Chapter 5 - Find Me Here
20/10/5

"You always wanna run away Katie."
"Yeah, and you know why."

It's the morning after. The day after. Your whole body aches with him, the bruises that are visible and so, so many more which you will hide and bury with shame. You roll over in bed, your queen size mattress, the thick down duvet shielding you from what you know is a cold and frosty morning. You love winter; the sharp defining nip in the air, the crunch of the snow under heavy boots, each breath in the air like a ghost. You've only been here two years, two years since your mom remarried and wanted a fresh start; but Canadian winters are like no other. Last year, Christmas was spent at your Aunt Meg's in North Dakota, and though there was still snow and your fingers still turned blue even inside, it wasn't the same. There was something invisible, something indefinable, different.

But not this morning. You don't see the frost slowly melt or the snow which tops the hills like thick double cream. You've ignored your father's calls to get breakfast, get ready for school, even ignored his joke of pouring cold water over you. You heard him creep into your room while the morning was still full of night, remember vaguely mumbling some excuse about feeling sick. You felt dirty, despite the hours of washing and scraping at your skin last night; dirty and sick to your stomach, but not for any reasons he knew of. You think how he's too good to you, has been all your life; how as soon as he heard your mother was taking you to Canada, he left the army and moved here, to less pay and less prospects, all to be near you. You wish so much you lived here, with him, all the time; instead of your mother, who has no time for you, and your stepfather… your stepfather, who sees only a child who is not his, a rebellious teen, the reminder of another man's Smurf.

You wish, endlessly, wish it even when you are sleeping; that you had stayed here yesterday evening. Not lied to your father about having to go to Tegan's to study, not gone to that dark neglected house and let go of your childhood as that man, that man who had whispered his love over and over, grinded into you. You wish you'd grinned and been a kid instead of trying to cool and fifteen; agreed to your father's suggestion of a movie and Chinese takeout. You wish you'd said yes and not seen that crestfallen look in his eyes. You wish you could go back in time and talk some sense into yourself. It feels like you've aged a decade overnight.

The house is quiet now. Your dad's gone to work, driven his belching truck from the driveway. You send a quick prayer that he drives safely on this black winter day, the roads slick with black ice and his mind no doubt half on you and how you are. You pull the covers back from your face, and your skin doesn't feel good enough to see daylight or be in your father's house. The covers are still warm with your rosy heat as you push them back all the way, that body revealed inch by inch, pink and black and blue. Your hair falls about your face, unruly and wild, full of knots, but you don't care. A photo sits on the beside cabinet in a pine frame; it was taken three years ago, before the divorce, when your dad was stationed in Washington State for eight months. He's standing proud in his uniform, your mom is holding his hand and looking up to him; and you're being a kid, not yet thirteen, not yet riddled with hormones and insecurity. You wear a light blue singlet and denim cut offs; you're latched to your father's back, your arms around his neck and legs circling his waist. Behind you the sky is azure. Those frozen faces; you smile at them, at their naivety, at how they believed love might last forever. And how they were wrong.

You drag yourself from the warm confines of your burrow, feet cold on the bare wooden floor. Your body feels like a rag doll, played with and tossed aside. The bathroom is stark white, too white, new last month; you dare to glance in the mirror and aren't surprised to see a slight red outline on your right cheek. You can still feel his hand there. You can still feel each contour of each fingertip, like the pattern of a scar. Sitting on the toilet, you pull down your flannel pyjama pants. And it hurts. It stings. Your pants have light specks on blood upon them, and you are swollen and raw. You cannot move or reach or sleep or even urinate without some part of you throbbing like a constant reminder.

The tears start then, big fat lonely droplets that glide down your cheeks. You cry for minutes on end, your breath catching with the enormity of how much your life has changed in three little years, all the grief you have buried, and the thought of last night still fresh, like scarlet blood on white linen. You hear your stepfather's voice, the one he doesn't use unless it's just him and you; when you struggle to do our homework or play a scale on the piano, or when you are doing nothing wrong at all. "You're not good enough, You're not good enough…" A sob echoes in the room like a cry for help, and you wrap yourself in your father's plaid shirt. It is the same one he wore that day you spent all day together, eight hours tracking deer, the pride in his voice when you picked up the trail yourself. And you think how right now, all you want to do is run away; get lost, lost so far away that no-one will ever find you.

Kate woke with a start. The cave, so silent not a second ago, was filled with her deep gasp for breath and air and life. Her eyes snapped open, awake in an instant, immediately aware that something was wrong, definably wrong and different. This was not one of Jack's caves. Her pupils were huge, adjusting to the dim light, frantically darting about for clues or an indication of where she was.

And then she realised she couldn't move. She was lying horizontal, on some kind of thin blanket atop… metal? A part of the plane maybe? Her arms were above her head, hands bound together by some natural fibre woven into rope, and then fastened to some handle at the top of the metal. Her ankles were tied less tightly, an afterthought, bound only to each other by more of the same coarse fibres. Her pupils flitted around the room, full of panic and fear and confusion. Her head throbbed, like a steady painful pulse, with some injury she could not recall. The ropes, the dark, the pain; it all came tumbling down on her like a waterfall, mixing with the disorientation in both location and time. Jack's lips. Her lips upon his. The scent of him, sweat and antibacterial hand wash and mango. The ropes that bound her, the black surrounding her, the dread filling her every pore. Kate screamed.

