Rape is, was, her greatest fear. Far more so than murder, and death. You're killed, and it's all over, no more hurt, in this world at least. You're raped, and the hurt keeps going and going and going. It's torture, but worse, the same way emotional abuse is abuse, but worse. A living death. Some things don't stop at the body, but get into the mind, and the heart, and the soul, where they burn, and fester.
Serial killers always kill for the sexual thrills, whatever else they might tell you, whatever else you might think is behind their gruesome 'hobby'. No one can keep anger going that long without propping it up with something feel good.
Emily supposed her problems lay in herself, in her body, in its tendency to freeze, like a rabbit or a deer, whenever what she euphemistically termed 'an incident', was underway. And 'incidents' had occurred to her before, again, she thought, because she was small, and young, and stupid, and without anyone to care for her.
One time a six foot five male friend cornered her alone in a pool during a New Year's party- Incident.
A few years after that another tall and chunky male friend plied her with drinks and offered her a ride home - Incident.
But this time it's different, because this time she has not been let go.
Ironically she had been trying to get over some unfortunate repercussions from those incidents by hiking with a friend through the woods of New Jersey, near to a small town and a beautiful lake. One of those semi-normal, semi-radical activities people advise girls and guys like her to do, partly because they truly believe it will help, and partly because they want to get rid of the shivering, shaking, dead-eyed problem for a few hours or days. The latter goal is usually achieved, sometimes for longer than expected.
They'd not done much research on the area, or taken seriously what they had read, another thing Emily kicked herself for when she and her friend stopped to rest and take obligatory selfies, only for a masked man to leap out of the pleasant green brush and photo bomb them in the worst way possible, thrusting a machete blade through Emily's innocent friend's back and chest with a grunt and one savage jerk of his arm.
That girl was the lucky one.
It must be her animal-like docility that caused her to be downgraded (upgraded?) from immediate, to long term gratification item, because as soon as her body registered an attack, she stiffened, and fell off the log she had been sitting on, to lie in the grass. No sound, no screams could she make, only her eyes were free to move, and move they did, to take in the hideous masked figure slowly approaching her, his bleeding machete skimming the ground, leaving behind a trail of her friend's juices, its subtle point aimed at a spot between her eyes. He looked less like the outdoorsman he was by necessity, and more like the psycho he was by pleasure.
Even after two 'incidents' another is always shocking, even when it is expected, and Emily did not expect anything but to be murdered. Not even when she was picked up and flung over a burly shoulder, did she expect anything but to be placed down somewhere else and swiftly killed. Not that she was thinking anything, because you can't when panic and terror reach almost to their zenith, your brain has flown away into the ceiling, or sky, from where it watches its trembling body. The world becomes oddly calm, at that stage, and the walk Jason took her on, so full of birdsong and glorious nature, was technically pleasing.
She was placed down, not on the ground, but on a decayed bed, in a stinking cabin cobbled together chaotically out of whatever had been on hand, and only then did a tiny thought wriggle in amongst her grey matter and say 'Hey..we've got trouble. Just..don't run. Don't fight'. It sounds like she was given a choice, but there's no choice, the body absolutely refuses sometimes to let its owner do stupid things, no matter what they might want, but only those who've truly been in such an extreme and blessedly rare state of peril, will know what that means.
The man who killed her friend with such wicked ease, stepped forward across a dirty floor, the oversized knife in his hand held loosely but securely, the way a maestro holds an instrument that's become a part of him. He didn't need it to intimidate his victim into compliance, she was only still alive because he could see he would not experience 'trouble'. He soon put it down on a wreck of a table, out of reach of her, but not of him.
Although Emily couldn't think, she could still observe, in hyper detail, super focus, and slow motion. Not a movement was missed, and so, when the monster rolled his massive neck, and shook his hulking shoulders, limbering up for something, she could see what was coming with a clarity not far from prophecy. She could almost read his mind, butchered by evil as it was. Bloodlust is a form of lust, after all, and it was lust that gave his eyes their heavy lidded, baleful stare.
He stepped closer, slowly, deliberating. Once, his head rose as he looked out the window, eyes moving as they followed some sound she couldn't hear. Nothing came to rescue her.
Extra weight dipped the old fashioned single bed, extreme weight. There wasn't much space so naturally his unwashed bulk came to rest upon Emily. Not completely though, his rock hard forearms and a knee prevented him crushing his nice shiny new toy. The position set her heart racing so fast that its beat was visible, audible, but not to her, her world was stuffed with cotton wool. A hand went wandering, jerky, like a spider. Awkward, untrained, groping like a blind man. The prelims to the main event. There was nothing sexy about it, just a hungry man pawing an uncooked chicken. To resist him was to die, she could not do it, but that doesn't mean she allowed what he was doing, her immobility was petrification in the face of the inescapable, not consent. Anyone could see the difference, even Jason, but to him the cold, frozen flesh beneath his was in just the state he wanted it to be.
