it without looking."

Nope-the-fuck-it's-not. It was your bedroom. Now it's my workspace. And you are my newest project.

Not that I didn't enjoy getting rammed into by a fresh-faced, dripping-wet naked woman. I smirk, savoring the memory. If she'd stopped struggling for a moment she would have felt just how much I enjoyed it. The thought of her reaction to my hard cock makes my hand fumble, and I drop a screw.

Fuck.

She's a first for me.

Inexperienced women are something

I'm

inexperienced with, and I never realized how much entertainment value they've got. Maybe those assholes who worship virgins are onto something.

Of course, it seems like a lot of those dickwads aren't able to get experienced women to sleep with them either, but that's none of my business.

Business. That's what this comes down to. Still, I couldn't help but run a hand across her breast when I laid her out on the carpet. They're bigger, firmer, than her slight frame would suggest. But it's not just her breasts: her alabaster skin, her nipples pebbled from the cold, her thick dark waves of hair.

The girl is fucking mesmerizing.

Mesmerizing?

I snort.

You're losing your edge, Behemoth. Pussy words like that keep coming out of your mouth and soon this will be a romance instead of a retribution. Man the fuck up.

My inner monologue can be an asshole sometimes. But he's usually right.

I tug the electronic bracelet a little firmer around her ankle, in penance for my sentimentality. She'll be awake soon, and I need to get the finer things taken care of without her resistance in the way.

Effortlessly, I scoop her off the floor and stand her upright against me.

She begins to stir, and an inquisitive moan escapes her parted lips. I hoist her up and turn off the lights.

Then I wait.

Chapter 8

What happened?

My lips clumsily form the first word, but they get no farther than that. Not that it matters--no one acknowledges my fumbled attempt to speak anyway. The sound is partly muffled by my chest, and I realize my chin is resting slack against it.

Where am I?

I blink three times, trying to acclimate my eyes. There is no acclimating--it's a blanket of darkness. I can see the faint outline of my body below, but that's it.

With immense effort, I raise my head. It's foggy and heavy and doesn't want to move.

Ow

. Pain from unbending my stiff neck is gone as quickly as it begins, but it's enough to wipe away my dreamlike stupor.

I am awake, and immediately I know that something is wrong. Of all the strange positions I've fallen asleep in, this is the most painful.

Because this isn't a normal nap

.

The truth sobers me. Fear begins to creep in, unsolicited and raw. With a deep breath, I reign in the urge to panic, at least for now. Focus on the things I know: I'm upright, but I can't see, and I'm deathly cold.

What else do I know?

With trepidation, I begin to take stock of myself.

My wrists hurt. Everything hurts, really, but there's a sharpness to the pain in my wrists that makes it unbearable. Like the grasp of a powerful hand around them, but more clinical than that. They're fixed above my head, forcing my torso taut below. I try to wiggle free. It's impossible. Whatever I'm gripped by is unyielding and cold. I pull again, and hiss when the skin of my wrist scrapes painfully against what feels like hard steel.

Hard, just like he was

. The thought unwillingly throws me back into my last moment of consciousness, and with a jolt I remember the madman in my bedroom.

It's not over--he's not done--and wherever I am now is precisely because he wants me to be here. Alone. Weak. Unable to move. My breath hitches, and I close my eyes, willing myself not to faint.

He might not be in here

, I repeat to myself, hoping that if I say it enough it'll become true.

I know I'm a liar. If he's not in here yet, he was recently. That smell is back--the ocean and citrus and a bitter underlay that I hadn't noticed until now. It's from him.

They say when one sense is lost, the others improve.

I'd still rather be able to see,

I think defiantly. But without vision to cloud my judgment, I realize that the scent is even more familiar than the phantom odor that's been lingering in my apartment.

I smelled this earlier, on the dance floor

,

with him.

It was fainter then, and mixed with the sweaty odor of the bodies around us, but I'm certain it's the same.

My skin prickles with the realization that this just got a whole lot more sinister.

How long has he been stalking me?

I hold my breath, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating.

It doesn't matter, Lu. Think. Come up with a plan.

