Chapter 6: CIGARETTES AND CANNED FOOD

Arianna

“Hey! Stop!” The words ripped from my throat, a desperate attempt to halt the unfolding horror. It was in that moment, as his lips brushed against mine with a chilling familiarity, that the weight of my actions, or rather my reactions, slammed into me. I shoved against his chest with every ounce of strength I possessed, a futile gesture against his unyielding form. He didn’t even flinch, just a slow, amused eyebrow raise as if this pathetic resistance was exactly what he expected.

“Forgot that you were supposed to hate me, love?” His grin was a predatory flash of white in the dim car interior, and a treacherous part of me, a weak, terrified part, almost buckled. Almost melted. But the stark reality crashed back – stalker, murderer. These words echoed in my mind, a necessary mantra against the insidious charm he seemed to effortlessly exude.

His eyes, those unnervingly golden eyes, held me captive. There was that familiar pull again, a disconcerting sense of recognition that twisted my gut. It was like a moth drawn to a flame, a dangerous and irrational compulsion that I fought with every fiber of my being. My hand, betraying my conscious will, crept towards his face. I watched in horror as it moved, as if controlled by an external force. In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control, I covered half his face, focusing solely on his eyes. Those golden orbs, now framed by my trembling fingers, flickered with something dark, something knowing. A confession lurking beneath the surface? Or a cruel game he was playing? Fear clamped my throat shut; I couldn’t dare to voice the questions swirling within me.

Snatching my hand back, I retreated into myself, avoiding his piercing gaze. “What happened to Charles?” The question was a thin thread of defiance, a desperate attempt to grasp onto something real, something external to this terrifying dance we were engaged in.

He leaned back against the car seat, his eyes still fixed on me, a palpable weight of observation that made my skin crawl. The click of a lighter snapped through the tense silence. Then, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils as he exhaled, a plume of grey curling into the confined space, a deliberate act of provocation, perhaps?

A violent cough wracked my body. I recoiled, shrinking as far as I could into the corner of the seat, anger battling with nausea.

“Why are you smoking suddenly?” My voice was choked, weak with disgust and a rising panic. This wasn’t just about the foul smell; it was about his utter disregard, the casual violation of my space, my senses. It was a power play, another way to assert his dominance.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just trying to get myself under control,” he murmured, another exhale sending a wave of smoke towards me. Tears stung my eyes, not just from the irritant, but from the suffocating grip of this entire situation.

“I don’t like the smell. It makes me sick,” I choked out, on the verge of gagging. His fingers, poised for the next drag, stilled against his lips. He actually looked surprised, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in his expression. Then, with a swiftness that belied the earlier amusement, he flung the cigarette out of the window.

“Better?” His voice held a surprising note of concern, and then, with a gentleness that was utterly disarming, he reached out, his knuckles brushing against my wounded cheek. Soft strokes, a caress that sent a confusing tremor through me.

This sudden tenderness, this unexpected display of care, felt like a cruel trick. It scrambled my thoughts, warmed my cheeks with an unwelcome blush. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him derail me. I had to stay focused, had to cling to the reality of the danger he represented.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I insisted, pushing past the confusing warmth of his touch. “Did you kill him? Threw him in the trunk?” The words hung in the air, stark and accusatory.

His hand retreated, a sigh escaping his lips. “Not yet,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “But I plan to. The bastard doesn’t get to live after he hurt you.” He spoke of murder with the nonchalance of discussing the weather, a casual brutality that chilled me to the bone.

I swallowed my fear, forcing myself to focus on the immediate. Words were useless here, logic powerless. Action, however limited, was all I had left. I held up my bound hands. “Can you please untie me?” Escape. That was the only thought hammering in my brain. Escape from this madman who had, in his twisted way, saved me. But staying with him meant stepping into a different kind of danger, a more insidious threat. Who knew what would trigger his rage, what would make me the next target?

Vincent smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “So you can run away from me later?” He saw right through me, of course.

I blinked innocently, feigning a vulnerability I desperately hoped he would buy. Leaning closer, a risky gamble, I watched his gaze drop to my lips, a flicker of something raw and primal in his eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the oppressive silence. “Why would I? You saved me,” I said, forcing a grin, a grotesque parody of flirtation. “So please, Vince?” The shortened name, a calculated attempt at intimacy, seemed to strike a chord. His eyes snapped back to mine, guarded, intense. But beneath the guardedness, I sensed a shift, a heat radiating from him.

“Comfortable enough?” His murmur was low, dangerous, and I managed a shaky smile, a nod.

The eye contact held, a silent battle of wills. Then, I felt his large hands on my restraints. The metallic click of a pocketknife, the sharp slice, and the zip ties fell away, releasing my wrists. Freedom.

“Thank you,” I whispered, a feigned shyness. And then, in a surge of adrenaline, I twisted, lunging for the door handle. The car door flew open, the fresh air rushing in. I stumbled out, almost falling, but momentum was my only ally. Boots slammed against the asphalt behind me. Too late. Strong arms encircled me from behind, a crushing hold that stole my breath.

His chest heaved against my back, the force of his leap still echoing in his body. A dark chuckle rumbled against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. I froze, paralyzed by fear.

“Not so fast, little rabbit. I need to make sure you are safe until your pretty ass is in your bed. You know you attract attention,” he purred, his hot breath tickling my ear as he pressed a kiss there. I struggled, a futile dance against his steel grip.

Why wasn’t anyone seeing this? Why was the world oblivious to my silent scream? This was kidnapping, blatant and terrifying.

“Hel-omhpp,” my cry for help was instantly muffled, his hand clamped over my mouth, cutting off the sound. His lips brushed my ear again, the tickling sensation now sickening, laced with menace.

