And now back to our story. . . .
Bella had considered many different ways to 'be' Marie. When the moment arrived, she realized that the only thing she really needed was fear. No amount of makeup or clothing changes could simulate the real, pervasive animal fear of a girl trapped, abused and held against her will.
Recent experiences gave her the basic building blocks she needed. When Masen had activated the collar the night before, she had panicked. For several seconds she had been incoherent and irrational. And then, when Peter had surprised her in the lobby, her training was the only thing that prevented her from running screaming into the street. She had existed for many minutes in a place where 'fight or flight' and 'do or die' were more than just overused phrases describing the physiological manifestations of acute stress. Her body was primed to tap into every tool in the vast arsenal of animal instinct. The prize for escaping a threat was not a blue ribbon, a 4.0 GPA or commendations. The reward was simply the opportunity to live another day. . . to take another breath. . . to be.
And that was where Marie had lived day in and day out for years.
When she viewed the world through that lens, slipping into Marie's mind and body was not as great a challenge as she thought it would be.
Once she 'escaped' from the apartment, Bella slunk along, staying close to the wall, until she came to a unit with sounds of life emanating from the door. She looked furtively up and down the hallway, jumping at the unexpected sound of the elevator mechanism shifting and whirring behind her. She paused with her hand inches away from the door.
Normal people knock. They rap or pound or strike a door to create a series of percussive signals that speak to the tenants, "It's me. I'm here. Come and talk to me. Let me in."
Marie was not a normal person. She was an injured creature. Noise of any sort could potentially bring attention from an animal bigger, fiercer and more powerful than herself. So she tapped. . . quietly. . . and waited.
Nothing.
She checked left and right. The hallway was still deserted.
She tapped louder and tentatively tried the door knob. It didn't budge.
From within the apartment she heard the clatter of everyday life: music playing, male voices, laughing, footsteps, cabinets opening and shutting. She tapped again, but there was no response.
Animals fear attack. Open spaces equal vulnerability to attack. So they build homes: nests, dens, hives, houses. . . safe zones. The hallway was an open space. That meant susceptibility to attack. At any moment, the elevator doors could open and reveal the face of her captor. Any second now, another door could open and she would be helpless before a new, unknown threat.
She tapped louder. . . then she began to knock. With each escalating sound rolling out from her hands, her panic grew. Those sounds were a beacon to anyone within earshot, "I am here!", but she didn't want to be there. She wanted to be inside. Safe. Now. So she began to pound with both hands, sobbing, her breaths a rapid, gasping plea for oxygen to saturate her blood should she need to run. . . or fight.
The door opened suddenly. The shirtless, blurry-eyed tenant opened his mouth to yell at her, then froze. She was hyperventilating. Tears were streaming down her face. She covered her mouth with her clenched fists and shook, begging, "Please. . . please. . ."
"Oh my God! Are you okay? Come in! Shit. . . Guys! Guys? What do I do?" he rambled, his fingers twisting in his short, black hair. He stepped back to let her inside.
She checked her back trail - the door to Peter's apartment opened a crack - and slunk inside. "Please. . . help. Call. Call . . . I need help. He's coming back. . . back. He's gonna. . . He's . . . Help me." Her voice wavered in pitch and volume, projecting her terror and desperation.
Two more young men joined the first, college boys with baggy shirts and bad hygiene. The stench of pot hung in the air. A part of her brain reacted, but quickly dismissed it. After all, it was legal in Washington State now, and she wasn't a Fed today.
"What's going on?" one friend asked, scratching at his neck and squinting at Bella short-sightedly.
"Who is she?" The second friend was tall and lanky, with grey eyes peering through thick glasses. "Dude, Bansi, she needs help!"
"I know she needs help. She won't shut up about it. But what am I supposed to do?"
"Call 9-1-1!"
The three guys bickered, casting furtive glances at her. Their red-rimmed eyes were glassy, but the situation that had just fallen into their laps was starting to cut through the fog.
"Shit. Shit. Okay. . . here's my phone."
"Yes 9-1-1. Call 9-1-1. Help! He's coming. Please. . . I. . . I need help," Bella kept up her rambling plea.
The Indian guy - Bansi - offered her a seat on the couch, hastily shoving aside textbooks and a pair of dirty socks. One of the other young men dialed the emergency number on his phone and thrust it into her hands. She sat down, but never straightened from her hunch, rocking slightly with the phone cradled in her hands.
A voice rose up from the device, tinny and distant, "9-1-1, what is your emergency?"
