by Jette Harris
Not long after Witt apologized, that changed.
Rhodes entered, opened a closet, and escorted the unfortunate prisoner out. Even though the others confessed relief when they were taken to the Camera Room, Heather had no desire to see it again. She closed her eyes and held her breath for as long as she could, praying Rhodes would not come back.
But he did.
“I have a special treat for you,” he said, opening her closet. He had the gun in one hand, relaxed by his side. With the other hand, he grabbed her arm and hoisted her to her feet.
“Please don’t do this.”
“Aww…” He sounded disappointed she wasn’t excited about his surprise, but he was still smiling maliciously when he pushed the Camera Room door open. She hesitated, unable to see who was waiting for her inside. Rhodes grabbed the belt of her robe and pulled her in.
Witt was sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, fingers together. Even though she had already known, the sight of him turned her stomach. Forgiveness was one thing, but what Rhodes wanted them to do was quite another. Witt rose to his feet, pale and resigned. Heather turned and walked right past Rhodes, back toward the door.
“Whoa!” he laughed, grabbing her arm. “I didn’t say you could go anywhere.”
She jerked her away. He positioned himself between her and the door.
“No.” She knew he knew their history. Her refusal did not require any explanation.
“Heather…” Witt whispered.
“You still haven’t learned not to say that, little rabbit.” He pressed the muzzle of the gun against her chest and pushed her back. “You should know better by now.”
Heather winced at the pressure on the lacerations across her chest, but she did not retreat; Arm’s length was as far as he could push her. “I know,” she told him, “that you can beat me, you can kill me, but you cannot force me to have sex with Witt.”
“Oh, but I thought you two were playing nice now. You forgave him, didn’t you?” Rhodes glanced to see Witt’s wide-eyed reaction. Heather’s face burned. She wondered if he also knew she had lied.
“Heather, don’t…” Witt fidgeted with the hem of his robe. “Just… Just chill. Come inside and do what Avery wants.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Now you’re just being obstinate.” Rhodes smirked despite the irritation in his voice.
Witt continued to plead. “Dude—Avery, just leave her here; I’ll talk some sense into her.”
Heather’s gaze remained fixed on Rhodes. “I’m not being obstinate. I want you to kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you; I’m going to waste a perfectly good pet.”
Heather furrowed her brows. “You’ve already destroyed our lives!” she yelled. “How could you possibly do any worse?”
“I can make her do what you want.” Witt’s tone took a hint of desperation. Rhodes ignored him.
“I can’t possibly do any worse?” Amused, he glanced from her to Witt. “Do you really believe that?”
Heather crossed her arms across her chest. She braced for an attack. “Yes.”
Rhodes didn’t attack her. He raised the gun over her shoulder and fired. Heather shrieked as the concussion stabbed her ear. Turning, she covered her mouth.
Witt sank to the floor, red spreading down his white robe. Confused, his hand found the bullet hole, but his fingers were not enough to stop the blood spilling out from his chest. His face was pale, making his hair shockingly bright. He looked to Rhodes with eyes full of tears and betrayal. His mouth flapped but only gusts of air came out.
“Chuck!” Heather dove to his side. She pressed her hands over the wound in a desperate attempt to apply pressure, but felt herself being lifted away.
“No, no!” Rhodes scolded her, pulling her against his chest and wrapping his arms around her. “You didn’t want anything to do with him. That was your decision.”
“No…” Heather sobbed, sinking to her knees. That wasn’t what she meant; it wasn’t what she wanted. “But—but—he did everything you wanted!”
“I know,” Rhodes replied. “It was boring.” If Heather had looked up, she would have seen a strange contrast between his cold tone and his grim expression.
Monica screamed, “Heather? Witt? What’s going on?”
Witt became still. His hand fell from his chest. Rhodes continued to hold Heather with an arm across her shoulders. He leaned his head against hers, as if attempting to comfort her. Her shock faded, replaced with grief. Her eyes filled with tears as she imagined how Monica would react. She had loved Witt for so long…
“Please say something! Please? Witt, please! Witt? Heather?”
