Trapped With A Killer

Chapter Eight

It was raining the day of my father's funeral. It was the first funeral I'd ever been to as my mother was estranged from her parents and my father's parents had died before I was born. I didn't really get the whole memorial thing. My mom said some nice words about Daddy while we all sat there with this fancy box underneath a tent. The rain went pitter patter against the canvas, and I remember thinking that the sound was soothing.

But before he died my father was a kind and gentle soul. The kind of person that watches birds and cries at movies. He would make me pancakes every Saturday morning, and we would sit in front of the television and watch cartoons together while we ate them. When I went off to school, it was his legs I clung to and cried on before I learned how to be apart from him. I didn't know that soon I would find out just how big that distance can get.

When my mother was off working at her law firm, my dad would spend time with me; cook me meals, play pretend, and read to me. I always loved when he would read to me. He would do funny voices, and he always picked interesting books, saying, "Now this book is for big kids, but I know you'll be able to handle it." I remember the swell of pride in my chest when he said that.

I had only eight short years with him before he was gone. My dad had always had a weak disposition, and he was often sick. He went to the hospital with pneumonia, and he had a bad reaction to the antibiotics. He was dead before the doctors even knew what was happening.

I stood outside of the tent, and as the rain soaked into my pretty black dress that my mother had bought me just the other day I tried to understand what was happening. Why did my dad have to go away? Didn't he know we were in the middle of The Hobbit? How was I supposed to know what happened next if he wasn't there to read it to me? I fiddled with the ribbons in my hair and watched as all the adults cried. I guessed that I should be crying too. I looked up at my mom who was wracked with silent sobs. That's when the tears fell and mixed with the raindrops on my skin. That was one of the only times that I remember crying over my dad's death.

***********

Wheaton grabbed my broken wrist again and tugged me off the chair. I screeched in pain and fell over in a heap on the ground as he held my wrist up.

"L-let go," I hissed through clenched teeth, but Wheaton just squeezed harder and started to yank me over to the wall. I yelped and seethed. When he finally released me I scrambled to my feet as fast as possible, cradling my wrist.

"Kneel down," Wheaton ordered.

"No, fuck you," I snapped. Wheaton shook his head and sighed before his fist flew towards me and punched my face. My cheek exploded in pain as my head whipped to the side, and I crumpled to the floor yet again. I laid there groaning as my head spun like a screw, and my ears rung. Wheaton knelt down next to me as tears continued to flow freely down my face.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Wheaton said, weaving his fingers through my hair. Trembling, I looked up at his face and felt my stomach drop. He was smiling at me, and his eyes shone with delight. He was enjoying this. "Now, I'm going to let you go, and you're going to kneel with your forehead touching the wall, got that?"

What should I do? This demented bastard was just itching to hurt me, and the more I fought the more excuses I gave to him to do just that. But giving in, was that really an option? I vowed to save Hannah, and I had failed. He mutilated her, murdered her, and for some reason that ignited a spark of resistance in me that I didn't even know I had.

"Go to hell," I slurred through my swollen and bloody mouth as I sat up. Wheaton reared his leg back and kicked me hard in the gut, the force throwing me against the wall. I slumped down with a grunt.