Dumb Girl

by C. R. Jane

  I sighed. “You won’t like my whys. That won’t make things better.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  He would be. I owed him that much.

  “Come on.”

  I let him help me from the car.

  Chapter 7

  Holly

  Past

  The basement of his house was where the real nightmares were kept. Many of the girls under my uncle’s thumb had come to him willingly. They were so desperate for something, whether it was food, or money, or just a direction for their life, they fell in line immediately.

  I wasn’t that kind of girl.

  My parents may have been gone for a long time, but the memories I did have of them were filled with love. My mother had been a beautiful woman. I inherited my eyes from her. I remember my Gran telling me that my dad was gone for her the second he saw those eyes. She had been soft and sweet, and had looked at me like I hung the moon. My father was the opposite of my uncle. Somehow, the psychopath gene had been given to just the older brother, luckily. He was quiet but loving. He called us “his girls,” and his favorite things in the world were my mom and me. He always told us there wasn’t a better place to be than home with us.

  I believed him.

  After they were gone, I didn’t know how to live in a world without them. Gran was so different from them, and maybe that was what did it. Somehow her crass, Louisiana, backwoods personality had saved me. When I had come to her, I was a sullen, bratty kid, unable to deal with the whirlwind of emotions roiling inside of me. She had given me more than a love for greasy burgers… she’d given me hope.

  Which was why when she left me at my uncle’s house without a glance back, I didn’t understand what was going on.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, Holland,” my uncle said mildly, gesturing to the seat across from him at his scuffed up kitchen table that appeared like it had seen better days. I would learn that he preferred the name Holland, and he had made it clear that “Holly” didn’t exist anymore.

  He pushed over a plate of brownies, and I stared at it distrustfully. Despite his mild manner, there was something off about him. Something lurking behind those brown eyes of his that made me want to run and hide. I was still expecting Gran to come back any minute now, preferably with a bag of greasy food in her hand, but something told me that wasn’t going to happen.

  I just didn’t understand why.

  “Here’s how this is going to work. I have certain jobs I will need you to do for me.”

  “What kind of jobs?” I interrupted him petulantly.

  He sighed. “I don’t like your tone.”

  I didn’t really care if he liked it or not. “Then I guess it’s good that I don’t care what you think.”

  Generally, I was respectful to adults. To a fault. My parents had expected it, and Gran certainly demanded it. I didn’t even find it all that hard to do. I liked people—well, as much as anyone did. I was happy to have conversations, happy to make people feel good about themselves. I’d had a lot of help when I’d needed it from a town full of strangers that embraced me as their own because of Gran.

  But this man? My uncle? I wasn’t feeling it. Nope, not at all.

  He could just go…

  With a swift move of his hand, he took the brownies away. “I don’t think you deserve to have these, Holland.”

  I swallowed. “Well, I didn’t want them anyway.”

  He smacked me. Hard. Right across the cheek. My parents had been spankers, sort of. They’d also claimed to be, but I could only remember one time when it actually happened. I’d tried to plug something into an electric socket that didn’t belong in an electric socket. What had it been? As my head spun, I tried to remember. Some kind of metal doll shoe. I’d gotten whacked on the rear end once for doing that. I’d been five, well past the point of when I should have done that. My mom had been scared, crying when she whacked my rear end.

  Even at that age, I’d known she wasn’t really angry at me. Despite their claims that they’d made to friends of being spankers, I couldn’t remember her ever doing it again. This was different. This man, this stranger, who my Gran dropped me off and left me with, was pissed as hell.

  My gran had never hit me. She’d made me clean her grout with a toothbrush over the course of four days until it shined, but she’d never smacked me in any capacity.

  He was quiet about it. There was no ranting. No carrying on. He struck me a second time, this whack taking me to the ground. This was the first time a man had struck me. Somehow, in the midst of the chaos and also order of the moment, I understood it would absolutely not be the last time that happened. Men did this to women. Why did I know that? Was it instinctual? Something passed on from woman to another through generational knowledge, like they’d told us in school that happened with animals? Encoded in our genes? Did all men do this? Had my father?

  I cried out, holding onto my cheek, which almost seemed a delayed, ridiculous reaction as I lay there on the floor.

  “When I speak to you, I expect to hear respect from you. Or at the very least, not disrespect. Now get up, get back in the chair, and let’s try it again. If you push me hard enough, I will take stronger measures. Trust me, Holland, you don’t want stronger measures. You’re my family. I know you’re smart enough to figure things out quickly. Don’t test me.”

  I got to my feet. At the very least, I didn’t want to be hit again. He gripped my chin, staring at me. “It’ll heal fast at your age. The older you get, the more permanent a bruise could become. You’re no good to me if you’re ugly. Don’t let that happen. Use your head.”

  Why did it matter what I looked like? Nothing made sense right now.

  He’d given me a direction. I had to follow it. Hadn’t he? “I don’t remember what you wanted me to do. I…”

  Uncle rolled his eyes. “I didn’t hit you that hard. My mother has been babying you. We’ll try this again. I have jobs for you to do. And you say?”

