Short Story / The Outmost Place
I get out, shut the door and watch the car speed off. It does not take long for the rear lights to disappear into the misty darkness ahead. The coldness surrounds me and rain drops creep through my hair. My clothes are becoming rather sticky and my shoes are getting soaked. I consider going inside, but something makes me stay put. Eventually I realize it is the car. I would rather have walked out here from the station than drive along with him for the five minutes it took to drive the two miles. I didn’t like it, not at all. Everything about him made me uncomfortable. The expensive car, the careful driving and the repulsively charming smile when he asked questions I could never answer sincerely. Something turns inside my stomach and I feel a too familiar void. I grab my bags, which by now are rather soaked as well, and walk up to the weekend cottage.
The key makes a strident noise as the door unlocks. I press down the door handle and hurry inside, where I throw my bags in the entrance hall and take a deep breath. I turn my head and look at the open door. Feeling naïve, I close it and try to force a smile upon my lips. The attempt fails and I walk into the living room, feeling a bit uneasy.
I look at the floor where a couch has been standing once. The day had begun rather well that Friday in October. The autumn holiday had just begun and I was going to be spending it in the cottage with my parents. It had bothered me a great deal, because I wanted to join my best friend and her family at their place, and since I got to see plenty of my parents at home, it seemed foolish that I had to be tagging along when I did not feel like going in the first place. My mother and I had had an argument about it, but when she asked me to give her one good reason to why I was to be allowed to stay at home, all I could say was that I did not feel like going. The answer was not acceptable, she said, and my father agreed. I did not even look at him, but merely felt disgusted by the way he agreed and then placed his hand on my mother’s shoulder like everything was just fine. Frustrated I had looked up at my mother, but it had been clear to me, that she would not change her opinion unless a better reason was given – and I could not give it to her. Later that day she did however decide that I was allowed to spend the weekend alone and then she would join me Sunday along with my father, when she got off from work. I disliked the agreement, but thought it better than going Friday along with my father. I had hated him most of my life, but never like I did that particular day, and was sickened by the mere thought of him and I alone in …
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud smashing sound from behind. I turn my head instinctively and se a bird has flown into the window. I feel my heart pounding in my chest from the shock it gave me and stand for a while staring at the window. Pulling myself together, I look out the window. The view is beyond belief. The only good thing about this place, I think to myself.
Astonished, I gaze at the beautiful lightening on the sky and listen to the frightening sound of thunder that roars somewhere in the distance. I count the seconds in between and realize only seven kilometres part me from it all. Without further counting, I know it is getting closer and not much time passes before all the lights in the cottage suddenly go out. A giant lump in my throat tells me this is beyond my liking. My thoughts are thrown back to the present and I curse. For a moment, and merely a moment, I was feeling alright. I roll my eyes and think to myself that being alright of course is too good to be true, as the discomfort inside of me intensifies. I turn towards a dresser standing one and a half metre away from me and walk right over to it, going through every drawer, in order to find a lighter or matches of some sort. Anything to stop the slightly panicky feeling from increasing. As I go through the second drawer from the bottom, I hear a noise behind me, which sounds remarkably much like footsteps on the asphalt outside the door. I immediately freeze and turn my head towards the door, thinking of a silver Mercedes.
I remember hoping against hope that it was just something random I heard, something without any relation to what my mind was dreading. The weather was harsh that evening and the wind could easily have knocked over one of the many pots containing flowers and similar decorations belonging to my mother. It did not turn out to be the case, though. I realized this just as I was beginning to convince myself otherwise. The sound had repeated itself and soon once again, every time getting just a tad louder and seeming closer to the front door.
A tear finds its way from the corner of my eye, but I quickly remove it. I look at the door from the spot on which I am standing. The door is barely visible due to the corner of the living room, but the door handle is within my field of vision.
It moved. I am sure it did. Not much, but a little bit without a doubt. I look at the handle, feeling slightly more paranoid than I have ever felt before and it surprises me. As my eyes stay fixed on the door handle, my mind begins working out possible solutions to this situation. With the handle being pressed further down every once in a while, as if he is deliberately trying to terrorise me, I understand I have none. A squeak let out by the handle on its way downwards makes me realize I have to move. I fix my eyes upon the kitchen and dart through the room, pass the three metres that make out the kitchen’s length and reach the backdoor.
The fridge has been removed. As I stand in the kitchen looking around, it seems all I can think of. We sold it six years ago after that very weekend in the cottage. The marks on the kitchen floor next to the door are the only indications of it ever being present in the kitchen to begin with. I turn my gaze upwards and face the door. It is called a backdoor even though it is placed on the left side of the house: a fact that had amused me once. I reach out and grab hold of the rusty door knob. It will not open. It still won’t. Another tear finds its way down my cheek. This time I do nothing in order to disguise it. Soon a third follows in line.
As I reach the backdoor I hear the front door open. The void returns once again and a well-known panic rises inside of me with every flashing second that goes by. I hear him shut the door in the entrance hall and place his feet loudly on the floor. He is letting me know he has entered, that this is his domain now. The fright begins to settle inside of me, leaving my body tense and terrified. My breath all of a sudden seems loud, louder than usual, and I place my right hand in front of my mouth in order to quieten it down. I turn my head towards the living room and stare into blank air, not really seeing anything at all, but merely feeling the vastly increasing inability to move. It is like my mind and my body no longer communicates and whilst every fibre in my body screams for me to bolt, my feet seem shackled. For what seems like an eternity I look out into the darkness, not knowing what to do. I turn my head towards the door, and all hope seems to have failed me, when suddenly something unexpected happens. My hand reaches out for the doorknob. It reaches out, takes hold of it and as I feel my fingers close around it, I see a hope after all.
