You Own Me (Owned 1)

His kitchen was clean, pretty much sterile. Everything had a place, from the pots and pans to the dish rags. Unlike my kitchen, it was very modern. Come to think of it, the entire apartment was unlike the rest of the building: whereas the building was historic and old, his apartment was modern and newly renovated.

The kitchen counters were white marble, and the walls were tiled in shades of gray and white. Black cabinets and stainless steel appliances gave the space a sophisticated air. It was beautiful and intimidating, just like Vic. I wonder what it would be like to cook simple things in this kitchen, things like tomato soup or macaroni and cheese. What about children? I can’t even imagine kids pulling out the pots and pans and banging them in a kitchen like this.

Shit. Why am I thinking about children right now? I should be thinking about tomorrow. I should be thinking about what Vic’s doing tonight. I should be worrying about waking up in the morning and whether or not Vic comes back. That sobered me up.

I don’t know what I’d do if Vic didn’t exist. Even if he doesn’t exist in my reality, he still needs to be in the world.

I saw Vic’s glass plate collection on the countertop, and paused when I saw the space left by two missing pieces—the two he’d thrown at me. I bit my lip, remembering the morning that had followed that incident: the bliss and then the heartache. Hugging myself, I walked out of the kitchen.

I wandered around the living room aimlessly, and found myself slowly climbing the stairs to the second floor. I realized I was entering foreign territory; Vic had never let me upstairs before.

Then I remembered Mia Farrow. The fact that he had let some random girl go where I had never been pissed me the fuck off. I ran up the rest of the steps two by two, determined to have been everywhere in Vic’s apartment. Like a dog marking its territory.

I saw two doors: an open bedroom and a closed mystery room. Guess which one I went for? I opened the mystery door quietly, as if Vic could have heard me.

What was in the room surprised me. I expected to find . . . well, I don’t know what I expected to find. Vic was always so mysterious. I guess I expected to find something that explained his aloofness. Maybe heads in jars, or just a room that contained another room and then another room in that room, like the Russian nesting dolls of rooms.

An old-fashioned yet new-looking record player took center stage in the room. It had a turntable for spinning vinyl records, but it was electronic. Opposite the player was an overstuffed recliner.

I entered and walked over to one of the vinyl-lined walls and started pulling out records out at random.

The Beatles, The Cure, The Black Angels, The Black Keys, The White Stripes, Nine Inch Nails, The White Stripes again. There were hundreds of albums, seemingly randomly shelved.

I came across one that looked pretty cool: Never Mind the Bollocks, Here Comes the Sex Pistols. I carefully took the vinyl out of its dayglo yellow sleeve and put it on the player, gently setting the needle in place. The music thrummed and sped around the room; as I swayed in place, I realized I was getting angry.

Strike that—I wasn’t getting angry, I was angry. I was stuck here while some dude took care of my dirty business. I had been stuck for months while a psycho had stalked and terrorized me. It was all such bullshit.

I dropped into Vic’s chair and listened to The Sex Pistols get angry. The music swam around my head; the hurried crashes of the drum like waves against the beach. It was all compelling me to do something—anything else but sit here.

I stood up too quickly and nearly fell back into the chair. My head hurt, my ribs were either bruised or broken, but my mind demanded justice. I turned off the player and left the vinyl on the turntable to get scratched or dusty. I would feel like a dick about that later.

Now was the time for action.

Okay, so I didn’t really have a plan. I rushed down the apartment stairs in a flurry of determination to do . . . to do, what? Did it matter as long as it was something, anything? Nope.

I slowed my steps long enough grab a knife out of a kitchen drawer—I’m not a total idiot—and then I headed out the door.

The air was colder outside of Vic’s apartment; my skin rippled with goose bumps. I was expecting Dean to pop out any minute and say “Here’s Johnny!” or something equally insane. That didn’t happen. It was just me in the overly air-conditioned hallway, several fluorescent lights flickering in an imitation of a low-budget horror movie. Only this wasn’t a horror movie—the failing lights were just another example of Vic’s shitty landlord skills.

I pressed the down button for the elevator, and rubbed my chilled arms. Waiting for the elevator was such a banal thing to do that I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Here I was, in the midst of a deadly game of hide-and-seek, waiting for the elevator like it was any other day. The elevator arrived and the last moment before the doors opened, I jumped out of sight, pressing myself flat against the wall. When no one stepped out, I cautiously peered in the box—empty.

I stepped in just as the doors closed. The dichotomy of the everyday elevator ride mingled with the fear of what was waiting for me when I reached my floor set my mind reeling.

I held my breath the whole trip down, expecting Dean to be waiting for me when the doors opened. I held the knife tip out and chest high, ready to bury it in his chest if need be. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

There was no one on the other side of the elevator, despite what my imagination wanted me to believe. I nearly passed out from the pent-up adrenaline.

When I reached my apartment, Zoe was missing and the door was open. I grimaced and prayed to every deity and celebrity I could think of that Dean didn’t have her. That Vic had gotten her to safety.

Timidly, I walked into my apartment. It felt odd approaching it this way, like a spectator instead of a participant. I saw the shattered the lamp

and the out of place nightstand as clues to what events had taken place here, rather than as memories.

Carefully so I didn’t disturb anything (or anyone), I moved around the room. It appeared empty. If not for the mess and personal things strewn around (and the fact that I was here less than a few hours ago), I would think no one had lived here in a while. The room was unnaturally still and void of energy.

Is this the part where someone says “it’s too quiet”? Answer: yes.

I let out a bloodcurdling scream of shock and pain as something (someone?) landed on my back like a spider monkey. I fell face first onto the floor. My forehead hit the ground, and the floor snapped my head back causing it to hit the weight that now had me pinned. This second hit to my head dazed me, but through the fog I heard a growl emit from whatever my head had hit, correction whomever my head had hit.