Hanna

I’m biting the pillow as he sews my side.

“Do it faster,” I hiss through my teeth.

He doesn’t reply, frowning at my wound through his glasses. I didn’t know he wore glasses and was surprised they survived the action we’ve been through.

Once he’s done he runs a disinfecting rag over my wound and I groan, my face buried into the mold stinking pillow. When the surge of burning pain passes I slump on the bed. My body feels like it went through a meat- grinder. Every muscle stings, together with my side, bruised hands, wrists, and cramping belly. At least my stomach is heavenly full.

“Sit up.”

I prop up and let him wrap a bandage around my waist. As his hands slide around me his face contorts in a slightest motion, as if displeased and shocked at the same time. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

I draw away. “You just frowned at my waist. What is it?” By now I know he’s no rapist, but the look still unsettles me.

“You’re… small under the big clothing,” he grunts.

Lost at what to respond I flatten my lips for a second. “Skinny, you mean?”

“Yes.” His eyes flit to my face and linger, probably taking in my hollow cheekbones, red eyes and bruises for the first time. Then he casts his gaze down, a heavy huff leaving his nose.

“It’s not your fault,” I utter. He glances at me skeptically over the frame of his glasses since I did blame everything on him. “It’s no one’s fault really.”

“How so?” He finishes with the bandage and I let my t-shirt fall around my waist.

“It’s like pains fault, you know. You’re in pain, you do bad shit to try to make yourself feel better.”

Careful with his bloody fingers he slides his glasses into his jacket’s breast pocket. “I’m not in pain.”

“Please,” I chuckle, lying down on the bed and turning away. “I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

I hear him stand and then a light rustle of a pack being open. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“Ah, god damn it, Mike. I’m not going to kill you, okay?” I prop on my elbow. “I was in shock when we were in the car!”

“You still are. Come on, I need to get some rest.”

Too worn to argue I let him zip my wrists behind my back. He flicks the light off and lays on the other side of the bed. “Blanket?”

I flop on my belly, my head growing heavier. “No.” It’s been a while since chills have settled under my skin, but the blanket would feel like another layer of ropes to tangle into. Thus I lay, trying to ignore the cold and keeping my body still so not to mess up my side. “Why did you kiss me?”

“To snap you out of it.”

It worked. “I’m underage.” A moment of awkward silence passes before I let out a laugh. “I’m just messing with you, relax.”

“Good night, freckles.”

“How old are you?” I turn my face to him. From a few wrinkles on his face I’d say he’s in his late twenties, early thirties maybe.

When he doesn’t reply the silence of the room starts weighing on me, a cloak of eerie and dismal nothingness with only rare engine noises of passing cars to keep me company. “How old?” I press, then realize I’d rather talk to the man who murdered my sister instead of falling asleep, especially with my hands tied behind my back.

Yet he doesn’t engage and I switch sides so I stare at the door, until I drift off right into a blood colored nightmare that wakes me what feels like a few hours later. I tell myself this room is secure, that I can relax—

I leap up in bed, my shriek vibrating through the walls. The illusions of attackers scatter into the darkness, dissolving in the air, yet I scream until Michael grabs me by the shoulders. “Hey!” He gives me a shake until I focus on him. “Calm down! There’s no one here. You’re safe.”

With my chest convulsing I try to back away against his firm hold. “I’m not safe!” I grind out, writhing my tied hands behind my back. “God, I’m still kidnapped. I murdered people. I-I’m…this is a fucking nightmare!”

He stares at me, as lost as I am, if not more. “Just lie down.” He pushes me gently on my side. “Look at me okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, look somewhere else.”

I don’t look anywhere. I curl into a ball and try to slow my heaving. It doesn’t work and I straighten, then flip onto the other side, then sit up again, then lay down. Michael watches me.

“I can’t,” I let out. “And I feel weird, dizzy.”

“I…uh, I—”

“What?” I snap.

“Uh, I can hold you.”

With a dry laugh I turn away from him. “No, thank you.”

I lay, cold and burning up at the same time. Michael falls asleep on his back, silhouetted by soft night glow from the covered window. How can you sleep so calm like this? With all that you’ve done?

I doze off until the ground hits my whole body like a giant bat, throwing me into an instant alert mode and pumping my body up with adrenaline. “Help! Please!” I thrash, kicking away the nightmares, but I can’t do anything against the phantom shadows that reach to strangle me, to hurt me, to tear me apart. “Somebody, please, help! H—”

A hand clamps my mouth and sudden pressure locks my hips to the ground. “Shh, shh.” Michael leans into my face, slowing my wiggling with the weight of his body. “No one’s here, freckles. Calm down.”

