Page 28 of Dirty Quinn
“Good morning, beautiful.” I raise up and lean over to kiss her lightly on the forehead, breathing her in before returning to my chair. Even under the medicinal smells of rubber and antiseptic, mixed with the sweat, grime, and smoke, she still smells like her. It’s not a strong scent, but it’s there, which reassures me somehow. As though I needed to know that Daria was there underneath all the cuts and bruises, bandages and gauze.
“Did you sleep okay?” We both ask at the same time and then laugh. I gesture for her to answer first.
“As well as can be expected. You?”
“Same,” I tell her. We settle into a silence that is part comfortable and part tense. I’m sure most of the tension is on my part since I know I need to be honest with her about my job. But then she opens her mouth to speak, and I realize it wasn’t just me at all.
15
Quinn
There was a time I thought I’d never get enough sleep to feel fully rested. When anxiety riddled my mind with persevering thoughts that kept me awake until the late hours of the night. And when the only decent slumber to be had seemed like the few moments immediately before my alarm went off. Now I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t rested.
Which is not to say that I’m feeling my best and able to act to my fullest potential. I’m so far from that. I’m hungry, thirsty, dirty, exhausted, awake, angered, and defeated. I can’t imagine why I thought being abducted was a good idea. It’s a terrible one. There is nothing remotely enticing about the situation I’m in.
It’s nothing like I’d ever seen on TV. Not that I was including the really bad movies or TV shows when I thought about this. Despite my rules, I at once set aside such scenarios asSilence of the Lambsor anything Ted Bundy related when I imagined being in captivity. And, instead, thought of it more like a forced break from reality that included cable TV and a normal bathroom with running water. Kind of like when they seclude people who are going to testify right before they go to court.
The accommodations aren’t the best or the most comfortable, but at least everything you need is included. But here, well, that’s not the case at all. Minute melds into minute, blending into hour after hour until entire days have passed, and here, I sit. On this drab, threadbare mattress, hoping beyond hope that someone will find me, someone like Reed or Daria. Mack even. Whoever it needs to be to get me out of this and back home again.
I promise to never think of my existence as dull and boring. I won’t ask to be a Dirty Darling any longer. I won’t even work at the bar if Daria doesn’t really want me there. I just want to go back to the way things were however many days ago it was when I was still at home and things were normal. When the direst thing I had to worry about was whether Reed would call the morning after we had sex.
Now I have to worry about things like water and food. Basic survival. All the while hoping no one comes in to force themselves on me. I’ve seen the way the big guy looks at me. I don’t like it. I can’t imagine anyone would. I also have to worry how long I’ve been here. Because while you think it would be easy to gauge the passing of time, it’s really not.
Maybe if I had a window and could see the sun rising and falling, it would be different. But that’s not the case. With no way to mark time as it passes, it’s easy to lose track. Not so much that I think I’ve been here a year or anything. But definitely to where I have no idea if it’s been a week or two. Or as short as a couple days.
Based on the number of meals they’ve brought me, I can make a rough guess that three days have passed. Possibly four. The problem is, I don’t know if I’m being fed multiple times in one day, or once a day. That’s really all it is. All anything is. I don’t know. Maybe things would be different if I did. Or maybe I would feel worse because I would be aware.
At least now I can still pretend it’s only been a day or two since they took me. So of course, Reed hasn’t rescued me yet. He probably barely even realizes I’m gone. But if I’m wrong, and it’s been a week or longer, well, then it means he just doesn’t care enough to rescue me. Or he can’t find me.
And really, what’s worse? That he doesn’t care? Or that he can’t find me?
To be honest, I’m not sure at this point.
I pick at the lingering polish on my fingernails, letting the little flakes fall in my lap and on the mattress around me. So much for fourteen days with no chips. That’s a crock of shit. So is no smudge eyeliner after you’ve been tossed around in a back seat and a van floor, then thrown in a dungeon-type room to fend for yourself. Because, let me tell you, that shit runs like nobody’s business at the first sign of seriousness.
The same with waterproof mascara. Because as soon as I cried more than a little, it was like a black river of muck raining down my cheeks. Hopefully, I’ve rubbed it all off now. I’ve cried enough times to wet my skirt and wash my face to the point where I almost feel one notch down from totally disgusting.
I’ve tried sending telepathic messages to Daria. Just in case she and I are connected on a cosmic level without realizing it. But either I’m totally blocked as an other-worldly communicator, or we don’t share that connection.
When I’m being honest with myself; and not the real honest, but that pseudo honest that is more pretend than reality, that’s when I’m surprised that neither Daria nor Reed have rescued me yet. And that version of honesty is way more palatable than the more realistic honesty that is my current scenario.
I mean, we all do it, right? Have a few different versions of reality that we buy into depending upon the circumstance and just how brutal we want to be with ourselves. Because there’s fake brutal, the woe is me, I can’t believe this is happening. But it’s more for show than anything. You can still watch TV and eat ice cream while hosting your pity party. Maybe even complain to friends, have a few cocktails, wave your arms around while you vent to all four of your walls about the injustice of it all. Whatever thatallmay be.
Then there’s the real brutal. No blinders, no buffers, nothing to prepare you for what’s coming. The debilitating impact that leaves you breathless and without a foundation to stand on. It’s that shit that sends you to bed, phone off, windows locked, head under the covers, and you barely surface to use the restroom. And even then, that’s only because you don’t want to lay in soiled sheets.
You get it, right? ‘Cause that’s the real I’m in right now. This could be me from here on out—a shell of a person, gutted by the lack of running water and companionship. Am I so simple that’s all it took to break me? Because I sure as fuck feel broken right now.
Even if someone comes for me, and I’m rescued, can I bounce back from this? Is there such a thing as recovery? Who will be the one to piece me back together? The only thing I know for certain is I don’t think I have it in me to do it. And where does that leave me?
And when did I become so weak?
Or have I always been this way?
And if so, what do I bring to the proverbial table, really?
You want the answer?
It’s nothing.