  I swallowed. I’d gotten this wrong last time, and my cheek burned because of it.

  Wow. Did I hate this place. Neither Gran nor my father had given much thought to things like hell, but my sweet mother was a believer, and I had been, too. Or maybe I still was. It had been hard to think about any of that with Gran. She kept me very busy, focused on other things altogether.

  But now… I believed.

  This was hell. I was in it.

  “What kind of jobs?” I forced myself to smile through the burn on my cheek.

  “I’m glad you asked.” He pushed the brownies toward me. “Have one?”

  I swallowed. “No… thank you. I’m not hungry.”

  Uncle winked as though we were having a fun conversation. What was wrong with this man?

  “Your loss. They’re fantastic.”

  I’d never like the smell of baking brownies again. Of that, I was sure.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. Was he going to answer? “Didn’t I do it right?”

  “Do what?” He chewed his brownie.

  My hand itched to smack him back. “What kinds of jobs am I going to do?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” My god, this man was infuriating. How was he so important? Didn’t he make everyone around him just nuts?

  “You’re very pretty, and I’m going to make that profitable for me. Girls like you who work for me do so because what I want from you is to fuck up people’s lives.”

  I blinked. None of this made sense. Maybe I was slow-witted, because panic was finally taking hold. Was it possible that this was some kind of joke? My hands shook, and I stuck them in my pockets. Hiding weakness seemed sort of important. I didn’t really know why.

  Who would want to do this? Who would want to mess up people’s lives? Would asking that get me smacked again? “Like what?”

  “Well, let’s talk about a kid named Brandon. When I let you out of here—and I have a feeling you’re going to be the type who I have to keep putting down here for a while—you’ll mee
t him at school. That’s right. You’re going to go to go to school and meet Brandon. Then, you’re going to have sex with him and then steal from him.”

  Absolutely not. That was… horrifying. “We’ll have to find something else to do. I can’t do that. I… can’t.”

  “Holland,” he said, examining the ceiling. “You can and you will, but I see that first we will have to break you.”

  Break me? He hauled me by the arm across the room before he threw open a door. With a creak, he dragged me down the stairs. My arm burned where he held me too tight. For sure, there would be a bruise. I cried out, and then wished I hadn’t. Somehow, I had to be brave.

  The stairs creaked with each step we made on them, like they might fall apart, might actually shatter if they were pushed on too much. The bannister looked to have splinters, and I was glad to not have to actually hold onto it, considering my uncle gave me no time to steady myself in the first place.

  If such a thing were possible, I’d swear I could see his hate for me cross over every one of his features, as though it was seeping from his pores.

  What could I ever have done to have earned this?

  Finally downstairs in the basement, he paused to stare at me.

  His hand snapped across my face, hitting my other cheek, and again, sending me flying to the ground. For such an average sized man, he sure packed a punch. This kept happening. I lay there on the ground, trembling, not sure what my next move should be. Nothing worked. Finally, I sat up and glared at him. I could feel the blood trickling down from my busted lip. He was wearing a gunmetal gray colored ring, and boy, did it hurt connecting with my skin.

  He crouched down in front of me. “Are you going to cooperate now?” he said in that same mild voice, as if we were discussing the score of the Saints’ game last night instead of the fact that he’d just hit me so hard that I’d flown across the room.

  I didn’t answer him, just continued to glare at him with a face that hopefully illustrated the giant fuck you I was thinking in my brain.

  He sighed, as if I had disappointed him. He then picked me up by the collar of my shirt. I struggled to stand quickly so that I didn’t get choked.

  “Let’s try this again, Holland. I want you to go to Brandon’s house and fuck him. Then you’re going to steal the Rolex that his parents gave him for his eighteenth birthday present. Am I making myself clear?”

  I just stared at him. “I’m fifteen years old, asshole. I’m not going to go seduce anyone,” I spit at him.

  “It’s really too bad you’re being this difficult, Holland,” he said as he sighed again.

  Before I could say another word, his fist met my ribs, sending me once again, crashing to the ground. I had heard a small crack when he hit me, and I was pretty sure that I had broken a rib.

  I moaned, and although I tried to hold it in, tears started to trail down my face. “I’m going to report you for this,” I told him, even though I was writhing in agony at the moment. At least the punch to the ribs had distracted me from the fact that my head was throbbing.

  He stood there, gazing down at me, a small, amused smile on his face. “You’re a lot feistier than I thought you would be, considering how weak your parents were. That will be an asset eventually.”

  He reached down to grab me again, and I tried to move away from him. I knew it was a fruitless effort, because there was no way that I was going to be able to make it to the door, let alone outside where I could get help. Everything hurt much too badly.

  He scooped me up in a bone crushing hold that squeezed the air out of my lungs, making me see spots. It put even more pressure on my injured rib, and I was sure if he squeezed me any harder that my broken rib was going to pierce my lung or something. By the fact that it was so hard to breathe, maybe it already had.

  I began to try and struggle, deciding that if I was going to die, at least I was going to go out fighting.

