by Jette Harris
44
Z was glad it was dark, but he was sure Rhodes could see as the moonlight reflected off the tears on his face. Turning his head, he managed to wipe them off on the sheets.
But Rhodes wasn’t paying attention to Z’s face. He was in his own world, grunting and groaning, with the occasional murmur. His hips were rough, his hands restless: wandering up Z’s back to yank the boy’s hair, then travelling down to stroke his genitals. After he came, Rhodes collapsed onto his back, panting. Fearing a Round Two, Z rolled to the edge of the bed.
“Oh, God, Faust,” Rhodes moaned. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he froze, eyes wide, his breath catching in his throat.
“What?” Z had never seen him wear an expression like that, like fear. “Who’s Faust?”
Z didn’t even see him move. The man was straddling his chest, squeezing the air out of him.
“Don’t you ever repeat that name, do you understand?” His voice was barely audible. “Say it again, and I will kill you where you stand.”
Z nodded, trying to say Yes.
Rhodes loosened his grip. His voice evened out. “And don’t tell any of the others, or I will kill them, too. Every one of them.”
“Yes…” Z gasped. “Yes… Daddy—Yes.”
Releasing him, Rhodes shifted to the edge of the bed. Z rolled onto his side, coughing. There was no hiding his watering eyes or running nose now. As he caught his breath, he watched Rhodes brood, propping an elbow on his knee and pulling at the hair on the back of his head.
Z wondered what could possibly rile the man up so much. He had never strangled Z so sincerely, not even when they fought. Z had also never seen him so taciturn. He just stared out the window, tugging at his hair.
“Do you—” Z began, but he had to cough and swallow before he could speak. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I said don’t mention it.”
“You said not to say his name.”
Rhodes, remembering himself, reached out and smacked Z up the side of his head. “Do you really want to die quibbling over semantics?”
“Nope,” Z replied, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m good.”
“Damn right, you are,” Rhodes grumbled, turning back to the window. His assault against his hair grew less aggressive, but he did not move from that spot for several hours.
45
Rhodes had a specific plan in mind when he went into the White Room to retrieve Monica. He had a hankering for head and those innocent eyes. The moment he entered the room, he could hear the sharp intake of breath as one or two of them woke. Normally, it would have distracted him, but not today: He went straight to Monica’s door. She had not been disturbed when he entered the room, but she woke now and shrank against the wall.
“I have—” Something caught his eye. He had to search before he discovered what it was: there were scratches in the white paint around the latch, revealing the metal below. Pursing his lips, he turned to Monica. The little girl was shaking her head, eyes wide with fear. Without meaning to, she glanced past him at Heather’s closet.
Rhodes slammed the door.
“No!” Monica screamed. “No, please! It was me! I made them!”
Ignoring her, he pulled open Heather’s door. She was sitting against the back wall, her legs tucked under her robe. She made a strong effort to look at him with apathy.
“Nooo!” Monica continued. “Heather, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
There were more scratches on the edge of her door. Rhodes ran his thumb over them. Her gaze faltered. He hoped she would slip up, as Monica had, and her eyes would lead him to whatever tool she had been using, but she forced her eyes back on him. Grabbing her hair, he pulled her out. She shrieked and struck at him, but he grabbed her arm and twisted it around her back, threatening to pop her shoulder out of socket. He dragged her across the landing and shoved her into the Bedroom. Before she could run back to the door, he slammed it shut.
Monica was sobbing when he returned to the White Room. He didn’t know what pissed him off more: his plans being ruined, or that Heather had been able to get out.
Returning to Heather’s closet, he found it as he had intended: there was nowhere to conceal anything, no features whatsoever. Except… he stood in the middle of the closet and turned to the door. The glistening aluminum stood out among the white, peering from a crack between the door frame and the wall. (Why the fuck did I have to be fancy and include a door frame?) He pried it out and inspected it. It was nothing: nine inches of flimsy metal, ragged on one edge, rounded on the other. As he held it up, his gaze fell on the part of the sill sweep still attached to the door. He smacked himself in the forehead with the strip. He hadn’t considered one of his young hostages would be so resourceful, much less two of them.
