Letting Go (Chapter-11)

Serena

She heard a click as the light bulb blinked on. There was something in front of her face - a dark piece of clothing hanging on a metal rod above her. Serena pushed it aside and slid herself to the left so she could see the space clearly. A series of black and grey suits were hung to the right, opposite a row of pastel colored dresses on the left. Above the hanging clothes was a wooden shelf, bearing the weight of plastic storage boxes packed with sweatshirts, winter coats, and books. Beside her on the floor and trailing beneath the clothes on either side were shoes - dress shoes, loafers, sandals, sneakers, rain boots and three or four pairs of hiking boots. She pulled her knees in closer to her chest and looked up at the ceiling. A single light bulb hung by a string, with an air vent about a foot to the right of it. Directly across from her was a tall, white door with two cracks near the knob and three brown scuffs on the bottom left side. She knew where she was. Seeing the clothes was enough to send her into a cold sweat, but the sight of the door made it nearly impossible for her to steady her breathing. She was in Edmond’s closet.

Serena closed her eyes tightly and started reciting the alphabet backwards in her head - an exercise that required just enough focus to distract her when she was frightened. She had gotten to the letter “O” when the sound of the doorknob clicked, allowing the door to slowly swing open. She quickly pushed herself behind the clothes again, pulling her feet in close so her entire body was hidden in the shadows. Holding her breath, Serena listened and peered down at the carpet, expecting to hear the familiar creak of the floor as he walked in, or to see his large shadow in the doorway. But nothing came.

She took a deep, unsteady breath. Serena moved the clothes to the side, peered at the opened door, and quickly jumped backwards. A single spark of fire had shot into the closet, landing on the pantsuit beside her. She watched in terror as the fabric caught fire, and turned to crawl away. But as she turned something grabbed her right ankle, and then the left, pulling her backwards. She looked back and screamed. The hanging clothes were moving, reaching down to her and wrapping around her limbs like snakes. She reached down and struggled to free her ankles, but within seconds the clothes had trapped her, wrapping tightly around her waist and neck. She yelled, but couldn’t tell if she was making any sound. The sparks continued to fly in from behind the door, igniting the wood and moving quickly along both sides, and though she kicked and pulled, the fabric grew tighter as the fire spread.

Suddenly, as Serena’s body went limp from exhaustion, the fabric released her. Her head hit the floor as she fell, so it took her a moment to scramble up and untangle herself from the clothes. It was then, as she crawled to the back of the closet, that she saw his shadow appear on the carpet amidst the flames.

Serena cowered against the wall, covering her head with her arms and pulling her legs in close to her body. She heard the familiar creak of the floor. Her body tensed and trembled uncontrollably. She didn’t dare look up, more terrified of seeing him than of the flames or the clothes that had nearly suffocated her. His low, demanding voice sounded above the crackling fire.

“I told you,” he said, “I told you it would happen this way.”

Serena jerked awake at the sound of her cell phone’s alarm. Blinking her eyes open, she reached for her phone and fell clumsily to the floor, remembering that she had fallen asleep on the couch the night before. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and clicked it off. It took her a moment to remove herself from the blanket, which was twisted around her waist and drenched in sweat. Leaving it bunched up on the floor, she rolled back on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Serena’s night terrors had gotten increasingly worse within the last few weeks. After her kidnapping she had them nearly every night, but by the time she’d left home they had faded away. What frightened her most was not necessarily the nightmares themselves, but the fact that they had started up weeks before Agent Keene’s phone call. She took a breath and slowly lifted herself from the couch.

The sun shining through the kitchen window was so bright that it nearly blinded her as she started her coffee maker and put two pieces of bread in the toaster. She tried to veer her mind away from the nightmare and meeting that afternoon, but couldn’t get anything to stick long enough to distract her. Thinking of work made her tense. The editor would be on her about the piece she hadn’t finished - a segment on a monotonous art exhibit that she’d viewed the week before. Serena chuckled to herself as she turned on the shower and stepped in, remembering a particular piece of the exhibit that was nothing but a white wall with a red dot painted in the middle. This is why they pay me the big bucks, she thought, shampooing her hair, because I can make a red dot sound as intriguing as the Mona Lisa.

Serena felt less stressed as she got out of the shower and toweled off. It wasn’t until she was standing in front of her closet sifting through clothes that the anxiety came back. She searched her drawers, not looking for anything in particular, paced the room twice, then returned to her closet and pulled out a light blue silk blouse and beige pencil skirt. She typically didn’t use much makeup aside from the foundation to cover her scars, but decided to make more of an effort that morning with eyeliner, mascara, and a light brown eye shadow she found at the bottom of her cosmetics bag.

As she walked through the living room to retrieve her cell phone, Serena observed Jilliana’s mess of empty wine bottles from three nights before. It amazed her, thinking of how drastically her priorities had changed over the course of one weekend. The mess, the electric bill, the situation with Roy - it all seemed so trivial now. Serena knew that Agent Keene wouldn’t have called if the newfound information weren’t credible. The case had been closed for 15 years with no real evidence except for the recollections of a traumatized 11 year old who had spent nine months locked in a closet. Considering how quickly the police declared it “unsolved,” she knew that they were in no rush to open it unless there was a viable lead.

