Blue Scarf

I dream of Hero, I dream of my mother, I dream of Darry. "Don't give up hope." He urges me, "Help is on the way-"

I feel myself being shaken awake.

"Whuh-uh?" I ask stupidly. I see the Creeper hovering above me with his shark grin on his face. He shakes me again, to make sure.

I groan and bury my head in my pillow. I adjust the pillow in between my knees. I swear my stomach has grown even more throughout the night. I feel tears spring to my eyes. I pull the covers over my head and groan again.

The Creeper strides briskly over to the curtains and snaps them open. Sunlight streams in and I flinch at its brightness. It's not fair something so golden and pretty can flood its way into this dank wretched place. It's a beautiful day in Motel Hell.

He grins again and shakes me. I groan a third time and tell him where to shove his good attitude. This does not deter him one bit. "Its good-morning time" he says happily and yanks away my sheets and blankets. I scream in outrage and cover my face.

He leans over the bed. "Come." He said quietly. "get up."

Gently, he pulls pushes and cajoles me out of bed. He waits patiently while I yawn and blink and splash my face. Then I follow him down into the boiler room.

He always makes me do something now. Whether it's take a walk, or draw or read something I must get up now and do what he says. I hate it.

I first I kicked and wailed and screamed and did my damned best to make life hell for him but I understood that his will, his patience, far outstripped mine. He was like an infinitely powerful parent calmly withstanding the most fearsome outburst I could throw at him. To him my worst most aggressive anger was a baby tantrum, nothing. Eventually I just did as he said, at best sullenly doing nothing. But I was up out of bed not sleeping the day away, and that made him content enough.

If I was in too sullen of a mood, as I was now, he merely sat and forced me to watch him. "Watch." He would say and I would watch him with horror as he played with a corpse, cutting it apart and sewing it back together. Less horrific but still terrible were his carvings. I would watch in fascination as demons, storms, monsters and helpless writhing humans took shape out of the ivory of human bone, the wood of his furniture and sometimes the even the steel of his blades. He was talented, no doubt about that. Sometimes he would encourage me in his art. I would refuse to touch the human bone of course, which he thought nonsensical, but just to appease him I would scratch out things on his wooden table and stools, and my efforts were sophomoric in comparison to his. I was a child tapping out "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" next to the master concert pianist.

So I drew, if I felt like it, which was the only artistic endeavor where I could only hope to surpass him. He had no idea to hold a pen or pencil while I had done all my life. He would prod me fascinated to draw more and more until I finally threw the pencil away in disgust. He merely laughed and picked it up.

He doesn't use most of my drawings, but some really fascinate him, mostly the ones I draw about him. I guess he's self-absorbed that way. He loved my dentada one so much he used in for several things, in several different ways. I regretted drawing it.

Other times he makes me walk. Sometimes literally dragging me along . I hate this even more. I don't want to walk I want to lie in bed all day, but he won't let me It's hard enough with the hobbles, which he only occasionally refuses to take off. But he figures I must do something. Before I laid around, eating crap food and getting no exercise. Now I must walk. Once he even tied a rope around my ballooning waist.

"If I break my leg will you shoot me?" I ask sarcastically and he merely laughs. I pull on the rope, determined to get this over with.

He takes me on walks through the countryside, through hidden trails and tracks I never would have seen before. Sometimes he even takes me flying.

I'll admit this, sometimes it's wonderful to be able to fly, even if I'm not doing the actual flying. It's good for taking a mind off things.

Except when he decided to make it a hunting trip as well.

He has plans, I can see him looking at me. Judging me.

Today he pulled out a blue scarf.

It took me a second to remember it then it clicks. He put it on me once before, when he gave me a dead woman's groceries. I blink and recoil, but he gathers me closer, smiling happily, with obvious pleasure. He puts the scarf on my head. Adjusts it, studies it, studies me. Again it feels so oddly familiar, but he says nothing. So I say nothing. But I walk away feeling uneasy.