****
If Heather had ever felt the need to abandon the others and escape, it was at that moment. She knew the strip was not well-hidden if he was searching for it. Her throat tightened with dread. She fought with the door, but it was sturdy and unrelenting. The closet door had a padlock on it. She tried the bedside table. It was also locked.
Why does everything in this house have to be locked?
Her breath came in short, panicked gasps. She climbed over the bed to the window. It was nailed and painted shut. She tried to pry it open anyway. She turned to grab the chair, but froze. Rhodes glared at her as he walked down the hall. He turned the sill sweep between his hands.
“I learned a new phrase the other day, Just Heather,” he said. “I learned, Bless your heart. It took me quite a while to figure out what it meant... It’s a fascinating dialect, the Southern colloquial. Never before have I heard such a contradictory phrase. Bless your heart, Heather Stokes… bless your heart.”
Rhodes meandered toward her as he spoke, toying with the metal strip. Heather fought to remember it was flimsy and weak and couldn’t hurt her at all. Despite that, her chest was tight. Her hands shook. Pressing herself against the wall, she fought the tears choking her and threatening to run down her face. She took several deep breaths and concealed her fear.
“The others… your friends, they’ve sold me your secrets, your whole life, in exchange for a few minutes of rest. These are the people you are killing yourself for. Are they really worth starving yourself? Are they really worth your pain?” He leaned down to look her in the eye, waiting for an answer.
“Pain…” She looked away. “It’s really not that bad,” she lied. “It doesn’t last that long.”
“Well, yes.” He nodded, standing tall again. “But you,” he added, holding up the strip between his palms, “will be feeling this for the rest of your short life.”
Grabbing her arm, he threw her against the bed. He shoved her face-down into the mattress. Brandishing the strip like a crop, he brought it down upon her back.
46
Rhodes rubbed antibacterial ointment over the scrapes and cuts where the sill sweep had bit into his palm. He felt foolish for not being curious and questioning the lesions on Heather’s hands. He had dismissed them as defensive wounds; Now that he saw them on his own, it was obvious. He wrapped gauze over the cuts and hoped they would heal before he went home. He would be useless if he returned to work with open wounds on his hands.
Returning to the bedroom, he found Heather still on the floor. He couldn’t tell if she was unconscious or in shock. She wasn’t moving. The back of her robe was now red with blood and ripped to shreds, revealing the cuts crisscrossing her back. There was not an inch of unscathed flesh between her shoulders and her ass.
He unlocked the bedside table and pulled out the hunting knife. He held it for a moment in his wrapped right hand, then switched to his left. He knelt by the girl and pulled her onto her back. She whimpered. The blood from her re-broken nose had already dried onto her face.
“What a waste, what a waste,” he muttered, brushing the hair away from her face. It wasn’t that she was pretty… She certainly wasn’t up to his usual standards, but
she was clever; He liked that despite the risks. She and Z—their unpredictability excited him.
She opened her eyes. She had to blink several times before she could focus. She began to shudder with sobs.
“Please, please kill me!” She rolled over to hide her face. “Ra—Fuck me. Anything but that room! Please don’t take me back… I’ll do anything you want, just don’t send me back.”
Rhodes snorted. She had never sounded so pathetic. He grabbed her ankle. She screamed as he dragged her from the Bedroom. She left a trail of blood across the hardwood of the landing, then the carpet of the White Room. He threw her inside her closet and slammed the door. He could hear her fighting for control of her breath. He went back to the room door and slammed it. He returned to watch her through the slats.
He was surprised to hear Monica’s voice. “What did he do?”