Numb, Heather turned to stare at the door.
“You should answer her,” Rhodes whispered.
“Wha—What?”
“Tell her.” His voice became hard. “Go tell her: Charles Francis Witt is dead, and it is all your fault.” He released her and opened the door.
“No—I can’t—It’s not…” The idea was inconceivable, but Heather couldn’t convince herself it wasn’t true.
Rhodes pointed the gun across the landing and fired it high into the wall of the White Room. Monica shrieked.
“TELL HER!” he roared.
Heather scrambled to her feet, but stumbled. Rhodes yanked her up and shoved her onto the landing. She steadied herself along the wall, smearing a trail of bloody handprints. She imagined all the things she could say that would appease Rhodes and convey her innocence. Every line entering her mind made her sob even harder. By the time she reached the White Room, the house was spinning, threatening to throw her to the floor.
Rhodes opened the door for her. Heather stood in front of Monica’s closet.
“Mon—Monica?” She tried to steady her voice.
“Exactly as I told you,” Rhodes whispered, pulling the closet door open.
Monica was standing there, tears already streaming down her face. “Heather?” She began to cry harder when she saw the blood on Heather’s hands. “What’s going on? Where’s Witt?”
Heather opened her mouth, but only a strained whimper came out. There was a lump in her throat. She couldn’t get enough air to speak.
“Tell her.”
“He—he—he—” was all that came out.
Sighing, Rhodes pointed the gun at Monica’s head. Squealing, she cowered into the corner.
“No!” Heather screamed, forcing herself between the gun and her friend. She ducked down and wrapped her arms around Monica’s trembling body. “It’s my fault! He shot Witt; It was my fault. I wouldn’t do what he told me to do. I—I couldn’t—”
With a shriek, Monica shoved Heather away and curled into a tight ball. Heather attempted to pull her up, to console her, but she began to scream. Rhodes put a hand on Heather’s shoulder and pulled her out.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, kill me too.” Rhodes found her sincerity fascinating. She reached out slowly, as not to alarm him, and lifted his wrist until the gun was at her forehead. She stared into Rhodes’s black eyes. They were almost sad.
Heather pressed his trigger finger. She flinched as the firing pin clicked. But the gun didn’t go off. Rhodes pulled his hand away.
“But you’re so entertaining.” He held the magazine up in his other hand. Stunned into silence, she allowed him to steer her back into her closet. She flinched as the lock clicked.
****
Z crouched on the floor, listening to Heather’s voice, but not processing her words. They sank in slowly. They didn’t sound real. Yet, when he heard the firing pin click, he flinched. After the doors shut, he realized he wasn’t breathing.
Witt’s dead, he thought, taking a deep, shaking breath. Witt’s dead? That can’t be true. He’s making her say that.
Z had never liked Witt, that was the thing. But Witt had been the first kid he had met in Georgia. After that, he hung around so much Z just accepted his presence.
In a minute, he told himself, Rhodes wil
l bring Witt back, shuffling and sniffling.
You really believed her, he would say. You dumbass. Why would I kill Witt before you?
Because otherwise, it wouldn’t make any sense.
Holding his breath again, Z waited for the door to re-open. Monica was howling. Heather was hyperventilating. The door wasn’t opening. As Z grew light-headed, the truth sank in: Witt was dead.
“Wh…” Z had trouble forming words. “Wh—Why?” It didn’t make any sense—none of it made any sense. “Why?” he screamed again. “Why?”
Monica howled, Heather sobbed, and Rhodes did not answer him.
Clutching his hair, Z bowed his head to the floor and began to cry. He realized only one thing was true anymore: They were all going to die here.
52
August, 2003
Everyone in the hallway was staring at him. Z was used to a certain amount of glances, being the new kid, but this was excessive. He ducked into the bathroom to make sure all of his clothes were on properly. When he ventured back out, he tried to look casual, but hurried to his locker. Witt was waiting for him. Since school had started, Witt had developed a tendency to hang around. He wore a funny expression now, like he was mad, but trying to look amused.