I let go of the doorknob, knowing this is where he found me. I only remember realizing the door was jammed, before opening my eyes in the living room. Taken the blurry memory in between into consideration, the only explanation I can come to think of must be that he knocked me out.
I turn my back to the door and walk back into the living room. I had woken up in a penetrating darkness that evening and only the familiar softness of the couch let me know where I was.
I think about screaming, but cannot. It will not do me any good anyhow. My eyes are slowly getting accustomed to the dark and I can barely make out the figure of a man in the other end of the living room. He is rather tall and does not move. Not before he, a little while, later discovers that I am awake. He then turns and comes towards me, seeming forever taller as he approaches. I begin to cry, because first now I realize that my hands are bound at my back, and that the slightly stinging feeling from beneath is my knuckles. The tears slide down towards my ears, where some of them place themselves annoyingly cold, whilst others continue down to my neck. I cannot do anything but watch, as he approaches.
I wish to kick him, and find myself rather amazed, as I discover that my legs are not bound. I jump up and run towards the front door – he stands puzzled for five seconds or so, before he realizes what is happening. By that time I have reached the door, only to find out it is locked. Without given it much thought I run upstairs. I just have to get away from him. I run towards the toilet, but it too is locked. I therefore dart back to my sister’s room, and close the door as quietly as my trembling hands will allow me to. He has just climbed the stairs. Ever so coolly he walks down the hallway and I hear the floor squeak beneath him. The constant rhythm, which is triggered as a result of his weight, is psychological terrorization. Quietly, relaxed, he draws nearer. I try to hold in the sobs and I must have succeeded, because he continues down the hall and walks into my bedroom. As soon as I hear him walking about in there, I hurry downstairs, and when I reach the kitchen, he is still running around upstairs. I hasten to find a knife, something that can cut the robes. It takes time, but eventually it gets done and I put down the knife, which accidentally and noisily falls down somewhere behind the stove. I hear him yell something on the upper floor, soon followed by some hastening footsteps down the stairs. I turn towards the door, hoping it somehow, magically or not, will open. Frantically I shake the knob, but without it making much of a difference. The door will not open. It will not, and it does not take him long to find me. I can do nothing but stare at ham, petrified, as he blocks the doorway.
I cry. I cry without having any control over myself – but he does not care.
I stand in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the living room, but not at the spots where I know his filthy feet have been placed. I had finally got a hold of myself, but now it all seems in vain, because when I look at the backdoor, I cannot stop myself from crying again. If only it had opened, if only it had worked! I see it all very clearly while I stand here. I turn around and look at the place where the old couch once stood. He had got me over there by force and had this time bound both my hands and my feet. I had been helpless. Had not been able to do anything but to lie there, weak like never before. In my head I hear my sobs, which had broken though the icy silence that had been my screams. I will never forget it. Never.
He shows no kind of mercy. He penetrates me again and again, completely unaffected by my screams and my forever crying eyes. He is so cold and it almost frightens me more than the actual situation. I can only hear him and his satisfaction.
After what seems like hours, he gets up. He leaves. I hear the noise of metal colliding with the wooden floor. He leaves the keys.
I lie awake for a very long time, completely soundless; waiting. I fear he will return.
I take myself in sitting on the floor, where the couch had been placed back then. I look out through the windows at a sparkling sun. It is unaffected by the incident. It just shines. Shines like life is great. Well, I don’t think it is. October 22 2004 destroyed my life forever. Nothing was stolen from me that had not already been taken before: Not my innocence, my trust, my feeling safe nor my joy. No, he had taken that away from me much earlier.
My parents found me on the couch. My clothes had been ripped apart most places. My mother asked me what had happened. I said nothing. I merely looked at my father, whose eyes were rather blank. He asked me as well, but I did not answer him either. They both knew of course. My mother guessed it, though I doubt she ever got the entire story correct, whereas my father knew. He was the part she never got correct.
They sent me to a lot of psychologists and therapists, but nothing helped. I would never tell. They would not be able to understand. They really wouldn’t.
I get up and walk back into the entrance hall. I open the door and walk outside. I close the door behind me and lock it. The key I place in safely in my pocket. I walk down the stairs and without giving it further thought I walk round the house and down the sand banks, which the water soothingly glide against. I walk out onto the small, old bathing jetty that squeals beneath me. I look out over the water. The quietness. The peace. The joy it is to look upon.
I turn my back to it and with a last glance up at the house, I let myself fall backwards, hoping the stones in the pockets will work as they should.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
Powerfully written. Your discription of the man is dark, fearful, and terrifying. I felt my heart rate increase during the door knob and entrance part. Utterly suspenseful. Somewhat jumpy, but nothing that cant be easily fixed. If this is infact true, in any way…. absoloutly terrible. But, in the same note, you’re brave for writing about it. However, if it is ficticious, it could definatly pass for reality. Superb writing. The emotions of the girl are clearly defined and connect the reader quickly. I found myself hoping for her to escape as I read. The end seemed sudden, but then again… why add more sadness to the prior events?
excellent story.
- add/view comments (1)
Showing 1 - 1 of 1
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