I blink, perceiving his weight pushing me down. The night terrors dissolve, irrelevant against a real threat that is the man on me. He’s one of them, a solid cover holding me down, in full control of my whole being.

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Horrified I strain, struggling and kicking, all but crying into his hand. His weight is like arms of men that held me in the chair, his hand on my mouth like a plastic bag preventing me from breathing—

“Hey, hey, freckles, calm down. You’re safe.” He frowns, confused at what I’m afraid of now. It’s you, you I’m afraid of.

Puzzled, he shifts his hand from my face.

“Get off me!” I gasp out and he clamps my mouth shut again.

“Look at me,” he leans closer. “Whatever you dreamed of I’m not with them. I won’t hurt you. I’m not hurting you now, right?”

I huff, too scared to even blink, my struggles becoming heavier and slower.

“Stop or you’ll hyperventilate,” he grunts through his teeth. The world glosses over and I can’t breathe. “Hanna.”

My name rings louder than the rest of the world and I’m pulled back into reality. I’m always a bitch, a cunt, or a whore.

But now it’s my name. I almost forgot how it sounds.

I refocus my gaze on him. He sits on me calmly, holding me from struggling and screaming, and indeed doing nothing more than that.

When worn I close my eyes, giving up, he allows me a word. “You hit me, back in the other motel,” I turn my head to the side. “And you wanted them to suffocate me. You are like them.”

“It wasn’t my intention.” His voice is quiet, almost… afraid? “I won’t hurt you now.” He lifts his open palms. “See, not doing anything,” then with a sigh, “I’m not as awful as your dreams painted me to be. Not at this second.”

Not at this second.

“I jumped on you because you’re drawing attention. That’s it.” In the night lit room I distinguish the strain in his jaw and neck, even feel the tension in his legs around my waist. It makes it less horrifying when I understand that I must’ve scared the living crap out of him with my screams.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats, but we continue staring at each other. I’m not sure why. Maybe we both know it’s a lie.

I relax under him first, convinced that for now I’m truly safe. He lets out a puff of air he held and rubs one side of his stubble. “God, freckles… ”

“You don’t believe in God. Just leave me here.”

He climbs off of me, picks me up, and lays me on the bed. “Try to sleep.” Then he sneaks to the window to check if I woke anybody up before he returns to bed.

Hours later when I’m all sweaty and feel like a crack addict I start considering his proposition to hug me. I tried positive focus for three hours now, but the nightmares didn’t go away. Maybe having somebody close will help me? Selena would always comfort me after kids at school made fun of me. She would wrap her hands around me in her soft but strong bigger sister way and tell me it would get better, that she would make it better. Then, if I was feeling particularly sad, we would sleep on the floor, build a fort and braid each other’s hair. When there was nothing left to braid we’d invite Shia and braid his and then laugh the next morning when half of his head was puffy with curls.

Michael’s shuffle pulls me out of my head and his arm covers me as if on command. I emit a first instinctive thought. “Take it off.”

“You’ll fall off again and tear your stitches.”

“You’re forceful.”

“I’m a kidnapper, aren’t I? That’s what we do,” he utters in a sleepy voice, eyes closed.

I tense, but don’t want to admit I was considering the option first. Yet the fact that he started it still unnerves me. “Take it off.”

He complies. “Try to be quiet.”

I lick the sweat off my lips and try to wipe my clammy hands on the side of the bed. I’m cold and my T-shirt sticks to my damp back.

Michael drifts off quick, leaving me to stare at him like a creep. In the gloom he looks harmless and even all the bad he did dissolves in the abyss of haziness that is my mind. The motel room morphs into our cozy apartment… I’m lying in my bed, so safe and warm. My homework is scattered over my desk, undone. My uncle’s curses float through the apartment as he watches baseball in the living room. Fucker run! You bitch fucking tit sucker! Selena comes, her beautiful golden hair weaved into a waist-long braid her whole class envies. I envy her and she knows it. Even Shia, a ginger like me, is jealous. Selena knows that too. Yet she always tries to make me feel better, tells me I don’t have to be a beauty to make friends, and all the other inspirational crap older sisters say. But the inspirational crap always helps.

The hallucination fades away and I frown at how real it seemed to appear. But the feeling is still there— warmness of home, calmness of our mundane problems.