During those early days, there was no pain. That's another gift of terror, when there is no escape, it soothes, it anaesthetises. Jason could not make her hurt, no matter how much rage he shunted across the divide once he got the hang of how to use this particular weapon on her. The hand around her throat, cutting off her air, the filthy nails digging into her skin, registered as pain, yes, but a theoretical pain, happening to someone else, far, far away. Likewise any bites or scratches, or brutality, or whatever else he dreamed up. None of it hurt. Not even the times he was loving. 'Loving', acting the lover in short bursts, repeating behaviour he'd seen, men kissing and caressing their partners. That was the worst, that and the times whatever he was doing felt good. That messed with her mind, made her doubt herself, and doubt him. Made her ascribe tender feelings and soft qualities to him when she knew he would murder her the instant she caused him trouble. To grant him leeway and slip up and treat him like a lecherous teenage boy, was to ask for death, the hands that sometimes encircled her throat or gripped her head a bit too hard, were adequate warnings.
The times he left to go lurk in the bushes or whatever else he had going on, were the times that something like pain crept upon his victim, because then terror abated with the absence of its source. But it remained enough to prevent escape, although Emily could move a bit. In classic sociopath fashion, Jason had chained her to his bed, giving hint of his lurking intelligence by placing a bucket within reach. As if doubting his own judgement, he'd taken her clothes, leaving her with nothing but his ragged blanket for warmth and covering.
And this is where we find Emily now, still with few thoughts in her head, a pale thing, lying like a foetus on her bed of shame, because even here, in the middle of nowhere, enduring unspeakable outrage by a man she definitely did not know, and therefore did not misjudge, even here and now she still finds a way to make it her fault. Didn't take the legend seriously. Shouldn't smile at him, you're encouraging him. Because she does smile, and fawn weakly whenever Jason decides to take his frustrations out on her, again as commanded by her body. She even kissed his mask once and placed his hand on her breast, to keep it away from her throat, or his machete, which made him jerk his head back before wordlessly imitating her action. Such things, such voluntary 'cooperation', seems to mollify him a little, enough that he feeds her, and never inflicts fatal damage, though who knows if that smile and light touch really makes a difference.
Late afternoon is a time for him to check in and get a quick fix, a quick snack, cessation of nearby birdsong and a foetid breeze heralding his approach, his boots crunching over vegetation and soil. Today is no different. The ill fitting door opens, stealthily, a heavily breathing figure filling it. One minute he's not there, the next he is, staring, in silence, his jacket dripping lake water onto the floorboards, his machete glinting. He sees nothing suspect. His captive is where he left her, lying curled up on a filthy, bloody mattress. No bonds have been broken. Nothing has been touched. He thought about chopping off a leg, but then his prey would die. She's that sort.
Without further ado he puts down his tools of the trade, striding over and climbing onto his bed and the woman in it like a normal person climbs into lunch. Terror returns, simultaneously stretching out the time, and shortening it to nothing. He's a pro, and the weapon is a good one, it inflicts intense suffering again and again, a hundred little deaths got out of this one body. The girl hates it, crying directly into his ear when he bites her neck. It feels good, like killing. It's part of the same thing, grants the same release. He feels powerful, he effects change, his flesh thrills with pleasure. Someone else suffers like he does. The only pity is, she doesn't scream.
Jason is not shy about taking advantage of a renewable energy source, and while he can't forgive the people who choose to do this instead of doing their jobs, it makes sense why they do. Once he's done he leaves again, the lack of even a single word one of the most difficult aspects to bear. If he spoke then at least Emily could hold onto the idea that this is another human being doing this to her, and not a demon.
Night time is less hard on her, even though that means more abuse. It's less hard because Jason sleeps in his bed. With her. Achieving this by having her lie on him, one of his heavy legs hooking over her hip when he turns onto his side, his arms trapping her in a hug void of any affection. It's less hard because even though he uses his body to harm her, the presence of another living body is also comforting. Its warmth, its solidity, the soft motions of sleep. Emily tries no escape, her body knows best, proven by her more than once catching glimpse of her tormentor's eyes, awake and open in the dark, watching her. Pretty blue eyes they are not. The malice they exude is incredible, and no words are needed to convey the idea that should she run, should she cause trouble, he will kill her, and feel nothing.
The threat is clear, but Emily feels bad. Good girls run. Good girls scream. Even when there's no one around to hear. Good girls resist to the death and fight back against the one trying to outrage their chastity. She is not a good girl, she is a bad girl, or else these things wouldn't happen to her. If she was a good girl, Jason would have murdered her.
Her day to day routine becomes very fixed, and very simple. Jason shudders awake with the birds, getting up to heed the call of nature, and then usually returning to heed the call of nature. Then he'll sit on the bed and lovingly look after his weapons, especially the machete, and prepare and maintain traps. Then he'll go into the other room for a while. From the moaning and groaning and smell of fire that emerges, Emly decides that she's not his only captive. Maybe a good girl will break out and help her in the process. Then after doing whatever he did in there, and breakfast, he'll leave for work. Decentish, meat heavy food will come her way at some point, along with lukewarm, funny tasting water. But this is always a bad time, because when sustenance comes, Jason takes another pound of flesh from her, like he's resentful of his own life preservering behaviour. Resentful, but not ashamed, or guilty, nope, the look in his eyes never changes. He very much enjoys what he does.
When dusk falls he returns, repeating his weapon fondling ritual one more time before bed. The night air creeping across the threshold smells nice, but he does not, his skin is usually clammy with sweat, and rough, tough and thick in an unpleasant way. The feel of it is enough by itself to put nausea in Emily's stomach.
Sometimes it's a special day, and then he doesn't come back for the night, or not till very late, and when he does he smells even worse than usual. At least he will often clean excess blood and gore off, or change his clothes before crawling in beside her.