Finding Hannah

[RapeU]

Teaser: “So why are you telling me all this?” I asked. He shrugged again. “Because you asked. I always like to let women know what’s going on before I get to the main event.” I gulped and asked, “So the main event is…?” I had a feeling I already knew the answer. He smiled and finished the sentence, “I’m going to rape you.”
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2

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Title: Finding Hannah
Author: RapeU
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This story picks up where Finding Wendy left off. Finding Wendy happens several weeks after the events of A Benevolent Rapist, which is a spin off combination of @Claire's story Record Chaser and my story Two Hearts, One Wedding.

It won't be necessary to read the prior stories to enjoy this one, but a strong character development and relationship development is present in these stories. Reading them before this one will help with understanding the overall story arc.

The protagonist from A Song Without Music makes an appearance here too, but this story can be read without reading that one.

Originally I was going to tell this story from Mark's perspective, but then I decided to switch it up and do Hannah's point of view instead.

As an aside, I really wish I could think of a better title than "Finding Wendy" and "Finding Hannah." But oh well...
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Finding Hannah

Chapter 1 - Awakening

I surfaced into consciousness like a diver coming up too fast. My body was alert before my brain. The silence in my head felt wrong with blank static instead of my usual racing thoughts, calmed usually by lists. I lay motionless, breathing slow, playing dead while reality assembled itself around me. With each heartbeat, the wrongness of my situation came into sharper focus.

The first thing I noticed was the temperature of the room. It was warmer than the temperature at home, but not uncomfortably so. I lay on some kind of mattress that was comfortable, but not as comfortable as my own bed. As my mind became clearer, I realized I was naked on the mattress. There was a cold feeling around my wrists and ankles. Probably restraints. I opened my eyes.

A single yellow bulb burned overhead. It hung from exposed wiring in a plastic construction socket, the kind used temporarily at job sites. The light fell in a narrow shaft, leaving the corners of the room in thick shadow. I lay still and forced my pulse down into a workable rhythm. No detail was inconsequential. I counted the seconds between flickers. The bulb ticked faintly. In the first minute, the light stuttered every 5.8 seconds. In the next, 5.3. Possibly faulty wiring. Possibly intentional. Inconsistent intervals have been known to disrupt circadian orientation. I memorized the pattern anyway, then began a physical inventory.

There were steel cuffs around my wrists and ankles. They were the heavy duty kind, not the novelty sex shop kind. I flexed my fingers first. No numbness. Circulation intact. I tested my restraints and discovered the cuffs allowed some slack. Each cuff was connected by quarter inch chain to eye bolts sunk directly into concrete. I tested tension slowly. No give at the anchors. The bolts were galvanized and unpainted, the washers clean and bright. Newly installed. The chain glinted in the light and looked like it hadn’t been used before.

Someone had prepared this space. I counted links on the right wrist. Then the left. Then both ankles. Everything was symmetrical. There was enough slack to sit partially upright and shift position, but not enough to reach the walls. The design allowed movement without leverage. Intelligent restraint. I tested the cuffs more deliberately, engaging my core and twisting my wrists inward. There was minimal play at the hinge. Not enough to slip free unless my thumb was broken or removed. I noted the possibility and discarded it for now. It wouldn’t be helpful with my ankles bound anyway.

I continued the inventory. No marks or bruises anywhere visible on me. No active bleeding. No evidence of sexual trauma. No soreness consistent with catheterization. My throat burned slightly. I must have screamed. I had no memory of doing so. I ran my tongue along my teeth. No looseness. No copper taste. That was good.

I then further assessed the room itself. It was a box. Concrete slab floor. Concrete walls, painted a muted gray that had absorbed years of damp. Condensation ran in slow lines down the wall to my right and collected near a quarter sized floor drain. The air smelled stale and mineral. No blood. No chemical cleaners. No fresh vomit. The only sour note was my own skin. I had not showered since Wendy disappeared a few days ago. The mattress lay directly on the floor. No frame. No platform. The foam was thin and collapsing at the center where my body rested.

The far wall held a heavy door painted institutional beige. The hinges bulged slightly, suggesting it opened inward. I could not see the lock from this angle. There were no windows. Two vents sat high along the ceiling line. One hummed faintly and pushed recirculated air into the room. Once every minute it shuddered, sending a small vibration through the concrete. I mapped that vibration in my mind. If this was an older house, the vents likely connected to the main ductwork. If purpose built, they might lead directly outside or to a false register. The distinction was the difference between a successful escape or being trapped.

I studied the floor more closely. Hairline cracks radiated outward from the anchor points where the eye bolts had been drilled. The concrete there was lighter in color. Fresh disruption. The dust had been swept away, but a faint chalky residue lingered near the baseboard. This basement had been modified. Recently. I catalogued ambient sound. Water dripped somewhere beyond the walls. Four beats between drops. Above me, once, I heard a scrape that repeated in a slow rhythm, like pacing. No voices yet. No television. No plumbing flush. Small structure, most likely. A ranch style house or a one story with a basement. If others were here, I would hear them.