Bella whispered through her tears, her voice cracking as she struggled to breathe, "He said he's coming back. . . help me. I don't. . . I want. . . Please. . ."
"Ma'am, it's going to be okay. You did the right thing. Stay calm. Can you tell me your name?"
"He calls me Marie. . . I don't. . . I don't like it. But 'no' hurts. 'No' hurts." The fingers of her right hand hooked into her collar, tugging fitfully.
"Okay. It's okay. Can you tell me where you are?" There was the sound of typing in the background, a rapid clatter of keys that was completely at odds with the operator's soothing tone.
"Please. . . help. He hurts. . . he hurts me. . . and I'm hungry. . . please."
"Miss, can you tell me where you are right now? Are you alone or is there somebody with you?"
"Bansi. . . Bansi helped. . . they called you. Thank you. . . please hurry. . . Mom said 'say please'. . . I said please. . . I said please. . ."
"Is Bansi with you?"
Bansi had been hovering just out of arm's reach. He grabbed the phone and held it up to his ear. "I'm Bansi. Hey, um, this girl. . . well she was knocking on the door and crying and asking for help. I don't know who she is. Maybe she lives here. . . I don't know, but she's totally freaking out and she keeps saying 'He's coming back' and-" he paused and looked around at his two friends. They were shuffling awkwardly, spectators on the fringe of the surreal scene. "Yeah, me and my friends were studying. . . Sure. . . I don't know if she's hurt. She's not bleeding. . . no she keeps rocking and talking and crying."
Bella had been counting in her head. The phone call had started 90 seconds ago. Bansi was reciting the address to the operator. A police officer may have already been dispatched to their location. It was time to escalate the conversation and make her escape.
She clutched at her necklace and whimpered, "It burns. . . he's coming. . . he's coming back." She wasn't whispering any more. "I have to go. . . go. . . Marie is bad. . . hurts. . . 'no' hurts!"
She stood, shaky on her high heels. One of the guys reached for her, a placating gesture. The terrified girl interpreted it as a threat. She screamed. All three guys stepped back in dismay.
"I have to go. . . he's coming!" she gasped hoarsely.
They didn't stop her when she ran. Bella made herself shake off their looks of horrified confusion. In a few minutes they would be interviewed by the police. It would probably be a topic for discussion and speculation for several days, but they would be okay soon enough. She knew she hadn't hurt them in any way. . . but it still bothered her. It had to be traumatic to their young minds. The sweet boys had only tried to help.
Bella burst out into the hallway at the same moment that the elevator opened. She locked eyes with a startled couple carrying bags of groceries. She looked both ways then sprinted for the green exit sign on her left. Bella clattered down the cement staircase, almost turning her ankle more than once. She was in full flight mode.
Had she given Masen enough time? It was a fine edge they were walking: draw attention, but don't get caught. This play was the first of many bread crumbs on a trail they hoped the Volturi would trace, authenticating their roles as captor and slave.
Bella practically fell into the lobby. A petite blonde was retrieving her mail. A twenty-something man was walking his bicycle into the elevator. They both stopped and stared as she stumble-ran across the lobby, out through the glass door. . . and into the grasp of Edward Cullen. His expression was murderous.
His hand closed over her forearm and all the fight went out of her. She sobbed and sunk to the pavement at his feet, her puny arms and legs no match for the powerful man who dominated her. He yanked her to her feet and pulled her toward the car waiting at the curb. She tripped and went down on one knee. She heard and felt the impact, but there was no pain. Not yet. She tried to regain her footing. He opened the passenger side door and thrust her into the seat, barely pausing to ensure her legs were inside before slamming it behind her.
His brilliant green eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but there was nothing to mask the grim sneer that twisted his lips. He hopped into the car, the engine roared to life and they peeled out of the parking lot into the busy street.
Bella experience true terror as they narrowly missed several cars. Despite the screeching tires and honking horns, they made it to the interstate in less than a minute without further incident.
"You okay?"
Bella looked down and realized her knee was bleeding. Blood had welled up from the deep graze on her knee and trickled down her shin.
"Yeah. I think so." The blood was already starting to congeal.
"Excellent timing."
"Thanks. They better not have video cameras in the halls or lobbies."
"Of course not. Why do you think Peter chose this building?"
Bella nodded. It made sense. "The girl in the lobby. . . think she got our plates?"
"Old James Bond trick," he winked and pointed to a small dial beneath the dashboard.
"Oh, right. Of course. Any other cool gadgets in this thing?"
"Nope. Just the two of us."
"We are pretty cool," she said thoughtfully.
"Yes, we are," he agreed with a small smile.
A/N: How did she do?
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