Feeling my head burn I slide my eyes over the man in front of me. This second, he reminds me of a boy I liked in school; brown hair, a gorgeous smile—

Something clicks in me. I don’t know what it is, but I inch closer and kiss him on the cheek. He turns his head and before he speaks I press my lips against his. His hand slides to my face and he kisses me back once before he wakes fully and pulls away.

I smile. “I’m losing my mind.”

“It’s okay,” he says.

“I forced myself on you. People don’t do that.” Yet I don’t feel any remorse whatsoever. I just kissed a boy I liked.

“You got even,” he murmurs, laying his arm over me once again. “Let’s sleep.” Shuffling, I sidle up to him and burrow my face into his warm chest, smelling motel shower gel mixed with a musky scent.

…

Rough shaking wakes me from a deep sleep and I part my clammy eyes. “Look at me.” Michael’s voice enters my ringing ears as his face blurs above mine.

I groan, my body all but sinking into the bed. “I feel feverish.”

“That’s because you are.” He slides my hair from my face and places his palm on my forehead, then wipes it on the bed. “You’re burning up. I couldn’t wake you right away.”

“You-you might to… want to untie me,” I twist my tongue to form the words.

“I have.”

“Oh.” I shuffle my arms, so weak. “Well,” I swallow, “I’ve been through hell. Beaten up, malnourished, on my period…” my thoughts scatter. “I liked your lips.”

“All right.” He stands, turning to the kitchenette.

“It’s true.” I can’t keep my eyelids open. Everything feels like a dream, flowing and changing. Maybe I am dreaming?

A minute later Michael is next to me again, a wet towel in his hand. “You’re delirious. That’s why you liked them.” He places it on my forehead, so delightfully cold.

I chuckle. “You know I wish I could sit into a car and ride off into the sunset.”

“Please don’t talk.” He pulls off my shoes.

“And the car has to be a convertible so… so I feel the wind in my hair.”

“Freckles. Please, shut up.”

“Oh, God, and the sky so blue and beautiful, and then maybe meet someone with lips as soft as yours.” Somehow through my ecstatic deliriousness I register redness drain from his cheeks and his ice cold eyes lock on me like they want to butcher me.

It doesn’t scare me. Nothing scares me. “You look tense.” He turns away, his arms and back tensing. “You know, we could save you too. Somehow. Have you find a job, like start a family and all.”

When he turns he has a gun in his hand. “Or not,” I murmur. “Oh shit.” He wanted to kill me, right? I try to move but I’m too damn weak. “I guess I’ll focus on death now. Will you ever decide, man? Come on.” My heart rate speeds up, banging against my ribs so fast I can’t even count the beats.

I manage to inch back a little when he squeezes his eye shut, forcing himself to look away, and lowers the weapon. The gun in his hand shakes, itching to hurt me.

With a sharp twist he strides to the bathroom and I catch a glimpse of his silver switchblade before he slams the door shut.

I sigh. So, I guess I live. A surge of adrenaline coursing through me recedes and in seconds the world around me fades.

…

When I open my eyes I find Michael sitting at the edge of my bed, spinning his switchblade in his hands. “You look sad,” I whisper.

Wordless, he hides the knife in his inner pocket. One of his forearms is bandaged. I reach out to touch it but only reach his thigh so I shuffle my fingers over his jeans. “You cut yourself.”

“How are you feeling?” His voice is gruff and quiet. He doesn’t face me.

“Like I can risk a trip to the bathroom,” I utter.

He helps me to the bathroom where I barely manage on my own before he escorts me back. This time he throws open the sheets and stuffs me under them. “You’re pain in the ass, freckles.” He lays down next to me, atop the sheets.

A dizzy smile spreads over my lips. “So are you. I’m sorry I shot you, and tried to strangle you, and kissed you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” I follow his blank gaze to the ceiling. A cobweb flutters in the draft.

“What do you mean why?” He asks.

I pull my sheet closer to my face and let my eyes slide shut. “Why do you think your opinion doesn’t matter?”

“I’m a criminal, an outcast.”

“So? I’d say your opinion is even more important than average person’s.”

“Why?”

“Because your pain and your opinions shape what you do,” I sigh. “It is important.”

I hear a rustle as he turns his head and probably blinks at me as if I just crowned him a king.

“And you hurt people.”

“I don’t—” He trails off.

I frown, my fever settling deeper into my bones. My brain hurts when I try to put it to work, but I force myself to look at him. “You… don’t think you harm people?”

He runs a finger over his bandaged forearm. “I have my reasons. That’s it.”

I almost make a connection here. Something tells me that if I weren’t this feverish I would’ve figured it out already.