Disclaimer: I only own Emily.
Warning: Rated Mature, for Abuse and Adult Content
Feedback: A little constructive feedback would be nice.
Setting: Before Red Canyon and the Death of Mac
Emily had hoped it had ended with his death. That the nightmares would stop, the monster would leave her alone, and Caineville would have some peace now. Of the women Mac had hurt, to her knowledge, Emily was the only one who had escaped. Though she was far from that desert hell, somehow the rumors of its current status made their way to New York.
The recent rumor was that since the day Emily had set fire to their meth lab and Mac's truck, no one had entered the cave. Anyone who dared, venture beyond its dark, jagged entrance, left gravely injured. Emily wondered why anyone would want to go in that place. How could they not know?
The women he enjoyed most of all. Though for the life of her, Emily could not fathom why a woman would be curious about that cave. What would convince her to wander that far out? Rumor had it, that the most recent victim had been found covered in blood. She was lacerated and bruised from head to toe. Her face was beaten beyond recognition, chain indentation on her wrists, and clear evidence of sexual assault. The local police, incompetent as ever, and probably covering it up, claimed they never found the perpetrator. As far as Emily knew, Mac was dead, he had to be dead. She had set his truck on fire and it exploded when it finally hit the gas tank.
Emily wracked her memory, trying to recall if she had seen Mac in the truck when it exploded. The flashbacks came with a series of emotions. She remembered the dirt, blood, and semen smell wafting off of her in waves as she boldly trapped through the desert, his desert. A swallow of whiskey and a drag of one of his cigarettes suddenly, falsely made her believe she was a badass. That somehow, she was no longer afraid of Mac, what he had done to her, or what he would do to her if he got his hands on her again. At that moment, she forgot one major thing, Mac wasn't physically present when she had orchestrated her escape. Her courage would have shattered if he had walked into his house and found her smoking his cigarettes, free of the bindings he had put on her.
Emily remembered seeing the truck slam into the Caineville Police Station and the unconscious Mac in the driver's seat. When she set fire to the trail of whiskey, leading to the truck, she had turned her back. She never saw his body, she never put a bullet in his head, so she could not be certain that he was dead.
It would be effortless for Walter to spread the rumor that Mac was dead and the cave was haunted. He certainly wasn't popular with the locals, at least the non-meth users. Emily having been outside the situation for long enough, could remember how the few locals turned a blind eye to his actions. There was only one discernible reason for that type of behavior, fear. They knew his reputation and were too afraid to intervene. Cowards, She thought. With that realization came another more horrifying thought, if she went back, she would be alone. They would be more likely to help him than they would her, regardless of what he did to her.
The realization made her stomach cramp and her flesh goosebump. He cannot find you Emily, She thought to herself. She was trying to convince herself it was a fact, to pacify her growing paranoia. A paranoia that had remained dormant or so she thought. Had she not chopped her hair into a pixie cut to reduce the chances of being a kidnap victim? Was she not the woman who thought looking more boyish would protect her, even if he was still alive? Mac loved to grab her by her hair, in protest, paranoia, or just plain anger, she suddenly had hacked it down to a short pixie cut.
She was also the girl who illegally carried a boot knife in her purse and a hairpin or barrette in her chopped-off locks. The only person she was trying to convince, was herself. If she was so certain of the things she was telling herself, why had she mapped, imagined, and planned dozens of escape scenarios?
Every time she walked anywhere or went somewhere new, she looked for every exit and routed an escape plan. You destroyed his truck, he cannot afford another one, or a plane ticket. And even if it was running, it would never make the trip. She thought to herself. Emily nodded to herself. How would he find you? The last question had no answer. Emily, couldn't shake the paranoia rising up her back. That unmistakable feeling of someone in pursuit, just at her heels, right behind her. She had no answer for how he would find her, here in a large city and him with no resources.
Franklin Street subway was a ghost town at this time of night. Though thankfully well-lit, free of graffiti, and trash, it was unmistakably eerie. Advertisements lined the mosaic tile wall behind her. Emily leaned back looking first left and then right, though she saw no one, she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone. So she walked over to the emergency exit next to the turnstiles and stared out at the main entrance. There was no one else even entering the subway.
Emily pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over the chain scars on her flesh, a constant reminder of the hell she had endured. Was she subconsciously preparing for a fight? A fight that may never happen. Who would she fight? Mac? He was dead, if not dead, in Utah. Though no one believed her story, believing there could never be a man that cruel, her scars, they could never explain.
