Not Caroline
A name is usually the first thing we learn about a person. Not true for the guy who just shoved me into his trunk. We didn’t exchange names.
In the few moments of our interaction, he wrapped large hands easily around my forearms and rib cage so tightly my arms became useless T-rex arms. He immobilized me with one hand while attaching a zip-tie to my wrist and whispering, “Got you Caroline,” in my ear. So I know he’s strong, experienced and smells like garlic cooked until it started to burn. Useless things to know about a person.
The trunk slams closed before I think to tell him my name is Angie.
This has not been my week. I signed divorce papers last Friday and was reorganized out of my job today. I wasn’t my husband’s top choice for sex. I was my boss’s last choice of employee. And now, I’m not even the person this criminal wanted.
As the car reverses, my face slams into something hard. A stream of thick liquid courses down my lip. Leave DNA, I told myself, so I wiped my blood on the carpet of his trunk.
Listening for clues doesn't help. No street sounds made it to my ears. However, since I don't usually ride in trunks, I don't know how soundproof they are.
Being scared was something I used to chase. Haunted houses and horror films were my drugs. That Angie died ten minutes ago. Now, I am trapped in the trunk of a man who smells like burnt garlic, and I don't like being scared.
This is just the beginning. Worse things are going to happen. The stuff on true crime dramas that I listened to with detachment, thinking, at least I never leave a bar and walk to my car alone. Instead, I drove home to the Whispering Hills Apartment complex, casually opened the car door, climbed out, turned around to reach for my purse, and then I was in a trunk.
Did I even scream? Does anyone know I'm in trouble?
Just try to escape, I command myself.
New cars should have a way to open the trunk from the inside. Moving my body like a drunken merry-go-round, legs, then shoulders, then hips, each in a painful hop, I stop in a position that puts me closer to where I assume such a lever would be. But my arms are tied behind me, so I wriggle myself into the child's yoga pose to use my bound hands to feel around. Not working. Three inches above my back is all I manage to raise my arms.
Turning onto my back, I hit my head on the roof of the trunk and drove my shin into something hard and metal. There is no room to maneuver.
Kicking off my sandals, I push my feet up, feeling for anything sticking out where I think a release handle might be. More dexterous than I give it credit for, my big toe wraps inside a loop and pulls. The trunk lid pops open.
Peeking out, I see a dark reality. Darkness and an empty, lonely road. No chance of rescue.
The white lines flick past, or is it more correct to say I flick past the white lines? Focus Angie!
When I jump, it will hurt. Death might be below me on those white lines. Worse, I might break a leg and be even more vulnerable when he finds me.
Intentionally hurting myself takes more courage than I expected. To overcome this, I let myself think about the future. The inevitability of the act that twenty-five percent of women experience. The fear of what he plans to do to me builds until the fear of the future is worse than the fear of hitting the road. Curling myself into a ball, I finally purposefully fall out.
As my body hits the ground, I realize the tires are no longer moving. Unbound legs get me on my feet, and I start running.
Voices explode, mixed with slamming car doors. "That's not Caroline, you..."
Then, the sound of a bullet and a sudden force propel me into a deep ravine.
A primal animal instinct tells me to climb back up the ravine. Hands still bound behind me, one arm no longer working, and blood making my shirt sticky, I roll to the wall of the ravine I just came down. Pushing myself against the wall of dirt and brush, I inchworm up the incline, grabbing branches with my teeth as my feet find a foothold.
Voices above incapacitate me. "Too dark, I can't see," burnt garlic says.
Another voice. "Just empty your gun, you’ll hit her, Jack. Be quick and meet us back at the car. Thanks to your stupidity, we still have to go back and do the job right!"
Bullets struck so close to my legs, dirt rained against my calves. Branches break and fall into the ravine. Then silence.
Eventually, my muscles unclenched, and I returned to my inchworm pace up the incline. My bare toes claw into the earth, and my mouth substitutes for my hands.
There is no memory of the climb out, but climb out I did. When the sun broke over the sky, a farmer saw my bloody form at the top of the ravine.
As I wake up, I see a plastic tube that ties me to a bag of liquid dripping into my veins. Despite my blurry vision and aching head, I realize I am in the hospital.
A news program playing on the small TV in my room narrates a version of my trauma. "Reported missing from the Whispering Hills apartments last night, Caroline Watt's body has been found in a ravine near Highway 70. Police are asking for ..."
The nightmare I lived and survived, Caroline did not. In the universe of women abducted by men who smell like burnt garlic and ended up in a ravine, I'm the winner. But, being the winner at the expense of another woman’s life feels like failing.
I write down the number flashing on the television screen. I don’t have much, but I can at least tell them about the man who smelled like burnt garlic, whose name I learned was Jack.