Her

Her

Her hands trembled as she reached for it. She knew it was wrong to go through other people's belongings, but she felt such an unavoidable temptation. It was clear, if she saw what was inside, there was no going back. There was no life before this. Nothing to stop her from pursuing what would come after opening the book. She hesitated, pulled back - and eventually, reached her hand out – ever so slightly. She picked up the book. She opened it. The first line of wording on the first page scared her. She immediately put the book down. She walked away.

Sometime later, she found herself three glasses deep in a bottle of merlot that came from the fridge of the hotel room, wondering where her life was going. She thought to herself about the life choices she’d made and debated. “Had it all been worth it?” Had the late nights and strange men led her to discovering this mysterious object? This tempting black hole abyss that called to her and averted her attention at every passing glance? What to do now. “What do I do?”, she thought. She knew she need to look deeper. She knew she needed to plunge herself into its contents. Some other-worldly driving force prompted her to open it again.

After another successfully completed glass of merlot, she picked up the little black book again. The bottle was empty anyways. She gazed at that first page. She knew that if she turned the page, it was too late. She was too deeply involved. On the first page it read, “Karolyn Reyes.” That was her name. She felt an undeniable wave of eeriness fall over her, as if the whole world was witnessing this betrayal. It was HIS book, his property and she was invading his privacy, his secrets. What price would be to pay for such a thing? What consequences could come from a simple glimpse, she argued. Her heart pounded as she turned the page. As suspected, the truth began to unfold. But what did it mean? What was the code that was written before her eyes? Did she know what to do with such information? Could she use this to her advantage?

Oh no! What was that noise? What was coming? Was it him?

She quickly closed the book and placed it back on the dresser and scampered back to the bed just as he barged into the room. He had been drinking, this she was sure of. He always drinks. After the big meetings and long days at the office, the first thing he does off the clock is sit at the nearest bar – usually in the hotel they were staying at – and order a double scotch on the rocks. He sits there and drinks while she waits. Waits for him to come upstairs and do the things she loathes. She never meant to let it go this far. She loved him. She thought if he could just spend more time with her, then he would see what a great catch she really was. Maybe even let her go? Instead, her existence is surmised in countless hotel rooms and late-night drunken encounters, where only one person would ever feel an ounce of satisfaction.

She waited until after. After he fell asleep, she crept back to the dresser. Temptation luring her like a fish to the bait. Chum stirring in the ocean as the shark's approach. Was she the shark or the chum? She slowly fingered to the second page, where her journey abruptly ended. There she saw it - leering and seeping into her mind, like all of this torture and unrequited love finally meant something. As if the degradation and the anticipation of love finally would contort into the freedom she always craved. There she saw it – the secret. The reason he was always out so late and always came home in drunk oblivion. Maybe he felt remorse? Doubtful.

Who’s to say this is even real? What proof does she have? None. She fingers on anyways. Pages and pages of the secret, right before her. She lets out a small gasp. He shudders in his sleep. She cringes. Was he awake? He rolls over and continues his snore. She thinks, “After three scotch drinks, he ought to be knocked out.”

She runs. She bolts out of the hotel room. She is barely dressed but she doesn’t give a damn. Her heart is pounding. Her pulse, racing. She never thought the day would come. She pushed the button on the elevator, double taking back to the door of the hotel room every five seconds.

She pushes the casino lobby button and the close door button as many times as she can manage. As the door begins to close, she hears the pounding of footsteps. As she begins to breathe a sigh of relief, a hand reaches into the nearly closed door of the elevator. She screams.

It’s him! She pushes his hand out just enough to allow the doors to close. She runs through the lobby in the lace robe he bought for her. She doesn’t think twice. She sprints, barefoot and cold into the New York streets, trying her best to hail a cab. No one stops.

She decides she is on her own. She sprints as fast as possible to the nearest place with a phone, which happens to be a corner market. She calls 911. She waits.

When the police finally arrive, she’s asleep and halfcocked on the floor of the corner market. The shop owner tried to wake her, but it was the first non-restless sleep she’d gotten in nearly a decade. They nudge her several times until she becomes responsive.

She is in shock. She can’t speak. In nearly a decade, she was able to respond in the way that SHE wanted. It wasn’t what HE wanted her to say. Suddenly, it was too much. She couldn’t speak. She shuddered as she handed the officers the little black book. It was finally over.

The little black book was a diary. A journal of sorts, that detailed 956 days of her capture. From the time he picked her up from the bus station one summer evening to the night prior to her escape. She knew she loved him, but he never reciprocated the feeling. He took care of her, but only in the terms he dictated. The love she felt wasn’t real.

At the police station, she sat, wrapped in a blanket – that honestly, barely classified as a blanket. It was so still and rough to the touch. She didn’t care. She was free. Relaying her story to the cops sounded like some kind of tale from a horror film. Did they even believe her? Next, she was transported to the hospital where they poked and prodded her for any shred of evidence of truth to her story.

Now all she could do was wait. They kept her there until the early hours of the morning. Right around sunrise, two detectives pulled back the curtains of her hospital bedroom. They told her that she was the one who had finally given them the “Apple Valley rapist” - or so they called him. To her, he was daddy. She knew him by no other name.

It was her. She did it. She survived. That little black book detailed every encounter, every rape. This unveiled the truth to the authorities. She had won and she never wanted to see a little black book or daddy again. The money was an unexpected perk - seeing as how she had no resources to start her life over. What would she do with $100,000? The best part was, she could do whatever she wanted.

A short story by Brittanee Loomis