Heather pulled off the tattered robe and hugged it over her chest. “He threw me back into the briar patch.” Her voice was even, her tone composed.
(What the fuck is that supposed to mean?) He returned to the bedside table and pulled out his smart phone. Popping the battery in place, he turned it on and opened the web browser. First he searched “briar patch,” but all of the results were taverns and restaurants. He revised his search to “thrown in briar patch.”
As he read the results, his face grew flush. It was a reference to one of her rabbit stories. She had tricked him. He pulled out the battery and tossed everything back into the drawer. Storming back across the landing, he yanked open the door to her closet.
“TRICK ME, LITTLE RABBIT?”
Her eyes shot wide with unadulterated horror. She scrambled back against the wall. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her straight. Sitting on her torso, he pinned her arms down with his knees and raised her chin. She struggled to breathe under his weight. Rhodes pressed the knife to her throat. Licking his lips, he trailed the tip down to her chest. Digging it into the soft skin below her collar bone, he dragged it down.
Heather couldn’t pull enough air to scream. What came out was an eerie, hollow sound. She fought against his weight. She struck his back with her knee, bucking him forward. The knife drove deeper than he intended. He grimaced. She stopped struggling. Tears ran down her face. Her only movement was her shuddering sobs. He shifted so she could breathe as he carved the last few letters into her skin.
The result was submerged in blood. He wiped it away with her robe. The letters were sloppy, but bold and clear:
R A B B I T
Leaning close, he growled, “I am done with your tricks.” He spit in her face and wiped her blood off of his knife with her tattered robe.
47
Z counted, attempting to find a discernable pattern in Rhodes’s visits. The only conclusion he could draw was Rhodes preferred the boys’ company over the girls’. Every time the door opened, Z would predict which closet he would choose. He was only right when he guessed his own name—as if Rhodes knew his guess and modified his choice accordingly.
The door opened. Z’s chest tightened. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of everything, even his sense of dread. He was still sore, and Rhodes’s behavior toward Heather had him shaken up. Z did not wish to see him again, but he knew his door would be the one to open.
With a sigh, he rose to his feet and leaned against the wall to wait. He was shocked to hear the door next to his open. Monica whimpered. Rhodes didn’t bother to take her out. As Z tried not to listen to her soft sobbing and the sound of flesh against flesh, he could not believe he had been wrong. He had felt so sure it would be him. As the noise drifted through the thin wall, part of him wished it had been. Part of him wished he could be as brave as Heather had been when she had yelled at Rhodes to leave Witt alone. Brave, or reckless.
Heather was silent now. Z wondered if he could hear her crying as well, but he couldn’t be sure. It could have been Witt.
The noise of bodies stopped as Rhodes grunted and sighed. He always made the same sound, no matter what he had been doing to achieve it. Z bit his lip and let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. You could have prevented that, he thought. He could have asked for the momentary pain, just to spare Monica from being subjected to that grunt, just that one.
The door to Monica’s closet slammed shut. Z heard her curl up against the back wall to cry. He expected Rhodes to leave, or pretend to leave. He jumped when his door opened. Rhodes stood naked in the doorway, glistening with sweat. Z’s throat constricted when he saw the hunting knife in Rhodes’s hand.
Finally.
Rhodes was going to kill him, after threatening so often. Z took a deep, resolute breath. Rhodes put a hand on Z’s chest and pushed him against the wall. Z flinched as Rhodes placed the cold blade between his legs. The knife wasn’t pressed against his testicles, as would have been expected, but held against the inside of his thigh. The blade pressed into the soft flesh over the femoral artery. Rhodes locked eyes with him. Swallowing, Z fought to clear his mind of fear and rage.