Serena walked to the kitchen to pour her coffee, but realized she had forgotten to put water into the maker. “Damn it,” she said under breath, glancing at the clock on the stove. It was 8:15, which meant she’d have time to re-make the coffee and still get to work on time - but she didn’t want to linger in the apartment any longer. Instead, she wrapped her toast in a paper towel, gathered her briefcase and purse, and headed out the door.

Leaving at 8:15 instead of 8:30 meant missing a lot of traffic moving downtown, so Serena pulled up to the LA Daily Headquarters at exactly 8:40. Troy’s car - a black Audi - was parked beside the empty handicapped spot near the front, and Amy’s scuffed up silver Honda was parked near the back end. Serena parked next to Amy’s car and walked with her head down, listening to her heels click against the pavement. She started to recite the alphabet backwards as she walked, which made the long walk from one end of the lot to other seem shorter. When she pushed open the glass doors of the five story building, she was greeted by the shrill, high pitched sound of Amy’s voice.

“Good morning, beautiful! What’re you doing, getting here so early? Trying to get on Troy’s good side or something?” Amy was a large woman, dressed in a burgundy dress with gold jewelry dangling from her ears, neck, and wrists. Her eyes were weighed down by a dense pair of fake eyelashes and several coats of burgundy eye shadow. Serena smiled and walked to the coffee table beside Amy’s desk. She opened a cheap packet of Folgers Coffee and poured it into a cup of hot water.

“Just ran early this morning, that’s all. Thought I’d get ahead of the work load.”

Amy adjusted herself in her chair. “Well, I’ll tell you - if you’re trying to make a good impression on Tony don’t waste your time,” she lowered her voice slightly, “I’ve been getting here at 8:30 every morning for the last five years and I haven’t gotten shit from that man but a satisfactory performance review.”

Serena shrugged her shoulder as she stirred her coffee. “Well, we all like your positivity in the morning, if that counts for anything.”

Amy let out a small laugh, “Yea well, a positive attitude won’t pay the bills!”

Serena wasn’t in the mood for what was to become a much longer conversation, so gave a small nod before walking down the hallway toward the elevators. It wasn’t until she’d gotten to the third floor and entered the room of empty cubicles that reality began to sink in. If her case were to reopen, she would not only be facing the press at home - she would be bombarded everyday at work by the people surrounding her. One thing nearly all of the LA Daily columnists had in common was that they aspired for something greater. It was, ironically, Serena’s hatred for reporters that led her to pursue journalism as a career; at 14 years old, after years of reading the magnified and dramatized versions of her kidnapping in the paper, she decided to become a reporter who was empathic, moral and truthful. But Serena knew, as she watched her coworkers saunter to their desks that morning, that the aspiring reporters around her would do anything to have their names printed beneath the cover story.

Frank walked in wearing his usual black slacks and patterned tie. Sarah came in closely behind, with her head down and eyes glued to the bright screen of her cell phone. Kelli rushed in right at 9:00, looking only partially put together with a stain of baby food on her blouse. It was as Serena scanned the room, watching her coworkers, that she started to hear the voices. At first they were as inaudible and faint as echoes - but as more people entered the workroom they increased in volume and clarity. Serena leaned over her desk and put her hands to her ears, knowing that the voices wouldn’t go away, but hoping she could muffle them. They were voices from 15 years ago - strangers calling her name, shouting questions, asking for statements, pleading for her to show them her burns. She started to hum to herself, desperate to drown them out, but they kept getting louder and louder and louder -

“Serena?!”

Someone had firmly grabbed her left shoulder. Serena jerked up from her trance and looked up, grateful to see Kelli standing above her. The voices were gone.

“Honey, are you okay?”

Serena pushed herself back from her desk and looked around. No one else was looking at her, thankfully. She stood up slowly.

“I’m fine, Kelli. Thanks.” Serena picked up her purse and pushed in her chair. “Just a headache.”

Kelli held lightly onto Serena’s arm as she stood. “Do you need an aspirin or something? You seem pretty lightheaded.”

“No, I’m really fine.” Serena gently pulled away. “Just need to splash some water on my face. Thanks though.”

Serena turned and walked slowly out of the room toward the bathroom. The last time she’s heard these voices was when she was 12 years old, less than a year after the abduction. The case was still active at the time, and her story remained as one of the most talked about news stories in Los Angeles. The night terrors - which were happening four or five times per week - mixed with the ongoing voices in her head led to Serena’s first nervous breakdown. She was sent to the hospital to be treated for post-traumatic stress disorder soon after.

The bathroom was empty, thankfully. Serena placed her purse on the sink and rubbed her temples lightly with her fingers, trying to ease the pressure in her head. She turned on the sink, splashed some water on her face, and gently dried it with a paper towel. She leaned on the counter and looked into the mirror.

“Oh my God,” she said, seeing at her reflection. She had forgotten, when she splashed her face, about her makeup. The mascara was smudged beneath her eyelids and the eyeliner was streaking down her cheeks in uneven black lines. Serena leaned over the sink and tried to wipe the mascara away, but only made it worse. She picked up her purse, walked to the stall farthest from the door, and locked herself in. Leaning against the door, she dropped her head back and cried.

Serena cried without knowing exactly why she was crying - there was so much anxiety, fear, and worry on her mind that she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was spurring her tears. But when she left the stall ten minutes later and saw her reflection, she looked back at herself and smiled. Serena walked closer to the mirror, wetted a paper towel, and held it up to her face. That’s one good thing about crying, she thought, wiping her cheek clean, if you cry long and hard enough, your tears will help wash away your makeup.