  His arms pressed around me tighter, so tight that I thought I might lose consciousness. He walked me down the hallway until we came to a nondescript, faded gray door. Opening it up, he began to make his way down a set of unfinished wooden stairs. I sneezed at the smell. It was a combination of bleach, dirt, and decay. I wasn’t sure how bleach and dirt went together, but it was an unpleasant smell.

  This basement had obviously been specially made, because it stretched much farther than the length of the house. There was a series of metal walled rooms set up on the far wall. There were thick steel doors on the outside of each room. My uncle walked until he was at the last one, one that would’ve been far from the main artery of the house above.

  No one will hear me scream, I thought. How perfect for him.

  He walked into the room and threw me on the ground. I realized it was a cell at that point, although it should have been obvious what its purpose was the second we had walked down here. The cell was empty, made up of nothing more than metal walls and a dirty, concrete floor that was cracked in various places. There were faded red stains on the floor that let me know of the pain I had waiting for me. I guess there was too much blood for the bleach to fully clean it up.

  He didn’t say a word after he threw me on the ground. He just walked out, slamming the door behind him. I could hear him sliding the bolt shut to secure the door. I listened as his footsteps faded away.

  I was alone.

  The cell was tiny, probably no bigger than a nine by nine square, and I started to feel a little bit claustrophobic. Even the ceiling was lower than normal.

  A rush of adrenaline roared through me as I started to panic over the size of the room, and I used it to drag myself unsteadily to my feet and force my way to the door. I began to bang on it. When no one came after twenty minutes, I started to ram the door with my shoulder, sending waves of agony over me as my broken rib protested the effort.

  The door barely rattled as I heaved myself against it. Eventually, I realized that it was no use, I was just hurting myself more, and pretty soon, my shoulder was going to break if I kept it up.

  Hobbling away from the door, I made my way to the far wall and collapsed against it.

  I lay there for several long moments, too tired to move. One thing was for sure, I was going to get out of there. He couldn’t keep me here forever, someone would eventually look for me. Whether it was when Gran came back or when the school realized that I’d missed too many days.

  Teenagers couldn’t just disappear. Right?

  I didn’t know how long I’d been down here this time, I just knew that it had been hours and hours. Maybe whole days had passed. He did that to me sometimes. I was thirsty, the kind of thirsty where you start to feel a little bit desperate. I hadn’t even had to pee, even though enough time had passed that I should have had to go pretty bad. I’d screwed up at school. Talked back to a teacher. Gotten too much attention placed on myself. Hence, my trial in this basement. Again.

  My mouth felt so dry that I was pretty sure my gums were cracking, if that was even possible. I hadn’t moved from my place on the floor. I was so dehydrated that I was trying to conserve whatever water was left in me.

  My uncle hadn’t been back down, and I hadn’t heard any other sounds. There was a small light bulb hanging from the ceiling above me, and I was lucky that it was on. Something told me that I wouldn’t be doing so well if that light were to turn off, leaving me in pitch darkness, since there were no windows in this room.

  A couple more hours passed, and I was getting even more desperate. My muscles were beginning to ache and groan from the lack of hydration. I realized how spoiled I’d been in my life. I’d never experienced this kind of bodily need before. I began to feel like I was going to go crazy if I didn’t get water soon.

  More hours passed, and now, I didn’t even have enough energy to lean against the wall, I just lay on the ground. I felt light, almost as if my soul was existing outside of my body.

  How did this happen to me? I was fifteen years old. I hadn’t even been kissed yet. I hadn’t even lived.
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  A wave of sadness hit me, so strong that it left me gasping for breath. I wanted my parents. I wanted Gran.

  Hell, I wanted anyone. Even the strangers at school I was expected to mingle with.

  I wasn’t sure how much time had passed now, it seemed to have lasted forever. The bolt slide on the door thunked, and a second later, the door opened. My uncle was back.

  I didn’t make a move to get up, or rush the door, or even glance at him. I was too weak to do anything.

  His footsteps crackled against the dirt as he approached me.

  He crouched down in front of me, concern written across his stupid face. “Holland, you’re not looking so good,” he said in his awful, calm voice. “Would you like some water?”

  “Please,” I whimpered in a hoarse, deranged sounding voice. It was hard to get any words out of my throat, it was so dry. I felt desperate, slightly unhinged. I was tired of this. So tired. He’d send me to school and then put me back into this basement. Over and over. I was losing my mind. Shouldn’t someone at my school notice my constant absences? This time, I’d been in the basement forever.

  He pulled two small bottles of water out from behind his back. They were tiny, the size of the ones that they give you in those Asian nail salons that my mom used to take me to for girls’ days when we wanted to get our nails done.

  My uncle set them down in front of me and watched me with his beady, brown eyes. He was waiting for something, but I didn’t have the energy to figure it out right now. All I could think about was getting that water.

  My hand snaked out to grab the water, and he walked away. The door once again clanged shut as he bolted it behind him. I opened the first bottle of water as quickly as I could, gulping it down. It was gone in what seemed like half a second. I drained every last drop before grabbing the second one. I tried to sip the second one slower, as my stomach was already gurgling after being empty so long. But my plan didn’t last long, and before I knew it, that bottle was gone as well.