It was months before she could shower without barricading the bathroom door. Emily found the thought of a man's touch unbearable. She remained single, seeing Mac in all of their faces. Mac had marked-no branded her with his violence, poisoned her with whiskey, and forever marked her with his sex. The cruel, twisted ways he had touched and toyed with her were burned into flesh memory.
For the longest time, she could smell his foul odor on her, every time she had to get naked. The aroma of him mixed with her own was only one repulsive reminder of the perverted things he had down to her. There she was again, curled up naked on the floor, the shower running unoccupied and her, crying alone.
The memories made her cringe, and graze her ear across her shoulder as if she could rub the gooseflesh off her neck. She licked her lips and sighed slowly, spinning around again. That time she swore she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She shoved her hand in her pocket, grabbing her pepper spray.
"Hello?!" She called out.
Silence answered her back. Emily glanced around the orange I-beams. There was nothing, no Mac, no monsters, not even another passenger descending the stairs. Emily looked around for a quick escape. There were only the stairs at either end of the subway. She would have to move fast, injure him, or outsmart him. Would pepper spray even work? Stop it! She thought. He's gone! She told herself. Emily exhaled slowly, shutting her eyes for a moment.
"Emily…" A male voice whispered.
"He's dead!" She said aloud, screaming at herself to get a grip.
Emily was having a hard time believing what she was telling herself. Her paranoia had woken up and no amount of facts would convince her the demon Mac wasn't coming to get her.
"Emily…" Sing-song this time.
This could not be happening, she was creating her own nightmare. Her body, however, believed Mac was in the subway. That he had found her and was here to get his revenge. One fact she could never deny, if Mac came for his payback, she would beg for death. Mac delighted in her suffering, her screams, and her repulsion of him. Therefore, he would only play with his food, until it no longer had the strength to live.
Emily's breathing came in rapid short breaths as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Without realizing it, she was shaking her head no. As if she could will away whatever was happening to her.
Her breathing came in rapid, short inhales as her heart hammered in her ribs. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"No…no…no…" She whispered to herself, her voice squeaking.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl and her body began to tremble. Then she heard it, work boots on concrete, echoing through the empty station. Emily swallowed hard, attempting to rid herself of the lump in her throat as a second tear rolled down her cheek. There was no denying the truth in this moment, as much as she pretended, she was terrified of Mac and no amount of anger would kill that fear. Then she heard it a second time, those boots, slowly making their way in her direction. Emily stopped breathing, all she could hear was her heartbeat in her ears and feel it hammering against her ribcage.
There, for a brief moment, she saw him descending the stairs, moving toward the turn styles and the platform where she was standing. Emily froze, there was nowhere for her to go, and he was blocking her exit. She backed away from the turn style to the platform and moved down the stretch of concrete away from him. Mac heaved himself over the turnstile moving steadily closer to her.
It was obvious he was on the hunt, he was wearing his dark hunting camouflage button-down shirt, dark blue jeans, and brown work boots. If she was creating this nightmare, her Mac was more muscular than she remembered and his meth rotten teeth were gone. The last thing she needed was a healthier, faster, and stronger Mac.
"Hello bitch. Bet you thought I would never find you." He said.
He couldn't be real, he could not be here in New York. There was no plausible way this could be happening. Emily was so enthralled in this nightmarish hallucination that she could not hear the subway approaching, squealing down the tracks as it began to slow. Only the rush of wind from the train shook her from her trance. The gust even ruffled Mac's hair and clothes but it too could be part of her hallucination.
If she was going to maintain her sanity, her freedom, or hell, simply escape, she had to move fast. Emily's head snapped in the direction of the doors and she bolted into the train just as the doors were closing. She assumed he had lunged for her because his balm hit the doors when he failed to grab her. Had she imagined that too?
Emily stared at those tiny oblong windows but his image was gone. She could swear he was just there glaring at her. He was nowhere on the platform, not anywhere she could see from her seat on the subway. Emily sighed, he head dropping in relief but she continued to glance up at the windows as the train left. Then she saw it, one brief image of him staring at her through the window. Her breath hitched in her throat, she shook her head violently as she began to cry.
"No…no…no…" She said, louder this time.
As the train picked up speed, his form vanished from sight. Emily jumped from her seat, staring out the window, but everything was a blur so she could not be certain.
Again she remembered she never saw Mac's body. Emily wondered if he was in fact, dead. Was there any possible way for him to find her? Had he somehow managed to find her? Every ounce of her protested the idea of returning to that place, that hell, Caineville. Unless, she wanted, no, needed to be certain that Mac was dead. That there was no plausible way for him to ever come after her. Of course, if he was intelligent or she was a moron, that could be exactly what he wanted. For her to willingly walk into his trap and never again escape.