Arsonist

CHAPTER 11

Sunlight was coming through the window in the kitchen and it lit up the room with a golden glow. Monique opened her eyes only slightly and could see the warm light cascading over her bare legs. As a child, she would sit in the kitchen and play with toys while her grandmother and aunt baked. The smell of pies and cookies was sometimes too much to bear and she would sneak some morsels when they weren’t paying attention.

The house was quiet. She could hear the creaking coming from the attic. She had always thought they had mice but never could find any evidence for it.

She moved her arms but they wouldn’t respond. Bringing her head down just enough to take a quick look, she could see that her wrists were tied with some sort of plastic wrap. Her ankles were tied as well but not as tightly. The last thing she remembered was the feeling of suffocation and she thought she was drowning before her head hit the carpet and everything went black. And there was something else too…laughter. She remembered the echoing laughter that had come from behind her.

A clink of glass behind her. She glanced back to her dining room. A man was sitting at the table. A linen napkin was tucked into his shirt. He was handsome and his head looked like it had recently been shaved. He cut into a steak with a fork and knife and then dabbed at his lips with the napkin before taking a sip of red wine.

He noticed her, and smiled.

“Headache?”

She opened her eyes fully, taking him in. Then she immediately looked away. He needed to know that she couldn’t identify him.

“Wha…what?” she said. She felt lightheaded, as if she were floating in space.

“I said, do you have a headache?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get you some aspirin.” He finished his wine and rose, coming into the kitchen. He walked past her and stood at the counter. “Um, which cupboard?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

He left and came back a moment later. He filled a glass with water and handed it to her with a couple of ibuprofen. She kept her eyes closed, refusing to look at him. He giggled.

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Am I really that hideous? I apologize. I haven’t seen a mirror in a long, long time.” He opened her mouth gently and put in the ibuprofen and then put the glass to her lips. She drank a few sips and washed the pills down. “Oh…I see. You think if you don’t see me I’ll think you can’t identify me to the police. Is that it?” She didn’t answer. “Well, you’re incorrect. But if I was going to kill you, identification wouldn’t matter to me. Most sociopaths do what they do because it’s an uncontrollable urge. Like the pedophiles that grab a child in the grocery store in front of ten people. If I was that type of sociopath, which, given the circumstances, is a good assumption to make, it wouldn’t matter one bit if you saw me or not. So please, open your eyes.”

She didn’t respond and closed them even tighter, the urge to scream and cry piercing her as she pressed her wrists apart to break the ties.

“Open your eyes or I’ll nail your lids to your forehead,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

“No, please,” she cried. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Open your eyes.”

Slowly, painfully, she opened them. Before her the man knelt, the glass of water in his hands. He smiled as he stood up and placed the glass down on the counter.

“Are you hungry?” he said.

“There’s money,” she said hurriedly. “My parents left a bunch of money here for emergencies. I’ll give it to you if you let me go.”

“Money, money money money. That seems to be the prime motivation for people today, yes? Although how the hell would I know? I’ve been locked in a room since I was a child. You hear that little rasp in my voice? I noticed that yesterday when I spoke to someone. It means my voice box has atrophied from disuse. I used to have a beautiful voice. I sang in a choir when I was young. But, that’s not what you’re interested in.”

“Please, please, just take whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want? What if I wanted to rape you? Do you give me permission to do that? Then again, it wouldn’t really be rape, would it?”

“Please,” she cried, tears flowing down her cheeks now, “please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you, hurt you…now that is a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.” He reached behind him on the counter and took out a kitchen knife from a drawer. He brought it down to her breast and pressed the tip deep enough that it cut the skin. “Should I cut your tits off?”

“Please…please-”

He removed the knife, throwing it behind him without looking as he let out a sigh. “You know, I think you’ve really hit on something with this rape you and hurt you stuff. Maybe we’ll get to that later? For now, I’d like to finish my meal. You would be just shocked as to what swill I’ve been forced to eat these last years and call it food.”

He walked into the living room and she heard her stereo turn on. It was turned to a classical station and he walked back in the kitchen and stopped. His eyes were fixated on a spot on the ceiling. “Anybody else live here?”

“No,” she stammered.

“I disagree.”

He smiled, his eyes refocusing on her, and blew her a kiss. Then he went back to the dining room and sat down, tucking the napkin back into his collar and taking a bite of steak as if she wasn’t there.