Bait.

It isn't until a few days later that I realize what he is planning.

I'm sitting outside in the bright winter sunshine. The snow has melted. I am sketching away on some paper he has gotten me. I am missing Hero. I am drawing him.

Then he comes quickly swooping down like a bat out of hell. I barely glance up. "Honey, I'm home." I murmur sarcastically as I resharpen my pencil. To my surprise he immediately comes to me, forcing me to stand up and put my things aside. "Wha-?" I ask but he shushes me. Out of his coat comes the blue scarf. He puts it loosely around my head.

Then he forced me to sit outside on the dirt road. I wrap my arms around myself, confused and afraid. He has plans. I try to get up, not easy in my condition, and he forces me down. In confusion I try to remove the scarf, and he forces it back on. So I sit there quietly, cradling my stomach.

For a while nothing happens. I start to feel less afraid and more angry. This is stupid. I think. I'm about to rip off the scarf and try and get up again when I hear the distinct sound of an engine.

My first thought is that it's the BEATNGU, but no this doesn't sound like its distinct roar. It's coming closer though. I cock my head and listen.

It's some kind of muscle car of some sort, I don't know the make or model. I'm not good with cars. It comes roaring arrogantly down the countryside. I just know it has an equally arrogant young man inside. On top of the world, confident.

Then he sees me, slows down. Kicking up dust in his wake.

Maybe it's the oddity of a girl sitting alone by the side of the road, maybe it's the expression on my face. All I know is that he slows down his car. I can see him turning to me in surprise. Then he stops, my stomach clenches and I know what will happen a split second before it does.

The Creeper pounces on to the car. It rocks horribly. The man screams. I can see the Creeper peel the roof of the car like a tin of sardines. I close my eyes. I can't get up and run. The horrible sounds fill my ears I push my hands against them. Please, please be over. I think silently. When it is I slowly get up and go back into the Hotel.

Pertwilla

It was painful seeing the house. It was still covered in yellow police tape, although someone had boarded up the door. He couldn't go inside. It was "against procedure" but he could look at it. He could stand there like an townie gawker at Elsa Daniel's house.

Elsa Daniel's house, where his sister was last seen.

Miguel swallowed his spit. He expected to be more…moved maybe? All he felt was the same dull aching sadness he felt since he heard the news. He suddenly wished he was somewhere else.

Officer Binns had taken him to the hospital where Elsa was lying in a coma. Her children had already driven out to see her. They were no where in sight. He felt like another awkward visitor. He said nothing, did nothing but leave his cell phone number and make the police and staff promise to call if there was any sign of waking up, then he came here.

He didn't know what to expect. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes but he felt he had to come around here, look for clues. So far nothing had jumped out at him. He felt foolish.

The brother sighed and got back into his car. He had "Have you seen me?" flyers to pass out.

The Hunter

He had picked up something interesting on his CB radio; reports of a fire partially destroying an old schoolhouse. But reading between the lines he could hear the freaked out tone of the first responders, the urge to get police cars out there right way. He had almost nothing to go on, but he had a feeling. He jumped into his truck and pointed it in the direction of the old schoolhouse.

Bathtub

"I want to go home, I want my mother I want to go home I WANT TO GO HOME!" I screamed ripping off the scarf. It floats gently down onto the dresser in the motel room. I scream and pound the mirror, cracking it. I scream nonsense. I just want to go home. Not be used as human bait.

When I'm done raging I collapse onto the bed. Panting.

He is there, leaning against the doorway. He has that amused look on his face. Bastard.

"I want to go home." I moan pathetically to him. Knowing it would accomplish nothing.

He holds out his hand to me. "Are home." He says casually. "Come." I know I have no choice. I take his hand miserably.

He has a surprise for me. And for once it's not horrific.

There's a bathtub in the hotel, of course, there's one in every room. But I never bothered trying to use one. I doubt water is still pumped here. Yet the Creepers surprise is a bathtub full of hot steaming water.

