by Jette Harris
When Rhodes pulled her out, he didn’t steer her as he had before. He didn’t act angry or malicious. This alarmed Heather far more than his show of emotion. She struggled to keep her feet, dragging along the wall. She flinched every time Rhodes moved his hands. She imagined herself thrown over the banister, or having her head bashed into the wall. Instead, he stood by the bathroom door, as he had before finding the sill sweep.
Now she wasn’t being harried, Heather took a moment to wash. The hot water felt like Heaven. She washed the blood from her face and hands. The cuts on her chest had clotted, but she was too afraid of opening them to attempt to clean them. Her hand slid down to the tender area on her hip. The area was inflamed, like a bug bite.
Twisting, she studied her back. The skin around the cuts and welts was a variety of alarming colors, ranging from purple to green.
She wondered if she should say something about it as she opened the door. Rhodes was no longer waiting against the wall. He was walking back along the landing, a towel over his shoulder and a large bottle in his hands. The first thought that popped into her head in her fevered state was Accelerant. Ducking back into the bathroom, she attempted to push the door shut, but he shoved it open with ease.
“No!” she cried as he grabbed her hair and twisted it around his hand. He opened the bottle with his teeth and doused her in liquid, pouring it over her back. He forced her head back and poured it over her chest. She cringed, waiting for him to strike a match. The liquid stung and hissed.
You pathetic idiot, she thought. It wasn’t accelerant; It was hydrogen peroxide. She watched the word across her chest bubble as the peroxide ate away the dried blood.
“Keeping me around for a bit longer?” Her voice cracked in her dry throat.
Rhodes barked a laugh. Releasing her hair, he flicked the last few drops over her. Her dark hair developed copper-colored streaks.
“I choose when you go.” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It bounced off the banister and disappeared into the library. He pulled a towel off of his shoulder and pressed it over the lacerations across her chest. “Hold that there.”
She did as she was told. He pulled another towel from his shoulder and patted her skin dry, taking a moment to inspect her back. She winced as he prodded her.
“Can you feel that?”
“Yes.” Despite his businesslike tone, she believed he was just being malicious.
Rhodes knelt down to wipe the dripping peroxide off her legs and feet. He ran his fingers over the tender area on her hip, inspecting it. While he was in the vicinity, he nipped at her butt and thighs. He crouched before her and pressed his face between her legs. She jumped back against the wall. She yelped as pain shot across her back and pushed his head away. He lifted his face, looking like a dog: mouth wide, tongue hanging out, eyes full of glee.
“You’re gross,” she muttered.
“I may be gross, but you’re filthy.” He pulled one more thing from his shoulder: a clean robe. “Wash up, and put this on,” he told her. “I expect you to taste fresh when you come out.”
“I don’t get sick days?”
Heather could still hear Rhodes laughing through the bathroom door.
49
Z wondered if this was what stud-horses felt like. Rhodes was wearing a shirt and didn’t look as if he had committed to waking up yet. Both clues indicated a trip to the Camera Room. Z tried not to enjoy these trips, but his heart beat a bit faster as Rhodes led the way.
Every time Rhodes led him to the Camera Room, Z hoped and feared Heather would be the one waiting. Especially now, since things had been so hard for her, he wished he could give her more comfort than whispers in the quiet hours. He wished he could make up for some of the time they had lost.
When Rhodes opened the door, Witt was pacing along the far wall. He looked up to find Z at the door and his face grew so red, his freckles disappeared. They both turned to Rhodes. Z raised a brow. Witt’s eyes were wide. Rhodes had made a mistake. There was no other explanation.
Gritting his teeth, the man grinned like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Business as usual!” he chirped. “Play nice!” He closed the door before either of them could protest.
Slowly, Z turned to Witt. “Not gonna happen.” Smoothing his robe down over his thighs, he crossed to the chair and sat, but shot back to his feet as his robe rode up. He leaned against the footboard of the bed instead.
“He’ll come back if we don’t,” Witt warned him in a small, scared voice.
“Let him,” Z replied. “What’s he going to do, hurt me? That’s nothing new.”
“He could kill you.”
“He’s been saying he’s going to kill me every day we’ve been here. Then he… he beats me and…”—He set his jaw and forced himself to say it—“he rapes me… then he tosses me back into my closet, and it happens again the next day or so. I pray every single time he lays eyes on me he will keep that promise, because I’m not like you: I can’t convince myself I enjoy it.”
Witt jerked his head up, the color draining from his face. “Wha-What?”
“Oh, don’t!” Z spat. “Just don’t!” He gestured toward the door. “We can hear you all the way on the other side of the house! You’re either a really, really good faker, or you’ve figured out a way to like it.” He had to bite back the words like disgusting, sick, warped.
“I’m not—I’m not a faggot.” Witt began to pace again, refusing to meet Z’s eyes.
Hearing the hurt in his friend’s voice, Z sighed. “I never said you were.”
“Yes, yes, you did!” Witt jabbed his finger in his direction. “I don’t enjoy it! It—It hurts, but he… I…” Words failed him. There was no way Z could understand the things Rhodes made him feel. Z had never felt this way; He was normal—There was nothing wrong with him. Witt covered his face with his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Z said, although he didn’t see what he was apologizing for.