“Dude,” Z whispered, “I think something weird is going on.” He reached past Witt to open his locker.
“Weirder than you fucking a Trakkie?” Witt blurted.
It took a moment for Witt’s words to sink in. Everyone stopped herding to lockers and classrooms. All eyes were on him. All Z could think to reply was, “Huh?”
“Monica told me she saw you jump off the roof of Old Tex’s house.”
Z’s face burned. He stammered, mouth flapping for an explanation. Before he could think of a good retort, he heard her voice among the crowd. His throat tightened.
“Excuse me! Scoot! I need to get to my locker. Why is everyone—” Heather pushed through the crowd. She froze when everyone turned from Z to stare at her.
“Speak of the Devil!”
Accustomed to Witt’s badgering, Heather sniffed. “You’re on my locker.”
Witt jeered at her. “I was just asking Z if it was true you two are spending”—he made air quotations—“quality time together.”
The color drained from her face. She locked eyes with Z. He had never seen someone look so vulnerable, especially Heather, who always kept on her iron mask around others. He remembered her tone from the other night, when she demanded to know why he would want something more official. He had been agonizing over it all weekend. Would she even want you to admit it? Does she really care about you at all?
“So, what is it, Z-man?” Witt clapped a hand on Z’s shoulder. “You and Heather bumping uglies?”
Z’s chest was tight. His breath stuck in his throat. Heather’s shoulders heaved as she struggled with her own.
“No,” he replied, looking Witt in the eye. “I don’t know what Monica was talking about; It wasn’t me. It must’ve been someone else.” He glanced back at her.
“Oh, really?” Witt rounded on Heather. Her expression changed from devastated to stone in the blink of an eye, an art she had perfected over the summer. Z was the only one who noticed it. “Trakkie?” Witt assumed the tone of a newscaster, “What would you like to say on this matter?”
“You heard him,” she said, stepping forward. “It was someone else. Obviously. Now get off my locker. You’re making me late to class.”
Z tried not to stare, but he was desperate to catch her eye, desperate to convey to her somehow he hadn’t known what else to say. Witt clapped his hand on Z’s shoulder again.
“You are so fulla shit!” He yanked Z away.
Heather cast them one more glance as the crowd dispersed, full of ice and iron.
53
With everything so white, the change of color was glaring. It reflected off the doors and walls, tinting everything a faint shade of pink. Z squinted when he noticed it, but didn’t process what might have caused it until Monica began to scream.
“Heather?” She had an edge of hysteria in her voice. After the day the girls arrived, the room rarely heard anything but whispers or screams. Heather did not reply. “Z?”
“What?” He replied in a whisper out of habit.
“There’s blood on the floor!”
“What?” He forgot to whisper this time.
“The floor is red—There’s blood on the floor!” She began to bang on her door. “Heather! Heather, please answer me!”
Z flew to his feet and listened. Heather was silent. Was it possible Rhodes had come in and taken her without either of them knowing—or worse?
“Heather?” He wondered if she would respond to him rather than Monica. When she didn’t, he banged on his door. “Heather? Say something, damnit!”
“Please,” Monica sobbed, slamming her hands against her door. “Heather—please! I’m sorry, I forgive you! Please say something! Please be OK! I can’t lose you too!”
Z slammed his shoulder into the door. It shuddered and groaned, but the reinforcements held. Not knowing what else he could do, Z took a deep breath and roared, “AVERY!” If she was hurt, maybe, just maybe, Rhodes wouldn’t be ready to let her die.
Under Monica’s hysterical pleas, Z heard footsteps pounding across the landing. The door was flung open. Monica’s screams faded into a mournful howl.
“Don’t let her die,” she moaned. “Please, please, don’t let her be dead.”