"How?" I ask in surprise.

He gestures to the pipes, and mimes wrenching and other fixing gestures.

"How did you get the water so hot?" I ask, touching it gently with my hands, and he shows me an empty propane tank he keeps in the basement.

"Thank you." I say surprising myself with my sincerity. He merely grins in triumph.

A different kind of game

I stay inside my new gift until I'm soft and wrinkled like a prune. I use it repeatedly, everyday, I have never felt so clean in my life.

I remember how I used to play in the bath, or the municipal pool or the ocean when I was little. My long hair trailing around me like seaweed, I used to pretend I was a mermaid. Now I lay in the warm soothing water lost in my good memories. My huge stomach looks like an island above the water, I stroke it gently, trying to get rid of the uncomfortable fluttering sensation in it. I sway back and forth, trying to soothe myself.

When the water turns lukewarm, and finally cold I get out. Still naked, I reach for the door.

I open it the same time he reaches for it.

I jerk back in surprise, and his eyes widen. The he grabs me.

I let out a "no" that's really just a small shriek His eyes are wide and white with the dark grey skin. Open with arousal. He pushes up against me, rubbing. I can feel him through his coat. He starts smelling me, always with the damn sniffing. Licking me all over my swollen body, as if he's feasting on my flesh without actually eating it. The smell the taste, it drives him crazy.

I could feel his erection against my belly. He's starting to lick my face, my neck, my breasts. He wants inside of me badly. I try to squirm away further into the hot steaming bathroom. He grabs me and pushes me to the floor. I can see my terrified reflection in the shiny bathroom chrome, distorted and made ugly with fear.

He rubs himself against me, against my legs, my crotch, my butt. Why bother fighting? I know I'll lose. I try to submit. He enters me, groaning. It'll be over soon; I try to tell myself as I grit my teeth.

I can hear him sighing contentedly as he falls into the rhythm of his thrusting. I don't know how long this went on, he has a lot of stamina. My mind leaves my body, I am numb.

I began to notice things, his thrusts had slowed, his finger began to probe. I tried to shake him off. He probed deeper. I snarled and fought, he grabbed my hips and withdrew. I knew suddenly what would happen next.

My elbow snapped back and I hid him dead center, it felt like hitting a brick wall. He gave a grunt in surprise but wasn't terribly off put. Still I seized the opportunity and renewed my struggles, screaming. I managed to twist a little away and head for the open door. He grabbed and retrained me easily.

I knew it was no use, but I begged him not to do it, to just leave me alone. I felt his hardness against the small of my back and I knew he was far from done.

He held my elbows and twisted them back, forcing my belly and breasts out. I tried to ignore the fluttering in my belly. He urged me quickly to the bed and bent me over it.

"Don't do this, don't do this, don't do this." I sobbed helplessly, knowing that it was absolutely useless. I thought he'd ignore me utterly. Instead he leaned and whispered obscene things, his voice rough with desire. He slid his slimy shaft between my ass smoothly.

I cried out at the sudden intrusion but it did not hurt.

Everything about the experience was degrading, burned into my memory forever. I hated how he ran his raspy tongue over my back. I hated his moaning and groaning in sheer pleasure at tightness of his new plaything. I hated how he bent me over the bed. I hated how he braced his clawed foot on the mattress and used it as extra leverage to thrust. I hated every second of it.

I especially hated how it felt.

Later as he collapsed over me groaning and empty, he pushed me onto the bed and curled up around me, feeling my belly. I just cried.

Bed

It's nice to have a real bed again, one with a lumpy mattress true but nice to sleep on something that isn't a pile of straw.

I never leave the bed now, or I hardly ever. When he forces me up I have no choice, but I passively resist. When he puts the blue scarf on me I do nothing. When he rapes me again I do nothing. I just lay there, staring at nothing. Mostly I sleep.

He does not like it. He constantly pushes me out of bed and I go limp and heavy like a doll. I don't care any more, I just don't care.