The walls began to feel closer after approximately ten minutes of measurement. That sensation was psychological, not architectural. I corrected for it and initiated box breathing. Four seconds inhale. Four hold. Four exhale. Four hold. Repeat until heart rate stabilized and peripheral tremor ceased. Panic wastes oxygen. Panic clouds pattern recognition. Panic was the enemy. I shifted carefully, testing whether anything lay beneath the mattress. There was nothing.

My next step was to prioritize information by first trying to remember my last memory. Before I got the chance, a man entered the basement through the doorway. He wore nondescript jeans and a pullover, both so devoid of color I wondered if he bought his wardrobe by the palette: gray, navy, tan. His face would have been handsome if not for the cultivated neutrality. Average height, average build, average hair, and eyes so lightless it felt like looking at a swatch, not a face. Even though he was ordinary, something about him seemed familiar.

“You’re awake sooner than expected,” he said. The voice was soft and administrative, the kind you get when a dentist explains why you need to brush your teeth two to three times a day. “Where’s Wendy?” I asked. My voice was raspy, but I made no effort to soften it.

That caught him off guard. His eyes flickered, an infinitesimal uptick of surprise, before the mask snapped back. “Remarkable,” he whispered with awe in his voice. “Most people at this point ask conventional questions.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Of course this is an unconventional situation. I shouldn’t be surprised.” His response told me this was a man who loved to talk. I filed that under possible weakness to exploit and repeated my question, “Where is Wendy?”

He waited a beat. “By now probably at the hospital.” That didn’t make sense to me, but I let him continue. “Amanda Barkley kidnapped her.” I looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re lying,” I said. “Amanda kept messaging me before my wedding. She wants to get back together with me.”

The man shrugged, “Not anymore. Amanda made eye contact with Wendy at the wedding and thinks Wendy loves her.” This time what he said made sense, after all that’s how Amanda and I found each other back in high school. If only I realized back then how crazy she was…

“Damn,” I whispered, “so both of you are working together to fulfill psycho fantasies?” The man shook his head. “I’m not working with Amanda. We both just stalked you at the same time. Only I was better at it.” Suddenly it clicked in my head why he seemed familiar. “You were at the wedding reception and RSVP’d as Lenny Leonard.” He nodded once and said, “You can call me Mark.” I highly doubted Mark was his real name and filed it under a thread I would pull on later if given the chance.

Mark continued his explanation, “I caught Amanda stealing clothes from your apartment and recognized her from the wedding. She told me Wendy loved her without realizing it and had a plan to show Wendy what she hadn’t seen.” He shrugged, “Figured she’d kidnap Wendy, which would make it easier for me to kidnap you. I explained to Amanda I was going to be out of town for a few days and it would be better to take Wendy when I returned. She didn’t wait, and she broke my rules.”

I gave him a questioning look, “Rules?” Mark nodded and listed them: “One, Don’t target anyone under the age of 18. Two, don’t kill my victim.” Mark ticked his fingers along with the list as he spoke, “Three, don’t inflict lasting physical harm on my victim. Four, don’t abduct my victim for more than twenty-four hours.” The last three rules gave me hope that I could endure whatever he was going to do to me. I had endured six men raping me and Wendy repeatedly after all. “And finally, don’t threaten my victim with a violation of the rules.”

I asked for clarification, “So you’re a kidnapper with some kind of twisted code?” Mark nodded and sounded sad. “Amanda kept Wendy for longer than twenty-four hours. I could tell Amanda was completely delusional when I confronted her. Wendy also looked sick, probably from dehydration.” His tone went from sad to prideful, “So I lied by telling Amanda I’d stay out of her way. Then I called the police so they could rescue Wendy.”

“And that’s supposed to make you what? A hero?” I spat the word. He shrugged. “Not really. I just needed a distraction. And it corrected rule violations. Two birds, one stone.” I catalogued everything: his desire for control, but not chaos; his rule set; his inability to see himself as a villain. I filed it for future leverage. “So why are you telling me all this?” I asked. He shrugged again. “Because you asked. I always like to let women know what’s going on before I get to the main event.” I gulped and asked, “And the main event is…?” I had a feeling I already knew the answer. He smiled and in a perfectly normal voice as if he were talking about the weather said, “I’m going to rape you.”
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[Shocker]

Having Hanna be the point of view character is absolutely the right choice, her personality makes the perspective unique. Though it did feel a bit how would Sherlock (Cumberbatch version) react in this situation.

I like her shutting down the panic, though I’m a fan of the novel Dune, and this would have perfectly fit “Fear is the mind killer…”