“Now, now. Be a good girl for me, sweetheart. I just want to get you home safely so I can go back to kill the man who failed to take you from me. I don’t like to waste precious seconds on scums like that.” A sharp sting pierced my neck. I recoiled, a reflexive jerk, but a strange weakness flooded my limbs. I went limp in his arms, the fight draining out of me.

“What – what did you do?” My voice was slurred, numb. My vision blurred, and in the periphery, I saw it – the syringe, the glint of metal, the residue of liquid clinging to the needle.

“I’m sorry, baby. You gave me no choice,” he murmured, his voice softening, laced with a false tenderness that was more terrifying than any threat. Then, the world dissolved, and I plunged into the suffocating void of nothingness.

______

A pounding headache was my unwelcome alarm clock this morning, or rather, this late night. For a disoriented moment, I lay in bed, trying to piece together the fragments of memory, searching for the cause of this throbbing pain behind my eyes. Darkness pressed in around me, the thick curtains doing their job a little too well. Only faint streaks of streetlight managed to seep in through the edges of the fabric, painting weak lines across the room.

The familiar scent of my comforter finally grounded me, a wave of relief washing over me as I recognized the smell of home. Yes, I was in my own bed, safe within my own walls. A soft meow broke the silence, and as my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, I saw Millie, my cat, curled up beside my pillow. Like clockwork, whenever I stirred, she’d materialize, a furry, comforting presence.

“Hey, sweet girl.” My voice was raspy, my lips cracked and dry. I stroked her soft fur, and she nudged her little nose against my hand, purring contentedly. A small smile touched my lips at her familiar greeting, a fleeting moment of normalcy attempting to break through the fog in my brain. But the sleepy haze was still thick, holding me captive in its grip.

Then, it hit me. A jolt, sharp and cold, ripped through the lingering drowsiness. I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, startling Millie, who looked at me with wide, shocked animal eyes.

How could I have forgotten?

That damned stalker – he had drugged me.

Rage surged through me, hot and immediate. How dare he violate my life like this? My privacy, my body, my very sense of safety – all shattered. My eyes darted to the nightstand, the digital clock blinking 3:33 am in stark red numbers.

“Fuck! That stupid jerk!” The words escaped in a guttural groan. I forced myself out of bed, my limbs heavy and sluggish. I was still in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and uncomfortable. At least, I conceded grimly, he had the decency, or perhaps the self-restraint, not to undress me while I was unconscious. A twisted kind of gentlemanly conduct.

Dragging myself to the kitchen, my head throbbed with each step. My throat felt like sandpaper, screaming for water. As I reached for a bottle in the fridge, my eyes fell on Millie’s food bowl. It was half-empty, filled with canned food. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

Millie never leaves food in her bowl if she’s truly hungry, especially if I’ve been out for hours. This meant someone had been here recently, someone who knew to feed her. Someone who had been inside my apartment again.

I gulped down the water, the cool liquid offering a momentary respite. But the realization was a bitter aftertaste. I had a stalker. Someone who not only followed me and drugged me but also watched me, perhaps even through cameras, judging by his knowledge of my routine. The thought made my skin crawl, a chilling awareness of unseen eyes.

He had been here twice. Once to bring me home, and then again to feed Millie. Why? Why go to such lengths? He couldn’t possibly care about my cat. His actions felt calculated, deliberate, and utterly unsettling. He could have left me anywhere, yet he brought me back to my own bed. What game was he playing? What were his intentions?

The sudden flash and cheerful text tone of my phone pulled me back to the kitchen. It lay on the table, screen illuminated with new notifications. My steps were slow, wary as I approached it, a sense of dread coiling in my gut. His messages.

Unknown: Hey, sleepyhead.

Unknown: I see that you’re awake.

Unknown: Go back to sleep so you can rest better.

Unknown: Don’t worry about Millie, she was happy to see her daddy ;)

Daddy? A wave of nausea washed over me.

“Are you kidding me right now?” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I typed a reply, struggling to keep the anger from consuming me completely.

Me: Why would you care about my cat?

Me: I should go to the cops for what you did to me.

Me: And what happened with Charles? Did you really kill him like you said?

Guilt pricked at me, a sharp, unwelcome sting. Charles, my client… even though he had tried to abduct me, the thought of him being dead because of me, because of this stalker, was sickening. It wasn’t that I cared for Charles, but the weight of responsibility, however misplaced, felt heavy.

His reply was instantaneous, chillingly so.

Unknown: First of all, what is yours is mine, so Millie belongs to us.

Unknown: Second of all, no, you will not go to the police because you know deep down that you’re curious about me.

Unknown: And thirdly, you don’t have to think about him anymore. That name doesn’t exist.

Unknown: Go to sleep and stop thinking about possible ways to run because when I catch you, there will be no escaping from me anymore, little rabbit.

The last line ripped through me, stopping my breath in my chest. “Little rabbit.” It was a nickname from the book I was just reading this morning, a dark romance thriller I had read halfway through. A chillingly specific detail.

Could it really be him? Someone I knew, someone close enough to know which books I read, to twist my own words against me? Or was this just another layer of his psychological manipulation, a cruel game designed to unsettle me completely?

Is he really that confident that I will not go to the police with a drawing of his face? I could go right now, but what will happen if I do? It could be a trap.

Fear mingled with a strange, terrifying curiosity. Was he just toying with my mind? Or was this threat, this possessive, dangerous declaration, the beginning of a nightmare I couldn’t even begin to comprehend? The silence of the apartment pressed in again, heavy with unanswered questions and the lingering, sickening taste of uncertainty.