Twenty-One

His words hit me like a freight train going 100 miles per hour. All this time, I had thought that this was anonymous; that the killer had randomly picked me, or that he had linked me with the crime lab. I just assumed that maybe one of my co-workers had screwed over a criminal, and now the convict was back for revenge. But that was not the case. On the contrary, this was more personal than I had ever expected.

"Roger?" I asked quietly. Roger Marx had been my first real beau in high school; my first kiss, my first prom, everything. He was even the first guy I had sex with. Back then, Roger had been so comforting and gentle. He had been my rock when the rest of the world turned on me, or when someone was bullying me. Yet now, he was doing the bullying.

"You sound surprised," he answered in his classic matter-of-fact tone. I starred at him longer, my blurry eyes trying to contemplate the man who stood in front of me. He looked nothing like the Roger I used to know. He was skinny and awkward, with the pale complexion of a shut-in. His face obviously hadn't been shaven in a few days, and a sad looking beard was clinging to his chin. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and his nails were dirty and long.

"What on earth are you doing?" I questioned him in disbelief, now more shocked than frightened.

"What am I doing?" he mocked my words. "I'm teaching you a lesson. You made promises to me, and you didn't keep them." I stared at him blankly as he continued his explanation. "You told me you loved me, and that you would never love anyone else. You promised that we would always be together, and that you would never even look at another guy. I gave you everything; I gave you all I had, and you took it without thanks or gratitude. I gave you my virginity, for Christ's sake."

Well, he was still as well-articulated as ever.

I pondered his words for a minute, trying to recall these promises he spoke of. I'm sure I had said things along those lines, but who hadn't? I was a dumb kid in high school who thought that I knew what I wanted in life. I expected Roger and I to get married, even though I cringed at the idea at having the initials of M.M. We would have a dozen kids, and buy a big house in the farm, complete with cows and chickens. But that was just a stupid dream, and when I said those things to Roger, they were just naïve expressions of my feelings.

"Roger," I began, trying to reason with him as if he were still my old boyfriend. "That was years ago. We broke up a long time ago, and I've moved on in my life. You knew we would never be together again after I went to college." I watched his face, hoping to see a sign of understanding or recognition, but there was nothing. I waited for his response, hoping that his mild demeanor wasn't just the calm before the storm.

"Matilda," he said, his tone subdued. "You cannot just say things like that to people and expect them to forget about it. Because of what you said, I had my entire life planned out. But when you left, everything I thought I knew went down the drain; I was nobody. It was like you took my identity with you." He signed heavily and sat down on the bed, his tall frame slouching over to match his depressed mood. I thought about taking advantage of his vulnerable state and making a run for it, but he was still much larger and stronger than me. I tried to relax my rigid body in hopes of showing him that I was still the friend he once had; that I could still be comfortable with him. But I wasn't so lucky.

His head snapped up as he noticed my weight shift, and he became aware of the entire situation again. I was still his hostage, and he was still my brutal captor. He jumped to his feet and stomped over to me, each of his steps sounding heavier and heavier as he inched closer. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me up from my squatting position and pressed my back against the cold concrete wall, his face only inches from my own. I could feel and smell his hot, gross breath, and I winced, regretting that I had ever wanted to kiss that mouth.

"Listen, you stupid whore," he started, pushing his index finger into my chest, his nail digging into my skin. "You knew I never wanted you to leave, but you did it anyway. You thought you were better than me, but you're not. You're a worthless bitch who screws other guys." I flinched at his mention of 'screwing other guys', and again wondered how he knew about Greg and me in the first place.

"Please," I begged, not sure of what he was going to next. I squirmed beneath him, trying to kick at him as best as I could, but he pinned both of my legs down with one of his knees. Not knowing what else to do, I tried to momentarily ditch the damsel in distress act and take matters in to my own hands. Conjuring up as much phlegm as three water-less days could provide in the back of my throat, I spat right into his eyes, disgusted at my own mucus production.

"You bitch!" he yelled, moving one of his arms away from my body to wipe the spit from his eyes. I seized the opportunity and used my free hand to smack him hard against the cheek. The force made a hefty red mark on his skin, but he wasn't put off by my physical abuse; in fact, he was encouraged by it. Balling his hand into a fist, he punched me hard on the side of my head, letting me drop to the floor. I grabbed my head in pain and braced my body for more punishment, not knowing that he would be the next to be hurt.

A sudden, loud thud came from the bedroom door that he had made sure to close behind him when entering. Roger and I both turned to see what had produced the noise, and we again heard the sound, only louder this time. The entire door cracked, and the walls of the run-down building quacked. Boom! One last blast and the entire entrance came crashing down to the ground. Before I knew what was happening, a flurry of men in SWAT uniforms had tackled Roger to the ground, and I was being lifted by my arms to safety.