A smile spread across Rhodes’s face. Z expected the man to drive the knife up. Instead, he dropped to his knees. Any resolve Z had mustered in the face of death faded into shock and disgust as Rhodes swept away Z’s robe and took his penis into his mouth. Acid welled up into Z’s throat. He forced himself to keep it down. He had dreamed of this sensation, but not like this, not from Rhodes. But Z’s body did not acknowledge his protests. He clenched his jaw, banged his fist against the wall, and fought the sounds threatening to escape his chest. Rhodes knew what he was doing. Witt’s disturbing behavior now made perfect sense.
Z put his wrist in his mouth and bit down, trying not to grunt in imitation of Rhodes. Blood began to run down Z’s chin, dripping onto his chest and down the man’s face.
Standing, Rhodes wiped his chin. He grinned at Z with pursed lips, then leaned forward, threatening to kiss him. Z jerked back. A sound of amusement rose in Rhodes’s throat as he turned and left the closet.
One more closet door opened. Z heard the sound of Rhodes spitting. The door slammed shut again. The outer door opened and closed. The White Room fell silent. Even Monica was stunned out of her sobs.
“I have no idea what the hell just happened…” Heather muttered, “but I have the distinct feeling I don’t want to, either.”
“No,” Z assured her, still trying to catch his breath, “you really don’t.”
48
Rhodes had denied Heather a quick death. Over the next few days, it became clear he had an alternate plan. He didn’t bring her food or water the day after her butchering, but he stood in her doorway. Heather’s last-ditch effort at subversion was displaying her damage for him: she sat on her knees with her back to the door, clutching the remains of her robe to her chest.
“Pssst!”
When she looked at him over her shoulder, he took a long sip of water from the bottle that would have been hers, then sprayed it on her between his lips. She jerked away when it hit her face.
“Selfish cunt.”
****
The second day, the only time Heather’s door opened was when he took her to the bathroom. He guided her past the sink with a hand over her mouth, then shoved her down onto the toilet. He didn’t leave, but stood by her side, whispering in her ear:
“… don’t want to fucking touch you… can’t stand the fuckin’ sight of you… leaves me more time with your friends… me… with your friends… pissed off, because of you… think about that… can you imagine? I don’t think you can…”
****
By the third day, Heather had become desperately thirsty. Her mouth was dry. Her lips were cracking. Her muscles cramped with every movement. Her stomach twisted with hunger. When she heard the door open, she had to force herself to sit up. She cleared her mind of desperate wishes when the other closets opened and closed. She was surprised when her door opened.
Once more, Rhodes leaned on the door frame, bottle of water in hand.
“Thirsty?” he asked
, twisting the cap off.
“Yes.” She did not look at him.
He tipped the bottle into his mouth, then spit the water back into the bottle. Twisting the cap shut, he shook the water up and tossed it onto the floor.
“Much obliged,” she rasped.
“I really should have done this sooner,” he said. “It would have saved me so much trouble.”
Heather did not reply. The door slammed. Even when the outer door opened and closed, she did not move. She knew he was going to watch until she drank the water. There were no sounds beyond her door but Monica’s occasional sniffles and Witt’s soft snoring. It felt like hours had passed. Slowly, she reached out and took the bottle.
Within seconds, she drank every drop he had given her.
****
On the fourth day, Heather didn’t hear the door open. A chill gripped her. Despite the pain of cloth against the cuts, she wrapped the remains of the robe around her and curled into a ball. Her teeth chattered. She closed her eyes and imagined sunlight and fire. When she fell asleep, she dreamed of demons pressing brands into her skin.
She cracked her eyes when she heard Monica say her name. Rhodes was standing over her, another bottle of water in his hand. She wondered how he would sully this one. He placed it on the floor. Kneeling, he took her face in his hands.
“You’re burning up.”
Heather snorted and closed her eyes. He’s got jokes…
He was gone. Her door was closed. The bottle of water was still leaning against the wall, unopened. When she shifted her legs, a soreness radiated from her hip. Reaching down, she found a tender spot. Dismissing it, she grabbed the bottle. She struggled to twist the cap off, succeeding only after an exhausting effort.
