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CHAPTER 6

The first thing I hear is the sound of blood gushing in my ears. My eyes water of their own accord and I have to fold my arms to keep from collapsing. I can't speak. My lips are dry and any words I formulate in my mind don't make it to my tongue. I don't know why but I am crying, tears flooding my eyes and down my cheeks.

There is a framed image in the glass cabinet. A woman I consider to be about fifty is standing behind a seated young boy – he is dark as night, she fair and yellow. Despite her small stature, she stands protective over him. Before me are what I now know are those same two people – aged only by time, the woman has shrunk and the boy towers over her but they are still the spitting image. Except the boy has assumed the woman's position as the protector and now stands forebodingly behind her, masculine energy radiating like a repellent field of fire threatening to burn anybody who gets too close.

I step back and almost tumble over the cat.

"Karma, I'm not going to hurt you."

He meanders in front of his grandmother and walks over to me as he did in my flat, with hands in surrender and fingers outstretched.

His grandmother disappears from the doorway and soon after I can hear the sound of moving furniture. The penny drops.

"Did you barricade the door from the outside?" The clanking earlier makes sense. He wanted to make sure I didn't escape. "Is she barricading the door from the inside?" Is Shirley in on it? Was this some kind of conspiracy to get me in their home? How ironic that her last name was Innocent when she was so blatantly evil for setting this all up.

Panic threatens to consume me and I lose focus and feel my body shake, shoulders trembling. Damon stiffens as though startled and I feel his hostility rolling off of him in waves. My arms grow Goosebumps with fear and I realise now that I'm only in a T-shirt, I didn't even leave with a fleece or overall.

"Sit down," he orders.

I drop in my seat and throw my face into my hands to gather my breath and composure.

"What do you want from me?" Maybe if I conjure up enough bass to my voice, he will back off like he did back at my university dorm. But I don't have the upper hand as before: I'm in his territory with no phone. Nobody knows my whereabouts, not even my mother.

Who am I kidding?

I'm screwed.

"I am not going to hurt you." He joins me on the couch but maintains his distance. "Stop crying."

I can't help it. It's the only thing I can do to keep from lashing out and weakly beating his chest with my fists. I am no match for him. He is too tall, too muscular to even attempt to tackle.

"Please let me go," I squeal limply. It sounds so broken – my voice that is. Pathetic. Whispery. Like its being held captive in my mouth, the way I am being held hostage in this house.

"Not until you tell me what you know."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I shake my head to rid the memories brimming at the surface and look into my lap.

"You know what I'm talking about."

I swat the air as if it is filled with the memories I so desperately want to forget.

He tries to bottle his impatience by counting to ten in his head. I know because his eyes are suddenly closed, his finger twitching every second to signal his countdown. I know this coping mechanism as I was taught it in my counselling session. It was mostly reserved for people with anger issues which I didn't really have so it was ineffective. For Damon however, it seems to be working.