We Meet Again (for Writer's Cramp)

"Hey, I saw your photo in the paper." says the person on the other end of the line, and an icy shiver trails up my spine. How long has it been since I heard that voice? My breath catches in my throat; it takes me a moment to recover from the shock.

"Adam?" I ask, though I don't really need conformation. As if I could forget the voice of a man who haunts my dreams even now, so many years later. "How the hell did you get this number?" I try to sound angry, not scared, but there's no way he could miss the tremor in my voice.

He laughs; the cruel, confident laugh of someone who knows they have the upper hand in a game nobody else enjoys. "I missed you Kate. Did you miss me baby?"

My mind is frantically trying to break free from the paralysis that has it in a choke hold, but it's no use. I know I need to hang up, that I should be running,h iding, doing something, but his words seem to hold me spellbound.

"Leave me alone!" I beg, but it's barely a whisper and there's no mistaking the terror lacing every word.

"You know I can't do that, Katie. I like your hair longer, you know. It looks just like when we got married, do you remember? You looked so beautiful. I think about you all the time baby. Your hair, your lips, your skin. I miss kissing you, Kate. Kissing those soft, beautiful breasts of yours, feeling how wet you were for me. Do you remember? I know you miss that."

I feel nausea creeping into of mouth, burning my throat. Of course I remember. But while he talks about making love - and we did, once upon a time - I'm thinking of the way my blood looked, pooling on the floor by my head, begging Adam to stop as he pounded away inside me mercilessly from behind, until I slipped gratefully into unconsciousness.

I remember being woken by his slap, seeing the contorted fury of his face, inches from mine, noticing the knife in his hand. I really thought he was going to kill me that day, and I was actually relieved. I barely felt the pain as he slashed the knife across my hand, dragged me by the hair to my knees. I should have realised he loved torturing me too much to kill me.

"Look at the mess you've made, you filthy slut!" He'd screamed in my ear, forcefully turning my head so I had no choice to look. As if I would have dared defy him. I must have vomited while I was out, because the putrid remains of my meal was mingling with the blood soaked linoleum. Another blood patch indicated that I'd bled from where he'd forced himself on me, though my period wasn't due for weeks.

Suddenly the anger left his eyes, replaced by the cruel, excited glitter I had come to dread. "Clean it!" He's ordered, not releasing the painful grip on my hair. I stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment until he slammed my face to the ground. "CLEAN IT!" he screamed again, and understanding I began to clean, licking the floor until every drop of blood, vomit and semen had been swallowed, willing myself to keep it down. Begging my body to understand that rebelling would only result in more prolonged agony.

Finally daring to look up, I saw him watching my naked body hungrily, one handing playing with his erect penis while the other still held the knife. At his command, I got back on my knees and opened my mouth for him. Forcing myself not to gag even as I choked down a sob, I felt something inside me break and somehow knew I would find the strength to leave.

I jerk myself back to the present, not listening to Adam anymore. I glance down at my hand, gazing at the scar, the only one he ever gave me that wasn't easily hidden. Just as I knew then, even while immersed in the horror that had been my life, that I could escape, the scar serves as a reminder that I am more than what he made me, all those years ago. I can choose to submit, or I can choose to fight.

"I'm coming for you Katie," he breathes, and I can almost feel his excitement at the prospect of getting his hands on me again, seven long years later.

"I know." My brain finally kicks back into gear, and I hang up. I fly upstairs, grabbing my car keys, purse, emergency cash, a few changes of underwear, stuffing it all in a bag. I turn to go, hesitate, and open the bedside drawer. I slide the loaded gun out, check the safety, and place it gently on top of the clothes in the bag.

I'm shaking, still terrified, but clear headed at last. In the kitchen, I drop the bag on the table and start rummaging in the cupboard for my passport. It's not there, so I go the hallway, finally finding it in the bureau.

I turn to go back for my bag. I never heard the door open, never heard the lock click. But I see him standing there now, mouth smiling, eyes flashing with malice. "Hey, Katie. I guess we meet again. You know, you really do look beautiful with your hair like that."