Chapter 2: The Suitcase Fitting
The dawn light was thin and cold. It seeped around the edges of the blinds. It painted stripes across Molly’s bed. She stood beside it. She was naked. The air raised gooseflesh on her arms and thighs.
Damon placed the suitcase on the duvet. It was large, black, hard-shelled. He clicked the latches. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. He unzipped it. The teeth parted with a long, slow rasp. He folded the lid back. The interior was empty, pale grey lining.
He did not look at her. He pointed at the floor beside the bed. “Kneel here.”
Her knees touched the rug. The fibers were rough. She kept her back straight. Her hands rested on her thighs. She watched his every move. He was a study in efficient motion. He opened her dresser drawer. He removed things. A pair of soft sweatpants. A thin t-shirt. He laid them in the suitcase. He smoothed them flat.
He turned to her then. His gaze was assessing. “This is not a game,” he said. His voice was conversational. “You understand that now.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good.” He gestured toward the open case. “Get in.”
A final tremor ran through her. She rose. Her body felt disconnected. She climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped. She hesitated at the edge of the gaping suitcase. The lining smelled of new plastic and nothingness.
“On your side. Curl your knees to your chest.”
She obeyed. She lowered herself into the hard shell. The lining was cool against her skin. She folded her limbs. She became a puzzle of herself. Her cheek pressed against the flat bottom. She could see the room from a low, skewed angle. The pastel walls. The forgotten teacup on the nightstand.
Damon leaned over her. His shadow blotted out the light. His hands were firm. He adjusted her. He bent her leg further. He tucked her arm tighter. He arranged her like an item to be packed. His fingers were impersonal. Clinical.
“Comfortable is not the point,” he said, almost to himself.
She said nothing. Her heart pounded against her ribs. It echoed in the confined space.
He lifted her other arm. He placed it across her body. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist once. A fleeting, almost accidental touch. It burned.
Then he began to fold the clothes around her. The soft cotton t-shirt packed around her head. The sweatpants filled the hollow behind her knees. He was building a nest. A cocoon. She was being packed away. The reality of it descended. A heavy, calm weight.
He paused. He looked down at her. Her face was half-visible. Her wide eyes stared up.
“This is the last view of this room,” he stated. “The last moment of your old life. Breathe it in.”
She did. She saw the dust motes dancing in the sun line. She heard a distant car alarm. She smelled her own perfume on the sheets. She let it go.
He placed a final soft sweater over her face. The world darkened to vague shapes and woolen smell. She heard the rustle as he closed the lid.
Then the sound of the zipper.
It was deafening. A relentless, closing snarl. The teeth engaged inch by inch. It started at her feet. The vibration traveled up the shell. It climbed her legs. It passed her hips. The space shrank. The air grew warm. Her own breath filled the void.
The zipper reached her thigh. A cold point caught her skin. It pinched. She flinched. A small, sharp pain. A mark. The teeth dragged over the spot. It left a thin, hot line.
Then it moved past. It sealed her in.
Darkness. Perfect and complete.
Sound was muffled. Her breathing. Her heartbeat. They were loud now. The only things. She was a body in a box. A thing in a container. A profound stillness settled in her soul. The chaos inside her quieted. This was it. This was what she had wanted.
She felt the suitcase lift. A swaying motion. Damon was carrying her. The floor moved beneath her world. A door opened. A cooler hallway air seeped through the seams. Another door. The faint rumble of an elevator.
She felt a shift. He set her down. The case stood upright. She remained curled, suspended in the dark.
She heard his voice. It was close to the shell. Clear through the material. “Can you breathe?”
“Yes,” she said into the sweater.
“Good.”
Silence again. Then his words, final and low. “You are packed. You are ready for transport. You belong where I take you. Remember this silence. This is the sound of being owned.”
The elevator dinged. The case tilted again. Movement resumed. The momentum pulled her forward into the unknown.