Rhodes did not reply. Z heard him open Heather’s closet door. He wished Monica would shut up, or his heart would stop beating so hard. He had never prayed before, but he closed his eyes and thought, Please, Lord, please…
“I knew you would be trouble,” Rhodes muttered. Cloth rustled. Z hoped Rhodes was taking Heather somewhere to care for her, not to whatever dark hole he had tossed Witt into.
Z’s door opened. Half out of fear—half out of habit—he threw himself against the back wall.
“Robe,” Rhodes demanded, holding out a hand.
Z tore off his robe and handed it to him. Rhodes didn’t bother to close the door. He began to tear at the robe with his teeth, ripping it in two. Z followed Rhodes out as if he had been commanded. The carpet was wet. He found a red stain spreading across the floor from Heather’s closet. He had always been able to handle the sight of blood, but his stomach turned at the sight of so much from someone he loved. He doubled over.
“Hob your lip, Moné-sha!” Rhodes yelled, slamming his fist against her door. Her howling fell silent, becoming ragged sobs.
Rhodes grabbed the boy’s hair and pulled him to the floor in front of the open closet. Heather lay curled in the fetal position. She wasn’t just pale—she was a strange shade of seafoam green. The skin of her right wrist was ripped open and ragged. Blood was smeared across the bottom corner of the door, where the metal was jagged from a broken sill sweep.
“Oh, God…”
Rhodes smacked Z up the backside of his head. “Get it together!” he demanded. “Hold her arms.”
He pulled her flat onto her back and held up her arms. With shaking hands, Z took them. Her skin was still warm. He turned to Rhodes with a grin. “She’s warm!” His voice cracked. “She’s still alive!”
“Of course she’s alive, dumbass.” Rhodes balled up half of the robe and lashed it to her wrist with one end of the robe cord. “She’s looking straight at you.”
Z flinched when found Heather had opened her eyes. Her eyelids were drooping and her eyes glassy. He wasn’t sure if she could see, but they were fixed on him. He realized he was hyperventilating and fought to get his breath back under control.
“I’m sorry,” he said, starting to cry. “I’m sorry I denied it. I love you. I’ll tell everyone the truth, I promise—just don’t die!” Heather’s eyes closed. A tear ran down into her hair.
“Cute.” Rhodes smacked Z up the backside of his head again. “Pick her up and follow me.”
As Z carried Heather’s light, compact bod
y, he had a surreal sense of nostalgia. He had lifted her off her feet at her bedroom window and carried her over to her bed. He snapped out of his déja vu when he saw the bloody footprints Rhodes tracked, bright and fresh over the bloody patina that already stained the hardwood.
Rhodes led Z down the stairs, through the French doors, and into a laundry room. He pulled a sheet from the bottom rack of a folding table, threw it across the top, then spread it haphazardly. He pointed for Z to lay her on the table. As soon as she was out of Z’s arms, Rhodes placed a hand on Z’s chest and turned him toward the door.
“Kitchen,” he said, pointing across the way. “Hot water. As hot as you can get it.”
As if in a trance, Z padded across the great room to the door across the hall, into the largest kitchen he had ever seen. An industrial sink was right in front of him, but there was a kitchen sink in the opposite corner. He grabbed a clean-looking mixing bowl and carried it to the kitchen sink. He ran the hot water full-blast. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Rhodes hadn’t followed him, he bowed over the other basin and heaved.
“I thought you had run off,” Rhodes said when Z returned with the bowl. He had been holding her arms up, peering under the shreds of robe. “Right there,”—he nodded to an end table next to the folding table—“and hold her arms again.” He glanced at the boy, flicking his eyes over Z’s pale complexion and flecks of vomit in his stubble.
Z placed the bowl as Rhodes directed and took Heather’s arms. Rhodes took a hand towel from the bottom rack and soaked it. Unbinding Heather’s right wrist, he wiped away the blood and inspected the damage.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered. He reached into his front pockets, then ran his hands over his back. “Fuck!”
