My number one fan

That feeling. Like he owned me. Like I was just a piece of property that he could use as he wanted and dispose of when he got tired of me. Like I was nothing. Noone. That feeling stayed with me long after I broke free.

It started out so great. I was so flattered. He was my number one fan. That should have tipped me off right there…he called himself a “fan”. Loved all my videos, posts, links and ideas that I spread across the Internet for everyone to enjoy. Just like everyone else. I just wanted to create, to have something to offer in this world. To leave something behind. Maybe make a difference.

For him, I was the answer. The solution to a problem he didn’t even know he had.

We met at a store. Just a regular store. He started talking to me, said he recognized me from my videos. He was my number one fan. I laughed, he smiled. We went for a coffee. He kept asking questions, wanted to know everything about me. And I answered.

I didn’t even realize that he had drugged me until I woke up. I had known him for less than two hours. He said that he had known me for months. Tracked me down. Followed me. And had fallen for me. He knew we had to be together, he said. It was the only way.

I resisted at first. Reacted with anger and fear. Screamed until I was hoarse and then some more. Spat in his face, kicked him and called him a disgusting insane person. Then I tried pleading. I begged and begged for my freedom. Told him I had a family and that I was missed. That there were other people out there that needed me too, not just him. But trying to reason with him only made me more angry. He treated me like a child. Like a precious child that needed to be locked up and loved alone.

After six months I tried something different. Or rather, I was completely broken down. There was no will to resist or fight, no energy to hope or believe. I gave up. And there-in, he started to trust me.

How ironic.

After those first months, I was only put in that horrible cage one more time. Before I gave up, he kept me in there almost all the time. I was unable to move, to breathe, to see anything. But he could see me. And I could hear him breathing, watching, listening. Talking to me even though I only responded in pleadings and cries. Please, please, please.

But once I gave up, he trusted me to walk around in his house. All doors were locked and there were no windows, so I was still a prisoner, but I was able to move around. I could watch TV if I behaved. And I could take showers and play card games with him.

The strangest thing about him, which was probably the reason why I survived at all, was that he never touched me. Never tried to kiss me or do anything sexual. As if I was the daughter, and not the girlfriend, of a psychopath. But he was my age. I guess that was just how his sexuality worked. He didn’t need the physical stuff. He got off on me being his prisoner.

That realization along with the new-found freedom that walking around the house meant is what made my escape possible.

On our one year anniversary, as he liked to call it, I was allowed out of the house for the first time. He wanted us to have a proper date and had reserved a restaurant nearby. And not just a table, but the entire restaurant, just for us. In case I decided to try something. The only two people on the staff were friends of his, who would never speak of my imprisonment.

We took a taxi there. I was blindfolded the whole time and didn’t recognize the restaurant once the blind folders came off. One table was set, candles lit, glasses filled with wine. We drank and ate, said cheers and talked about a movie we had seen the previous night. He proposed a toast to me, on our one year anniversary. He almost cried. It made me want to scratch the eyes out of his skull and serve them to him on a platter.

I almost lost my concentration, but he didn’t notice. After a whole year in prison, I had become quite the actress.

After dinner, I used my friendliest voice to ask for some air.

“Darling, I am so full” I said, laying a soft hand on his arm. “Do you think we can take a short stroll or just stand outside in the fresh air for a bit? Then I can call a taxi to take us home. OK?”

He smiled and nodded. All suspicion was gone. My heart raised at once, but I kept my cool as we left the restaurant through the back door. It led to an alley. I could hear people nearby. Laughing, talking. But I couldn’t reach them. He would be too fast. It was time to set my original plan in motion.

“Honey, do you need cash for the taxi?” I said. “Look, there’s an ATM.” A distraction that I was thanking every God I could think of for. “I know how you say you don’t like to pay drivers by card.” I nodded encouragingly towards the ATM. “I can call the cab while you get the cash.”

While holding my breath, I reached my open hand out, hoping that he would place his cell phone in there and let me make the call. Once again he smiled and ate it up.

I winked at him as he walked up to the machine. I sat down, to illustrate that I was not going to make a run for it. I dialed the number, asked for a cab and gave the address.

“Ten minutes” I said, as he returned to me. “Busy night, I guess.”

When the cab arrived, I could hardly move, I was so nervous. I was almost worried that he would be able to hear my heart beating beneath my clothes. It was deafening.

The driver game me a look just as the blindfold was put back over my eyes.

“She has a surprise waiting!” my kidnapper happily explained as he took away my sight.

It only took two more seconds after that. The bang was loud, but I didn’t make a sound. I just shivered as the person beside me was suddenly quiet and not moving anymore.

I rapidly took my blindfold off and looked at the blood without feeling a thing. The driver lowered his gun and gave me a long, worried look. So filled with anger.

“Thank you, dad” I said. “Thank you.”