Dawson's Secret

Part 3: Please Let Me Go

"No!" I screamed as I woke from a deep sleep. I frantically looked around with my eyes, my body trembling like crazy. Frigid perspiration ran down the sides of my forehead — a side effect from my nightmare. I lay like a statue as I attempt to relax my brain. And then I remember I'm still handcuffed to the bed. Okay, I thought to myself.

I close my eyes, reminiscing about the events that occurred yesterday. Dawson won't kill me, but all he wants is my blood. So what, I'm just food to him? Just something he can poke and prod at with his knife? But wait. If he's a vampire, then why bother to use a knife when he can use his fangs? That just doesn't add up.

I pushed the thoughts away from my mind, not wanting to think about him. The only thing I could think about was getting the hell out of here. I turned my head to my left, my gaze meeting the window. The curtains were drawn, but this time it was dark. I shut my eyes and groaned softly, wishing that I knew what time it was. "It's 2:00 in the morning," a deep male voice said.

Startled, I whipped my head around and saw Dawson standing at the foot of the bed. What the fuck, how long has he been there? I thought to myself. "I've been here for about a minute," he replied nonchalantly as he propped his hand on the bottom bed post, his eyes staring deeply into mine. I looked away from him, already sick of seeing his face. "What, we're not talking now?" he asked. I ignored him. "Fine," he sighed, "but that's not going to stop me from feeding on you."

As fast as lightening, he was on top of me again. I cringed as he ran his hands over my thighs. Trying to find a good vein, I assumed. He quickly took out his knife, opened it, and began to cut me. I cried out in pain, for it was too much to bear. I tried to pull away from him, but he pressed his hands onto my legs, forcing me to lay still as he drank from me. But when I saw my blood on the sheets, I felt a sudden wave of nausea. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on something else. "D-Dawson," I said weakly.

He paused and sat up to look at me. He didn't say anything as he stared at my leg, which had stopped bleeding after a while. "Please let me go," I continued, my voice shaking. "I won't tell anybody where I've been, I swear. I'll tell the cops I just wanted to go off the grid or something." My voice cracked at the end, which traitorously signaled that even I knew that no one would believe this story. "Yeah," Dawson snickered. "I'm just going to let you off easy, right? Wrong!" And that was when a rumble emitted from my stomach, indicating how hungry I was.

Dawson cocked an eyebrow, as if puzzled about what he should do. Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the key to the handcuffs. "Alright, if I let you out of these, you're not going to try to run, are you?" he asked, making eye contact with me. I shook my head no. "Good girl." He leaned toward me and removed the cuffs from my wrists. Slowly, I sat upright. I swung my legs off the bed and tried to stand, but my equilibrium was off. Way off. But before I could even fall, Dawson caught me by my waist and steadied me.

"Sorry," I mumbled as we started walking towards the door, not caring at the time that I was only wearing a shirt and panties. As we descended the stairs, I took notice of some paintings that were displayed on the walls. Frightening depictions of killings. Men and women were either hung or burned alive. If I could guess what time period the painting was, I would say around the 1600s. Just looking at the pictures made my insides turn, so I looked away when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Dawson steered me into the kitchen, and by this time I had regained enough strength to stand on my own.

I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.

★

After I ate — while Dawson watched me the entire time — I decided to go back upstairs. But as I ascended the stairs, my eyes wandered to the malevolent paintings again. One of them particularly caught my eye. The painting was of a tall, lanky woman, who looked around her mid-'30s. She wore a faded red dress; she had hair that was black as night and eyes a light blue. She was tied to a post, and fire surrounded her. She was screaming, pleading for mercy. Then my eyes widened in surprise. "What are you doing? " Dawson inquired, making me jump out of my puzzled trance. "N-nothing, " I stammered as I turned to walk up the stairs.

Dawson stopped me and grabbed my arm tightly. "What are you doing?" he asked again, stressing the last word. "I-I-I was just," I stuttered, "I was just looking at the painting," I answered nervously. He raised an eyebrow and he looked at the painting. His face formed a new expression, but I couldn't figure out what it was. Empathy? Maybe the painting reminded him of something? I wasn't sure. I opened my mouth to speak, but Dawson interrupted me. He glared deeply into my eyes as he said: "Don't mention that painting to me ever again. Don't even think about it — because I'll know — do you understand me, Erica?" I nodded cooperatively.

He turned me around so I could continue walking up the stairs, but he didn't release my arm. Instead, he marched up the stairs, pulling me along with him. When we reached the top, Dawson made a turn and yanked me back into his bedroom. "Dawson, I'm —" Stop talking, I heard him reply in the back of my mind. So he can get inside my head as well. This is seriously fucked up.

With that, I was immediately placed back on the bed and in the handcuffs again. I finally bucked up some courage to speak, although he told me not to. "Dawson, I'm sorry," I said in a rush. "I didn't mean to offend you and I promise I won't" — but he pressed his hand over my mouth to shut me up. "What part of 'stop talking' do you not understand?" Dawson inquired with a groan of frustration. "I am going to say this once — so for your own good, get it through your pretty little head: Don't talk about the paintings, and do exactly as I say when I say it. Understand?" I nodded slowly, my mind processing everything he'd just said.

"Good. Now we're on the same page." He sighed and placed his hand on my abdomen, then his fingers slowly went down my right leg and over my cuts. I winced at his touch, and in that moment I felt as if he was going to cut me again.

I was right.

He grabbed his knife, searched for a vein, and began cutting. I gnawed at my bottom lip in an attempt to not cry out, so I wouldn't anger him anymore. But he cut deeper this time. And the pain was unbearable. I involuntarily let out a stifled sob. I couldn't take it anymore, so I took a chance and spoke up before he could start drinking my blood. "Dawson," I said, trying to get his attention. "Let me do it." He froze for a minute and cocked an eyebrow at me, his expression confused. "Let you do what?" he asked.

"Let me do the cutting."