Still Missing

dumbass stepdad--but at least I tried not to take my shit out on the entire world. Now? Man, there doesn't seem to be anybody who doesn't piss me off. You, the reporters, the cops, the mailman, a rock in the middle of the road. Actually, I'd probably be okay with the rock. And I mean, I used to like people. Hell, you could even say I was a goddamn people person. But these days?

Take my friends. They call or try to visit, they still invite me to stuff, but right away I start thinking they're just hoping to get the inside scoop on how the investigation is going, or the offers are just your we-really-should- invite-the-poor-girl kind of thing. Then, when I say no, they probably sit around and talk about me

And see, that's a spiteful, childish thing for me to even think, let alone say, because I should be grateful people care enough to try, right?

Thing is, there's not much going on in my life I want to share, and I'm out of touch with half the shit they're discussing. I'm behind on movies, world events, trends, and technology. So if I do run into someone I know during one of my brief forays into the outside world, I ask them about their lives, and they look relieved and blather on about a work crisis or a new boyfriend or a trip they're taking. I tell myself it's almost comforting to hear that even though my life is fucked, people are getting up and going about their lives every morning. One day I could be bitching about my work too.

But after we say our good-byes and I watch them walk away, back to their nice normal lives, I just start feeling all pissed off again. I hate them for not being in pain like me, hate them for being able to enjoy themselves. Hate myself for feeling that way.

I've even managed to alienate Christina, although she didn't go down without a fight. When I first moved back to my house she busted her ass setting up the place, gathering furniture, hooking up the utilities. She even stocked the fridge. Her take-charge attitude used to be one of the things I liked most about her. Hell, in the past, I was more than happy to let Christina run my life. But when she started marching around my house with her feng shui book in hand, looking for things to rearrange so I'd attract healing energy, bringing me lists of shrinks' phone numbers--this was before you--and pamphlets on retreats for rape victims, I got more argumentative and she just got more aggressive.

Then she started in on her let's-talk-about-it kick, bringing over bottles of wine and her tarot cards. She'd do a spread, then read key phrases from the book like, 'You have struggled greatly on your own. It's time to share your burden with those closest to you.' In case I didn't get the point, each statement was followed by eye contact and a pause. I was dealing with these visits, if not actually enjoying them, but when she set the cards down one day and said, 'You're never going to get over this if you don't start talking about it,' I lost it.

'Your life must really suck if you need to get off on my shit, Christina.'

She got such a hurt look on her face. I mumbled an apology, but she left not long after.

The last time we talked, months ago, we arranged a time for her to bring over some of her old clothes--I tried to get out of it but she wouldn't take no for an answer, insisted they'd cheer me up. An hour before she was supposed to arrive, my guts were twisted into knots of anger and resentment. I paged her and canceled, then went for a three-hour drive. I came home to a big box of clothes on my front doorstep, which I promptly stuck down in the basement.

When she phoned the next day I didn't answer, but she left a message, sounding giddy and excited, asking if I got the clothes and saying she couldn't wait to see them on me. I called back and thanked her voice mail, but I've never returned any of her messages since.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so fucking mad at everyone?

One night, I'm sure I heard The Freak say some name. It wasn't loud enough for me to make out, but I could tell it wasn't mine. I wasn't stupid enough to ask about it, but I wondered.

He was pretty basic in the sex department. Thank God. I guess as far as freaks go I got an okay one. Look, I'm not complimenting him. I just mean he wasn't ramming me up the ass or making me give him blow jobs--he probably knew I'd try to bite his dick off. I had my role down pat. I knew just where to touch, how to touch, what to say, and how to say it. I did whatever it took to get it over with fast and I got damn good at it.

Physically it made things easier to help him along, but emotionally one more part of me gave up and slipped away.

As soon as The Freak knew I was pregnant, he no longer seemed to care about doing it every single night, but the baths never stopped. Sometimes he'd just rest his head on my chest and talk to me until he fell asleep. His voice mellow, he'd give me his theories on everything from dust to vomit. But he was mostly fixated on love and society, like he'd say our society is all about acquiring and keeping--not that it had stopped him from acquiring and keeping me.

The idea of my genes mixing with his to create something made me sick. The last thing I wanted was to be connected to him in any way, and when we lay in bed at night I willed my body to miscarry. Every negative thought I could dream up, I aimed at this monster growing inside me and visualized it being expelled from my body. My sleep usually ended in cold sweats after nightmares about hideous fetuses tearing my insides apart.

All that winter, my head was filled with images of giving birth up there with The Freak by my side. When he made me read aloud from one book about childbirth at home, I had to force every word out of my throat. In the past, if I saw a delivery on TV I covered my eyes, because I couldn't stand looking at some poor woman screaming while this thing was being ripped from her body. Always thought if I ever gave birth I'd be on lots of drugs, with a husband murmuring encouragement while I zoned out.

The Freak's good mood over my pregnancy only lasted a couple of months. Then one day he was pleased with the way my nails looked, but the next he was ordering me to do them all over again. One minute peeing at two o'clock was okay, the next I was jerked off the toilet and told to wait until three. For a pregnant woman who already had a small bladder, it was excruciating.

In the morning, I'd put on what he picked out for me to wear, then halfway through the day he'd make me go change. If there was even a minuscule fleck on the dishes when he inspected them, he made me do them over again. Once I refused to scrub the bathroom, insisting it was clean, and earned myself a backhand across the face and a wall-to-wall scrubbing of the cabin floor. I learned to keep the perfect amount of submissive shame in my expression, forced myself to look down, and curled my shoulders like a beaten dog.

Toward the end of January, we'd just finished breakfast one morning and I was cleaning up. The Freak watched me for a while and then said, 'I'm taking a trip,' like he was telling me he was going to carry out the garbage.

'For how long? Where? You can't leave me alone up here--'

'I make the rules, Annie.' His face was impassive.

'You could take me with you. You can tie me up in the van or something? Please?'

He shook his head. 'You're safer here.'

The Freak took some food out of the cupboards, mostly vita-min drinks and protein powder you mix with water, and left those on the counter. No utensils.

Usually I wasn't allowed near the woodstove, but he unlocked it and took the screen away. Then he stacked up a ton of wood inside the house and lit a fire for me. I didn't have an axe, or newspaper, or anything to light a new fire with, so I'd have to make damn sure I never let that one go out.

He hadn't left for a few months, so I figured we must be running short of supplies and he was going into town to stock up. I had no idea where he kept the food, and anything he brought in was in zip lock bags so I could never identify a store, but I assumed he had a deep freeze and a cellar or shed outside. I hoped supplies were the reason behind his trip. Was he going to go see Christina again? What if he found another woman he liked better and forgot about me? How long does it take to starve to death? I was more scared of being left alone up there than I was of him.

A girl disappeared from Clayton Falls a couple of years before I did, and I used to worry about finding her body in the woods when I was walking Emma. Now I wondered if the world was full of girls like me. Their families had moved on. They weren't front-page news anymore. They were locked up in some cabin or dungeon with their very own freak, still waiting to be rescued.

When I made another mark on the wall, I tried not to think about how long I'd already been there. I tried to believe as each day went by I was getting closer to being found. The longer I stayed alive, the more time I was giving them to find me. I thought about what would happen if I was rescued while I was pregnant. I was close to