Sniffling, Witt shook his head and leaned on the footboard next to him. He had to take several deep breaths before he could speak again.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Witt said. “I don’t see how you can keep taking hits like you do. If you play along, he won’t whoop you—it’s as easy as that. He said he’s only going to keep us here for a month. If we cooperate, he’ll let us go. We just… we should just do what he wants us to do.”
Z didn’t reply. Slowly, Witt reached out and put his hand on Z’s leg. Z pursed his lips, fighting the urge to shove the hand away. He wasn’t convinced cooperation would help. Witt might survive this ordeal, but Z knew in his heart it was going to kill him. His grip on the footboard tightened as Witt leaned toward him. Z flinched at Witt’s lips on his neck. He tolerated it for a few seconds, frozen, muscles tight, until Witt’s hand began to move up.
“No!” Z jumped up. “No! Fuck you! Fuck him! I won’t do it!” It felt good to yell, to speak above a whisper. “Let him come in here! Let him!”
“He’ll whoop us!”
“So? Same shit, different day for me! And you know what? After the way you’ve acted, maybe a beating would do you good!”
“Don’t say that!” Witt shook with rage.
“I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you!”
“That’s not true!” Tears began to stream down Witt’s face.
“It is fucking true! It is! I should have just left you on the ground!” Z began to stumble over his words. “At least then—then I wouldn’t have to listen to your—”
“Don’t—” Witt warned, clenching his teeth.
“—your fucked-up little—Stockholm Syndrome—”
“Stop—” Witt’s fists clenched at his side.
“—homosexual fuck-fest!”
“You weren’t complaining when your cock was in his mouth!” Witt screamed.
If Z’s face hadn’t already been flush with rage, it would have turned red for shame. “He—he had a knife!” he stammered. “Is he th
reatening to kill you every time you’re moaning his fucking name?”
Witt let his fist fly, knocking him to the floor. Z tackled him. He threw Witt to the floor and straddled him. Screaming, Z pommeled him with his fists. Years of pent-up rage flooded from his throat. He continued even as he felt arms around his waist, lifting him away.
“—sabotaged my love, you jealous fuck-ass!” An arm around Z’s neck cut off his words.
“Whoa, boys!” Rhodes shouted. “You’re supposed to be playing nice for Daddy!”
Z found himself pinned to Rhodes’s side in a headlock, with something hard digging into his scalp. Z began to punch Rhodes’s knee. Witt shot up, snarling, but his face fell. He dropped to his knees, raising his hands above his head. Rhodes had a gun. He was pressing it against his head. Z stopped struggling and held his hands up as well.
“Since you two can’t play nice,” Rhodes said, “you’re going back to your rooms. I’ll choose your punishment later. You lead, Witt. We’ll be right behind you.”
“You can let me go,” Z grunted. “I’ll walk.”
“Oh, no. No, I’m going to keep you very close.”
Witt lumbered to his feet, hands still above his head. Rhodes pulled Z back, putting more distance between them as Witt passed. As Rhodes dragged Z toward the White Room, he knocked him into the doorframe and walls. The gun dug into Z’s scalp until blood trickled through his hair.
The gun. An idea stirred in Z’s mind. If he could somehow get the gun, it would be game-over for Rhodes. You wouldn’t even have to kill him, he thought, just shoot him in the leg or something.
But Z really wanted to kill him.
“Inside,” Rhodes ordered as they entered the White Room. “Close the door behind you. Firmly. Thank you very much.”
Rhodes pulled Z toward his closet. When he reached out to open the door, Z bucked him off and grabbed for the gun. Rhodes swung the boy into the wall and hit him in the face with an elbow.
Neither of them expected the gun to go off.
A shriek emitted from Heather’s closet, draining Z of all his fight. They both stared at her door before Z stepped forward.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. “Heather? Heather, please, are you OK?”
“I’m OK!” Her voice was strained. “Just—just startled.”
“I’m sorry!”
“That’s what happens when you rebel.” Rhodes wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him back. “People get hurt.” Turning him, he took Z’s face in his hands. “Lesson learned? Again?”
Z nodded.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good boy.” Rhodes leaned his forehead against Z’s, then pushed him into his closet.
****
As soon as the door was shut, Rhodes turned to Heather’s closet. The bullet hole was in Witt’s door, but at an angle that would have gone straight through the wall they shared. He opened Heather’s door to find the girl curled against the wall. He had a difficult time identifying where she was injured. Her right hand was clutched to her chest, covered in blood. It ran down her arm and dripped from her elbow. Her other hand was clapped over her mouth, muffling her sobs. She stared at him with her tear-soaked face and shook her head. She didn’t want the others to know she had been injured.
Tucking the gun into the back of his pants, Rhodes crouched down with a finger to his lips. He held out his hand. Her hand was shaking as she held it out to him. The bullet had come through the wall at a sharp angle, grazing her wrist, piercing the pad of her thumb, then burying itself in the floor.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he breathed, giving his most reassuring smile. Pulling Heather to her feet, he guided her down the hall with an arm around her shoulders. He took her into the Bedroom. She felt like a small child as he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the counter. He knelt down to unlock a padlock on one of the cabinets.
