AN: I know that once some of you read this chapter it will start to look very familiar, as it's basically Fear and Self Preservation tweaked and revised to fit the context of this story. Why? When I wrote F&SP many of the responses said that you wished it was not a one-shot…what you didn't realize was it wasn't. Her Twisted Providence is F&SP made as a full-length fic. This chapter is also exactly how I would picture the reaction to this sort of situation, and I just couldn't bring myself to try and write anything different when this one seemed right in my mind. A few details are changed, though, and this chapter really is important to the story, so please R&R.

-Maat


Chapter Nine: Reactions of Fear

It was the fear that woke her.

And still she woke slowly, painfully, her head pounding, tongue thick and mouth dry. It was so hard to pull up from that dark, unnatural sleep, and the muscles around her eyes did not seem strong enough to open them.

Christine blinked slowly. Small dots of lights danced in front of her vision for a long moment, amplifying her disorientation. She blinked again, dazed. What had happened?

Gradually the images worked their way to the front of her mind, vaguely obscured by the childlike fog that clouded her thinking. There were people, strange people who scared her, scared her because…

Christine wrapped her arms around herself, the sharp rising terror bringing clarity to her thoughts. They scared her because they had a gun. They wanted to hurt her, they wanted to kidnap her!

Suddenly the fog was gone and understanding hit her with full force. The room spun as she lurched upward in the bed, breath coming out in short shallow gasps. Everything around her was dark and unfamiliar, and a rush of sickening fear swelled in her stomach, searing her lungs as she fought the urge to scream and scream and scream.

'Where am I? Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God I don't know where I am.' She was hyperventilating now, her breath coming out in sharp wheezing gasps, too shallow, too fast. Christine's whole body shook pathetically, like a tree bending in a storm. The spots returned to her vision.

'I can't pass out, I can't pass out, Oh God I'm going to die.' In that moment she felt the certainty of death, and along with it a consuming horror and an even more terrifying sadness. She was going to be raped and killed. She was never going to see her home, her friends, never going to sing on stage, or marry, walk in the sun or laugh at a joke or lay in bed with rain pounding on the roof, or, or…

Fear pushed the air from her lungs and clawed at her throat until she rolled to the side of the bed and vomited on the floor. Trembling, Christine pushed her hair back from her face and struggled to breathe, fighting a second wave of nausea.

'I have to be coherent,' she told herself. 'I have to live, it can't end like this, I have to live, I…'

The fear rose again as she suddenly thought of that man. Christine hesitated, trembling, then sat up and slid her hand awkwardly over her jeans and crotch, probing gently, searching for pain. 'I would know,' she thought frantically, 'It would hurt, wouldn't it? There would be blood…' She stared down at her pants for a moment and then shakingly pushed the covers on the bed aside, not moving from her crouched position.

No blood. No pain. She hadn't been raped…yet.

A sigh of relief worked its way through Christine's lungs as she settled into a position behind the bed, her back to the wall, facing the closed door. Her breathing evened and the urge to vomit slid from her throat back to her stomach. She needed to be clear.

'Maybe I can escape.' She had heard of stories like that, of people chewing through bonds, slipping through windows. 'Maybe, maybe. But if, Oh God if someone's out there, if someone's waiting…'

There was no doubt in Christine's mind that she was in danger. This wasn't a story. People didn't kidnap because they felt like it. Women who were kidnapped were beaten, raped, tortured, killed.

'I can't stay here. I've got to try. I can't let them do that to me. Not me.' She swallowed thickly and swept her eyes over the dark room, seeing for the first time its lush heavy wallpaper and polished wood floor, ornate bookshelf, engraved writing desk, and solid, imposing wardrobe. They confused her, threw her deeper into incomprehension. Why these things? What was going on? Who had put her here? That man had said he was taking her to someone. Who?

'It doesn't matter,' she thought. 'I pray I never find out. I need to get out. I need, I need…'

She needed a weapon. Anything. She needed hope.

Slowly Christine pushed her back against the wall and shakily got to her feet, tottering for a moment like a stumbling colt and awkwardly slamming her hip into the writing desk with a soft whimpered cry of pain. The spots once again danced in front of her eyes. She took even breaths, trying to calm the panicked frenzy that was building inside of her head and ringing in her ears, a chorus of terrified screams begging to be let out.

Slowly the room came back into focus, still hopelessly dark and full of creeping shadows. She steadied herself and searched for a weapon.

On the bookshelf was an ornate vase, but it was heavy and squat and wouldn't swing very well. But there on the desk a candlestick gleamed silver in the darkness, fitted with a long ivory candle. Christine yanked the candle out and grasped the silver holder, lifting it tentatively. It was heavy and smooth. She took it in both hands and hefted it like a baseball bat, swinging it in a slow, controlled arc. Fine. It would do.

But now what? She pressed the palm of her hand, cool from the metal of the candlestick, to her forehead. What if someone was waiting for her just beyond that door? What if he attacked her? Could she hit him? Could she swing this beautiful, solid piece of silver and watch as it connected with another person's skull? Could she hear the dull crack, watch him as he fell to her feet, leave him there… leave him to die. Could she kill?

'Yes,' her mind said before she could even think about it. 'To save myself, to protect myself…I could kill. I will, if I have to.'

But what if both of her kidnappers were there, or more? Perhaps they were gone, perhaps there was only this person to whom she had been taken, but how could she know? She couldn't take more than one person down, if that.

