Killing Me Softly (#Wattys2016)

EIGHTY-FIVE

EIGHTY-FIVE

Tracy Ellis stood now in that tiny bathroom in a motel somewhere in the United States. She looked to her right, turned the bathroom light on again, and looked at herself in the mirror.

"Tracy," she whispered at the woman staring back at her. Numb, she turned and walked into the bedroom and lowered herself onto the edge of the lumpy bed.

She replayed the last three years in her mind. The subtle yet effective brainwashing that Phillip had pulled on her. Dr. Keegan. The hospital. Convincing her she'd committed murder for him. Telling her how much she loved housework, programming her to serve him and locking her in closets if she took a single misstep. Slapping belts across her bottom. Making himself her entire world, shutting her off from everything else. Not letting her drive, or pick out her own clothes, making her... oh, God. Tracy ran a hand over her hair. Dyeing her brown hair black. She dropped her face into her hands. It was like he had a remote control and was using it to dictate her every move, every thought. Every aspect of her life. He had to have everything just so and she wasn't allowed to have an opinion at all. Wasn't allowed to think for herself, do anything but clean, clean, clean and be his twenty-four-hour-a-day slave.

No friends.

No family.

No nothing.

Just him.

Only him.

Which was the way he always wanted it.

She thought about the house on Red Rose Lane: the bleak white walls, the immaculate white carpet, everything so dull. Lifeless

Just like Phillip.

He'd been so threatened by her energy, her love of life. It both attracted him and repelled him. He had fallen in love with it, but was distraught when he realized he couldn't control it.

And so he stole her, made her believe she was dead and remade her into the perfect little woman he'd always wanted.

Feeding her birth control pills to ensure a baby wouldn't take any of her attention away from him.

What else had he been slipping her?

Tracy didn't know whether to cry or to scream or to laugh.

The motel room door flew open and Phillip came in holding two greasy brown bags and a holder of soft drinks.

Tracy looked up at him for a moment before she gave him a sweet smile. "Hello, dear. What took you so long?"

Phillip's eyes narrowed. "There was a long line. Took me longer than I had anticipated." He motioned to the table across the room. "Come now. Let's eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Phillip stood rooted where he was. "I went out of my way to get you food. Now eat."

Tracy placed her hands behind her on the bed and leaned back. "Oh, you're always going out of your way for me, aren't you, dear?"

Phillip licked his lips. "Yes. I've always done a lot for you. You know that."

Tracy seemed to contemplate this. "Like what?" she said.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Like what?"

"Paula, I really don't appreciate this tone you're taking with me. I suppose you are tired and need the rest. Perhaps you should sleep now." He carried the bags of food in the direction of the table.

"Don't you mean Tracy?"

Phillip stopped. "What?" he asked without turning around.

Tracy smiled to herself as she picked up on the tremor of terror in his voice. "Don't you mean... 'Tracy, I don't appreciate this tone you're taking with me'?"