“Do you know what Z and Witt were fighting about?” He put the gun inside the cabinet and pulled out a first aid kit.
“No,” she replied, sniffling. She watched as he sifted through the contents of the kit.
“Have they ever fought before, while I wasn’t here?” He pulled out several items: 4x4 bandages, gauze, alcohol pads.
“No, we don’t usually talk.”
He shot her a skeptical glance, then beckoned for her hand. He rinsed off the injury, gently turning her arm and guiding the water with his hand.
“You must have known that they weren’t going to do it,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Whatever it was you wanted them to do.” She winced as he pat her wrist dry with a towel.
“I might have wanted them to fight.”
Heather held his gaze as she considered this, but turned away before replying. “It’s not what you usually want.”
“I like a good fight as much as I like a good fuck,” he said. “You should know that by now.” He cleaned the wounds. They were not as bad as they appeared covered in blood. As he wrapped her wrist and hand in gauze, he kept glancing at her face.
“What?” She ran a hand over her chin. Was there blood on her face?
“You have a very high tolerance for pain.”
Heather shook her head and shrugged. “I just… push it away.”
“You learned that running.”
She did not reply. She wondered why he was able to come to that conclusion with such conviction. Trying to be casual, she studied his figure. He could be a runner, she thought.
“Monica told me you’re the star of the track team.” Remembering his little joke, he corrected himself, “Moné-sha.” He tucked the gauze and inspected his handiwork. Satisfied, he nodded.
“Only sprinting. Kyle is the star for cross-country. He was the tall one… with glasses.” Heather began to slide off the counter. Rhodes stopped her, pressing himself between her legs.
“Tell me something.”
“What?” She pulled herself away from him.
“Tell me what happened between Z and Witt.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not playing this game. They’ve already told you everything.”
“That’s too bad.” He unbuckled his belt and began to undo his jeans.
“Wait—what?” She backed against the mirror.
“You don’t want to talk,” he said. “I’m bored.”
“No!”
“Then tell me what I want to know.”
“You already know!”
“I want to hear your version of events.”
The pain rose in her chest. When his hands moved to push down his jeans, the words began to flood out: “My grandfather caught us and Zachariah jumped out the window. Monica saw him and told Witt. Witt asked him if it was true and he denied it, so I denied it, too.”
His tongue roved over his teeth, thrilled by this adolescent soap opera. “I heard it was a big, public scene.”
“It was.”
“How did that make you feel?”
Her face burned with humiliation as tears welled up. “It—it broke my heart.”
“Very good.” He wiped the tears away. “Very good. That’s all I wanted to know. Now all the pieces fit.”
“Then zip up your pants,” Heather muttered, wiping her nose on her bandage.
Scowling, Rhodes clapped a hand around her throat and slammed her back against the mirror. “You don’t give orders to me!” Holding her head at arm’s length, he pulled her hips toward him and let his pants fall.
50
“Heather?”
Heather was shocked to hear Witt call her name—her proper name. She couldn’t remember a time he had ever said it before.
“Witt?” she asked, just to be sure. Rhodes had taken Monica and Z out. He had been very loud and pointed about it, which made Heather suspicious he had done it to spite her.
“Do you… do you think we’re fucked?”
&n
bsp; Heather pursed her lips at the poorly-phrased question.
“I didn’t mean that,” Witt hedged when she didn’t reply. “I mean… Do you think we’re fucked up? Like, permanently?”
The overwhelming response in Heather’s mind was YES! She hadn’t told them about the limited time Rhodes had imposed upon them. For some reason, he hadn’t given them all the same impression: Monica and Witt still believed they could make it out alive, and he had filled Z with a perpetual sense of impending doom.
“I don’t know. Things like this… affect people differently, and there’s no way of knowing how they’re going to respond... And you seem to be having a very different time of it than the rest of us. At least, different from Z and myself.”
“I don’t enjoy it.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“I’m not like that.”
“What would it matter if you were?”
Witt was silent for a moment. “My dad would kill me,” he muttered.
“Witt, I hate to say it, but your dad’s a dick. His opinion of you should be inconsequential. He called Charli a bull-dyke to her face, and calls Monica’s dad a nigger-lover behind his back. And… up to this point, you’ve been an asshole too.” Over the years, she had called him this several times, but this time felt different. A long silence passed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She let this sink in for a moment. She must have heard him wrong. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for everything.” His voice was thick. He sniffled.
Heather was dumb-founded. She had dreamed of this moment for ten years, but found herself more exasperated than gracious. Why is he telling you this now? Here? She found it difficult to believe, if they did survive, this apology would mean anything.
But she couldn’t say that. “I forgive you,” she lied.
51
Unlike Z, Heather never attempted to figure a pattern or predict who would be taken when Rhodes entered the White Room. At least, she tried not to. She would much rather die, slowly and quietly, on the floor. Her fever had broken, the bullet had missed her heart, and now Rhodes treated her with apathy: the door opened for food, water, and silent trips to the bathroom. He had not spoken to her or showed interest in her for a few days now.