No sound came. A muffled croak was all that met the air, like yelling into cotton wool. Then she realised, the feel of material in her mouth, dry musty jersey damp with her own saliva. She was gagged too. This was worse for her, far more upsetting than the ropes or darkness. The material was tight, digging in at the corners of her mouth, impeding her breathing. Short, shallow breaths filled the cave, and it was several seconds until Kate realised thi was blocked by a black silhouette. Deaf and blind, Kate's resolve abandoned her, the fear finding its niche and settling. She squirmed and screamed against her gag, and just one thought kept her going, kept her from passing out in the terror of the unknown in the dark.

Jack, where are you…

Jack was bathed in light. The sun filtered through to this spot in the late afternoon, and now as the last arc of burning crimson melted into the horizon, that last shiver of light just caught his face and he closed his eyes, savouring the warmth. He had deliberately arrived early to set up a small picnic he'd brought with him from the caves; some papayas he'd procured from Sun's garden, two cooked fish wrapped in a clean white t-shirt, and - and this he knew would make her smile - a tiny bag of Hershey's kisses he'd smuggled out of camp after he found them in a suitcase that had somehow gotten left aside. Jack spread out an Oceanic Airlines blanket, placed the few meagre items atop it, along with the small bunch of flowers he'd picked. The mandatory water bottle joined the meal, and just to make it complete he added the disposable camera from his rucksack. Jack smiled. It felt like a night of change and of steps forward; the lick of lilac and gold across the sky, the sliver of moon appearing like a memory.
He unbuttoned his plaid shirt in the evening warmth, removed his boots and socks; rolled up the legs of his jeans to calf level and sat on a rock beside the water, his feet dangling into the crystal clear liquid. And he daydreamed of Kate.

"Well I could love you forever
And we both know
Never say never
Well it's taken me a while
We've been so many miles
Find me here tonight
And tell me something new
Find me
Unwind me"

The feel of her lips on his… like velvet, like melting ice cream, like a dream. He'd opened his eyes, had had to, to make sure this was really happening. She had looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful, but there was something in that moment… like a guard let down, she looked peaceful and complete in a way he'd never seen her before. Her face had never looked so trusting before. Like she'd have let him lead her away and not question, not run, for once.

He knew they'd be taking things slowly. Jack could see so much insecurity nestled in Kate, as he knew he had himself; there was so, so much he didn't know, wondered even now if Kate would tell him. He knew he needed to make sure she was comfortable and knew he wasn't going to judge her or change his mind about her for anything that had happened in her past. Kate was Kate, and he was falling so fast for who she was now, no matter what had happened before. He could feel her presence invading him, like a cure for years of searching for someone who made him feel like she did; not just needed and reliable like Sarah had, but trusted, trustworthy, strong and weak all at once, and wanting to know her inside out, every fear and scar and secret passion. Not just wanting to fix her and nothing more. Jack grinned into the evening. He could not wait to see her again. The smile he knew would be there, shy and happy and matching his own. Her eyes filled with all he knew she'd one day say, but not all tonight, not all for a long, long time maybe.

That was when he realised. It was no longer just after sunset. It was maybe an hour after, the dark filtering over the remnants of light, night well and truly on the way. Jack had gotten so caught up in his daydreams he hadn't noticed the time pass. Kate wasn't late. It wasn't her style. And he had seen; seen how much she had been looking forward to this 'date' just as he had, seen her suppress her excitement and joy. He glanced about, that she wasn't watching him from the jungle or had even crept past him jokingly and went for a swim. Nothing. No movement, no flash of brunette hair or tanned skin.

She had gone for the walk hours ago, hours and hours. Lost? Jack doubted it; Kate knew that stretch of land so well, had made the trails herself, and knew to climb a tree if she did get disorientated. Held up at camp, maybe… but not for this long. Even if something had happened to someone, he as the doctor would have been alerted immediately.

Jack could feel the worry rising, a lump in his chest that wouldn't shift. If she wasn't here, or in the jungle or at the beach; then where was she?

The shadow moved over her. Its owner was in the cave now, in the darkness of the corner, with quick heavy breathing. She could smell her captor. He was stale, damp, unwashed. Kate didn't dare open her eyes.

You go back to your mother's house later that day. You cover your bruises with jeans and a thick hooded top, keep your head down so to hide the mark upon your cheek. You have scrubbed your body until it is red and angry. You want to forget him, forget that man. You bury the memory to the back of your head, filling yourself with blame. He was twenty eight and took advantage and you know all that, somewhere deep down. But the blame and guilt fills you like viscous liquid.

Your father drives you back, and you try to make light conversation about the class clown Jamie, or how when you went on vacation to Florida years ago your dad wouldn't go on Tower of Terror at MGM Studios, or what you want to after finishing school. And he smiles and jokes back, but he knows something is wrong, you can see it in his eyes as he sees it in yours. When you pull up to your mother's house, twice as big as his, you see the curtains twitch in the den and you know your stepfather is home. You can't deal with his criticism, not now, not now. Your father sees the movement too and asks if you're okay, says you can come back to his tonight if you want; but you say no, it's okay, you have homework and a media project to hand in tomorrow. But inside you are calling out, through the pain of the other night and months of being told you're not good enough; Save me, save me…

Kate swallowed in the dark of her cell as her captor neared. Save me, Jack…