Christine clutched the candlestick blindly, realizing fully for the first time that she was not expecting to make it out of this. 'All I can really hope for is to take someone down with me,' she thought. 'I can't give up without a fight. I can't die like this. Broken. Without dignity. Not like this. I will make my father proud. And…and maybe I will see him again.'

A cry almost escaped her lips. 'Oh Dad,' she prayed desperately. 'Please help me! Someone, God someone please please help me. Please! I don't want to die!'

She stood waiting, her hands wrapped around the candlestick, knuckles white, as if waiting for an answer to her pleas. The only sound was her harsh breathing.

Sweat dripped down her brow. She had to do it now, before she lost her nerve. She had to walk across the room and open the door. She had to walk, and turn a knob, and run, and fight, and maybe die, maybe kill. Maybe maybe maybe.

Christine spotted her sneakers lying neatly by the side of the bed and she sat down to pull them on, keeping a wary eye on the door the entire time. Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely tie a knot.

Shoes tied and legs ready to run, she grasped the candlestick and stood.

'Just do it,' she told herself. 'Just walk across the room and open the door. I can find an exit. And maybe no one will be there.'

She repeated the words as a mantra as she forced her still-trembling legs across the room. 'No one will be there, no one will be there.' She stared at the knob, gleaming a dull brassy color in the darkness. 'No one will be there, no one will be there.' She brushed her fingers against it. It was cold. 'No one will be there, no one will be there.' She grasped the knob; it was large and round and too big for her hand. 'No one will be therenoonewillbetherenoonewill'

She turned it.

The door arced open silently on well-oiled hinges as Christine raised the candlestick in anticipation. The room beyond seemed empty, quiet, lit by softly glowing lamps and cast in shades of black and red. Tentatively she slid out, keeping her back to the wall, and let her eyes sweep the room. Nothing, no one. She almost laughed, a little hysterical sound that bubbled in the back of her throat. Could she maybe get out of this unscathed?

And then a dark shadow unfurled itself from the far corner and strode toward her, and she, in her dumb horror, just stood there, blank, mystified, terrified.

The tall, thin man in the smooth mask stared down at her from an imposing height, and dimly she wondered how he had gotten so close to her so fast.

"Good evening, Miss Danes," he said in that same low, hypnotic voice that she had heard so often in her dreams. "I see that you have finally decided to emerge from your room. But what exactly are you planning to do with my candlestick?"

At his last words Christine seemed to snap back into her body and hefted the silver weapon in front of her. His gaze was unconcerned, almost bored, and she realized how ridiculous it was to ever think that she could hurt someone.

So she spoke in a fast, whispered voice, blurring all of her words together, reciting them like a memorized speech. So she begged. Pathetically, painfully, she begged.

"Please please please don't hurt me, you can have anything you want, I'll get you any money you want just please don't hurt me please let me go, I'll give you anything, all my funds, my money, anything, please don't hurt me."

His eyes widened slightly. "I…" he began, staring at the cowering girl before him, her whole body trembling in fear. "I would never hurt you. Never. That's not why you are here."

She was shaking her head as if she couldn't hear him. "Just let me go and I promise that I won't go to the police. Just don't hurt me. Please." She stared at him through thick, matted hair, her eyes pleading.

"I promise you that I do not have nor will ever have any intention of hurting you," he said softly. He moved closer and she skittered back, darting her eyes across the room, searching for an exit. "You need to trust me. I'm a friend." He spoke slowly, as if trying to soothe a frightened animal. "You have nothing to fear."

Her eyes flitted back to him. "Then why am I here?" she asked, desperation cracking her voice. She could feel the aching bump on the back of her head, a reminder of what had been done to her. "Those people held me at gunpoint. They hurt me." She sounded so weak. "Please don't hurt me."

His thin lips, slightly visible below the mask, curled into a frown as he stared at her with what in any other situation she would have believed to be concern.

"You are here because I am lonely," he said finally, that haunting voice hesitant. "You are someone that I have…admired and I wanted you to…be here with me. For just a little while. Just…to talk. You have a lovely voice, and I wanted you to sing…for me."

She stared at him as if he was speaking an incomprehensible language. "What?" she asked, her voice very small. "I don't understand."

"You will," he sighed. "You will. Just know that you are safe here. Those people," he said the word with disgust, "were not supposed to hurt you, and they will be dealt with. No harm will ever come to you here."

"Can I leave?" she asked in that same weak, tired child's voice.

"Not quite yet. Soon, though." He gestured with one long white hand for her to give him the candlestick. "You are safe here. I can assure you that there is no need for violence."

Slowly, and with a sagging of the shoulders that acknowledged defeat, Christine lifted her hand and passed the cool metal object over to him. She couldn't fight him, and maybe the best thing to do was stay calm and not make him angry. She was still so afraid, so tired. She just wanted to sleep.

"Perhaps you should go back to bed," he said, and she looked at him as if she hadn't heard, trying to read the strange emotion in his eyes, trying to piece together this incomprehensible puzzle, to dissuade her still consuming panic.

She looked at him and asked, "Why?"

She wasn't asking about going back to bed.

It was a question that encompassed everything, every moment of her fear and desperation. It asked for everything that was in his eyes, for all of his reasons, everything that he knew and that she did not understand. She hardened her voice and asked again.

"Why?"

He was silent.

They stared at each other across the dimly lit room, each lost to their own fears and thoughts, both wondering what the next step would be.

After what seemed like a long time she backed up skittishly before bolting for her room, and he was left in solitude once more.