His lips are dry, leathery, like lizard’s skin. I get this feeling just then, for a brief moment, that he’s not human, he’s some sort of lizard-thing, with those vertical slits for pupils in his cold, wet eyes, and icy blood in his veins.
Then he passes his tongue over my shoulder and I know he’s human, all right, because I’m slicked with his hot, wet spit. It makes me shiver again and I try to shrink from it, but the knife’s still working its way over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s tracing me with his fingertip instead of mirror-polished metal. His grip on my bare flesh is warm, too. No, he’s not a lizard. Not at all. He’s a man. But he’s still not human.
I feel something hard on my nipple and it snaps my eyes open just before red-shooting pain screams through me.
He’s biting me! He’s biting me hard, and blood stains his white, shiny teeth in the moonlight, and I can’t scream but I try anyway, I scream and scream and scream, but I don’t dare move or he’ll rip it off, he’ll rip off my nipple in his teeth, and God it hurts, hurts so much ….
But my dad … my dad must know I’m missing by now.
He’ll send help. He knows I run in the park, everyday, even in the rain. I run the side-path, the one the tourists don’t use because the tour guides only show them the main path. Dad and I have walked it together a million times, since I was nine years old, and he knows where I am, he knows where I run, and they’ll find the signs of the struggle, and the blood from the cut on my head where he hit me. They’ll find my car first, though, and then they’ll find the tracks where he carried me through the woods.
My dad, he’ll know where to look and the cops will find the evidence to lead them to me.
But I’m at the beach. That’s … what? Twenty, thirty miles away from the park? But what if I’m not at the beach I think I’m on? What if I’m … where? North of the park, probably, but where?
I can’t see any lights beyond the black treeline, a blacker front against the black beyond it. I don’t know where I am, I don’t know and have no idea how long I was out, or if I was blindfolded or in the trunk or what.
Then despair hits me full force, because I’m realizing I could be anywhere, anywhere at all, and as it’s sinking in to my consciousness, the blade is moved down my hip, thigh and calf to my foot. I watch it, fascinated, horrified, as it dances like a dust devil over the edge of my foot, down to my little toe, and then tips up on it’s point, the moonlight flashing and blinding me for a moment.
And in a clean, swift movement I don’t feel, but do see, the blade moves down in a sharp slash and I watch two of my toes drop onto the sand.