The Fulton County Footsteps
Chapter 1: Grace
Footsteps.
Is he angry today? No. They sound more… somber than usual. Perhaps one of the cows died giving birth again. We’ll eat well if that’s the case at least. That’s not it either, he’s walking too fast. Not like he’s in a hurry, but like he wants to tell me something.
He’s almost here. There’s that same hesitation the last few steps to the door. By now, it would make more sense he just comes in, rather than knocking and asking if I’m decent. Why does he care anyway? I’ve been in this room for seven years. I think. Maybe longer? He never gave me a calendar, and I lose count of the hairs in my homemade wig sometimes. I don’t even know when it’s daylight or dark.
There’s the knock.
“Are you decent?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Hey, Grace,” he said. He didn’t make eye contact, but smiled hesitantly. He was nervous.
“Hello, John.” My larynx struggled to form words. I spoke so rarely now, but my tone was the same as it had always been: disappointed and disgusted. The only time it was different was at the beginning when I was scared, when my fear aroused him. Now, I was just a problem for him to take care of. A mouth to feed. A secret to hide. Why doesn’t he just kill me?
“You hungry?” he asked, pleasantly.
I looked at him begrudgingly. “You know I am.”
He hung his head further. “Sorry about that. Lilly had a ball game, and then the graduation from first grade.”
Tears welled in my eyes at the mention of my daughter, choking up my already rusty throat, no longer able to speak. I couldn’t look at him now, fear stricken as the memories flooded back. No matter how callous or nihilistic I was becoming, those images still got under my skin. Just like he did.
His smile grew as he considered taking me again. Arousal. No. It would be too loud. Lilly would hear.
He looks disappointed.
“I’ll just leave you something to eat by the door. Check back in the morning.” He turned and left, letting the door swing half-shut behind him.
I considered running, but I’d tried that before. Outside my little room, fully furnished with everything a girl could need: a vanity, a bed, a dresser, even a washer and dryer, was a concrete corridor that led to a solid steel door. I didn’t know what was on the other side.
John brought supplies every week and took out the trash. I wondered where I was on the property, trying to imagine it. Was it in the back forty somewhere, a cold war doomsday bunker or something like that? Perhaps, John had always planned on kidnapping and imprisoning me for an indeterminate amount of time and made this place just for me. He was romantic in the beginning after all.
We had dated for two years. Long enough to trust him. Long enough to fall asleep beside him. What I never could figure out, though, was why. I thought we’d get married one day, and just when it appeared he was going to propose in the bed of his 1977 flatbed Chevrolet Custom Deluxe, I passed out and woke up in Hell. Pregnant.
I don’t remember much about being pregnant. I was so sick. I can’t believe it was nine months.
Footsteps again.
John wasn’t gone long, returning with the promised food. He stole a guilty glance before I made eye contact. Then he hurried out of the room, leaving the plate of salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and green beans on the floor. He never fed me too little, but I never ate too much. Somewhere in my mind, I felt I needed to stay attractive to him, just in case. Maybe, one day, he’d let me back in.
Still, something strange washed over me. An old, familiar feeling. For the first time in a very long time, I wondered if someone might be looking for me.