It's darker than sin in here--wherever

here

is--and inspecting my surroundings is impossible. There's a breath-catching chill in the air, and suddenly I'm struck by the realization that part of my temperature issue is due to nudity. My towel is gone, and nothing is in its place.

Did he...?

No.

Breathe

.

I force out a shallow breath, and stretch my torso to lessen the pull of the restraints on my shoulders. I saw a show once, about a man who dislocated his own shoulders in a bid to escape from his kidnappers. He found freedom, but not before they killed his girlfriend and removed all of his fingernails.

He worked for the mob.

Calm down, Lu

.

You're not him

. A cruel voice adds "yet," but I push it away.

Getting caught up in fear won't fix this.

Instead, I gingerly stretch again, this time gaining a little leeway by adjusting the angle of my wrists. At least it's something. My feet barely brush the floor, and whatever is beneath me feels plush and soft, like high-pile carpet.

Is that...?

Yes.

I know this feeling.

It's my carpet. My room. We never left it.

I give a deep sigh of relief, knowing that if we're still here, I still have a chance. There's people around. Maybe they--

And that's when I hear it: a sudden, quick crack, like the sound a floorboard makes from an unexpectedly heavy footfall, or from being stepped on after a long period of disuse.

God. He's in here

.

The choice of words brings a stab of guilt. Appealing to God in a crisis is exactly what I've been taught for 21 years of my life, and here I am, in a crisis, and asking Him for help didn't even occur to me until I used his name by accident.

Truthfully, I know that the only thing that can help me right now is myself, and little good that I've done.

The floor cracks again, a whip-like sound. And this time, the noise that accompanies it is unequivocally a footstep--a heavy, measured one.

Why didn't I hear a footstep the first time?

That's not fair.

Before I can think about it, there's another heavy footstep.

That's three. He's close

.

Another. But this one doesn't sound any nearer than the others. The floorboards stay quiet. Almost like he didn't move.

Because he didn't.

I'm certain of it.

That bastard is messing with me on purpose

. The truth slaps me like a harsh branch, and without meaning to I snarl into the obscurity.

In the midst of my rage, I almost miss it: a deep sound underlays my own outburst.

Was that a chuckle?

Is he seriously laughing at me right now?

I bristle in anger, straightening my spine, only to remember that in my naked, immobile, defenseless state, there's really no good result that could come from me antagonizing him.

But it's too late. He accepts my challenge. Just below where my leg meets my ass is abruptly assaulted by a firm, rough hand with a grip like the jaws of a piranha. I yelp and bounce forward.

Again. And again. And again.

My escape maneuvers are fruitless. His large hand is unyielding at the back of my thigh, and I know his positioning is deliberate--two inches higher and the underside of my ass cheek would be sitting atop his finger. His thumb would be resting against my...uh-uh. I don't even want to contemplate the thought. He wouldn't dare. Would he...?

You know nothing about this man

, I chide myself.

Besides his Mediterranean scent and his domineering touch

, my rebellious inner voice argues. The fact that both of those were foisted on me unwillingly isn't relevant to the point I'm trying to make. It'd also be counterproductive to mention the restraints that hold me powerless in front of him, or my lack of clothing.

Rebellious me is a terrible arguer

, I realize dishearteningly.

Arguing with myself is a momentary distraction, a coping mechanism to avoid the seriousness of my situation. But it can't last forever. I shiver, overwhelmed by cold and fear and helplessness.

His hand hasn't moved.

I, too, am motionless, both scared and indignant--but mostly scared--by the way he's grasping my flesh as if he owns it.

Just another bruise to add to the growing list

, I note inanely, half-giddy from the fear and panic that are overloading my senses. If I were an electric grid, I'd have long since exploded from this insupportable influx of emotions. My mind flits back to the broken lamp at my the entrance to my apartment. It seems like serendipity now. Was that a harbinger of my own destruction? And the smell? And the curtains on the floor yesterday? Should I have turned around and left?

Don't be stupid, Lu. You're acting like a tinfoil hat conspirator. No one could have known what was going to happen here.

Justifying my helplessness does nothing to quell the resentment and defeat that drag me down.

Like a fucked-up reward for my momentary obedience, he runs the pad of his thumb up and down the smooth skin of my inner thigh, allowing the fingers of the same hand to lessen their grip slightly on my tender muscles.

Does he think petting me makes this entire thing okay? Jesus.

His strokes continue. Mortified by how close he is to my most personal place, I silently bless my decision to shave while I was in the shower.

I grimace at momentarily caring about his affirmation--

Like he really cares if his abductees have silky-smooth thighs and trimmed lady parts, Lu. Get real

.

His fingers abruptly stop their caresses.

Did I say that out loud?

I know I didn't, but somehow he's sensed the change in my mood. For an endless moment his hand remains motionless against my skin, and I implore anyone--God, the universe, the ghost of my apartment--to let him remove his hand and back away.

Please, please, please just go

. I'm shivering with apprehension for what comes next, aware that this is the turning point--I know that his next move will define whatever it is that he wants from me. Fear? Cooperation? Control? He can have those.

He can have anything, except for

that

. The thing I see every day--on the news, in my Twitter feed, across newspaper headlines. Sexual assault. The herald of ruin that every girl has heard of, but never wants to encounter.

That

doesn't happen to good girls, is what they say, a smooth lie meant to whitewash away both the violence of the act and the blamelessness of the victim.

For once in my life, I want to believe in this social stigma, to believe that if I've done everything in my power to prevent it, sexual assault--

rape

, I force myself to think--will just pass me by, like the Angel of Death passing over the Jews of Egypt.

Biblical allusions can't hurt my odds

, I think, imploring the universe one more time to intervene on my behalf.

But the universe gives no fucks.

His hand moves forward between my thighs and cups the open, warm, slightly wet lips of my sex.

I lose my composure, bucking forward wildly against the restraints that anchor me to the ceiling and kicking out behind me. The ball of my foot strikes against his shin, and he grunts in the same way that one grunts at an uninteresting bit of news, or at the ramblings of a precocious child.

It's not very satisfying. Frustrated, I kick backwards again, but my foot finds emptiness.

You bastard

.

I can't touch you the way I want to, but it's fine for you to do the same to me?

I kick again and again, releasing my rage upon an invisible target, for what feels like an eternity.

My wrists bear the brunt of my fit. They're scraped and sweaty and probably bleeding, but I'm determined to lash out, self-injury be damned.

At some point during my meltdown, his hand nestles itself even further between my legs, settling against me with a affectionate squeeze.

I am hateful.

Does he think this is a game?

I jab my foot back, aiming for where I imagine his left kneecap to be. My reward is a loss of balance, but a thick arm preternaturally reaches out to stabilize me, clasping itself snuggly across my chest, in mockery of a seat belt.

Seat belts save lives,

I think angrily.

You ruin them.

I realize that the arm across my chest is bare. And the large, oppressive frame that I'm squished up against--much like I was in the club--has one fundamental difference from then: it is unclothed.

I'm overwhelmed by the unfairness of what is happening.

His unwelcome touch between my legs is an acute and undeniable invasion of my personal space, but there is comfort in the dynamics of it: He is the predator, I the prey.

But the way he's got me pulled against his wide, naked chest is an insult to my position as an unwilling participant. I don't want to find comfort in his warm skin or measured breathing, but I do. He might be a demon incarnate, but his body is impossibly masculine, and the appeal of having it pressed up against me is palpable.

I tremble against him, struck with a horrifying realization:

I am becoming complicit in my own victimization.

Am I? It's a philosophical question that has been rehashed again and again, long before it ever applied to me. Only I never cared about the answer until today. Does the comfort I find in his arms suggest acquiescence to all the things that come after this?

No!

is my immediate response. But a seed of doubt is sprouting. A little bit of my hatred for him is redirected at myself.

It makes no difference. He is impervious to my animosity. Instead, his lazy finger begins to rub back and forth where my two plump outer lips form a V. I squeal and clamp my legs shut as hard as I can, trapping his wrist between my thighs.

He chuckles again, a dark, heavy noise.

I squeeze my thighs tighter around his wrist, balking at how much he enjoys causing me discomfort. In response, he presses his finger harder against the junction of my over-sensitive lips before moving it down and inwards, almost imperceptibly brushing it across the seemingly-insignificant button of nerves nestled between my legs.