Moth to a Flame

by Cambria Hebert

  Using the torn material to mop the sweat and blood from my face, I leaned back into the cracked wall. My cheek felt tight and throbbed, so I dabbed at it again, noting the white fabric was now red. When he’d forced me down and burned me, I’d cut my cheek on the bottom of the pool. I’d fought him when he ripped my clothes, and he’d hit me.

  I tried to get away when he’d tugged this stupid gown over my head, and he took out a knife.

  The body across from me was beginning to decay. The heat coupled with the conditions of this place seemed to rot her flesh faster every day. The odor had burned my nostrils until the smell no longer bothered me.

  The rat came back, and I stared, unshocked, while it made a feast of her decomposing flesh.

  The clanking sound of an old elevator way overdue for a repair echoed through the giant room, making my body shake uncontrollably. The doors creaked open, and the sound of the man’s whistling floated through the otherwise stagnant room.

  He always whistled the same song. It was a melody I would never forget.

  I listened as he moved around, making more noise than he normally did. It sounded like he was moving things around or unpacking something he’d brought.

  Fear slammed into me so hard my head snapped back against the wall. Dizziness washed over me, and I closed my eyes, listening.

  Had he brought another girl?

  When he’d brought me here, the other girl had still been alive... but she didn’t stay that way for long.

  I wouldn’t beg and scream like she did for her life. No matter how much I wanted to live.

  How many of us were there? How many more would there be?

  Why was someone this sick? What could possibly incite this kind of behavior?

  A wall of icy water slapped down from above. Shocked, I looked up, and another wave smacked me right in the face. Water surged up my nose, into my mouth, and burned the back of my throat. I started to choke and cough, raising my arms to protect my face.

  The spray stung. The wounds on my face burned. The cuts and scrapes on my hands felt like they were being ripped open anew.

  Skittering as far back as the chain allowed, I glanced up. He was standing on the edge of the pool, legs planted apart, those awful hiking boots gripping the ground. Clutched in his hand was a hose, which he was aiming right at me.

  Water shot out again, blasting me right in the center of my body. The white cotton gown plastered to my body, offering a full view of everything beneath it.

  As horrifying as it was, the cold water was welcome. It offered a surge of clarity I hadn’t known in days. Some of the filth and sweat adhering to every part of me blissfully rinsed away.

  Even though I wanted nothing from him, my arms lowered and I opened my mouth. I was so incredibly thirsty, the need for water outweighing any pride I had left.

  I drank and drank until I coughed and spewed. Then I drank some more.

  The water shut off as abruptly as it began, and he lumbered away, disappearing out of my line of vision. The weight of the wet fabric dragged at my weak body, but I lifted the long hem and used the drenched cotton to clean off my face and hands.

  The man without a face stepped back to the edge, towering over the cage he kept me in. In his hand was a giant toolbox, and the horror nearly made me sink to my knees.

  He stared at me for a long time. I felt his eyes roaming my body as he took in every detail. He hated me. He desired me. Above all else, he thought he owned me.

  A tsking sound floated through the mouth hole of the inside-out mask, and he raised his hand to point at me.

  He was unhappy. I’d done something to piss him off.

  Even though I’d just been damn near dying of heat, I was cold now. Frigid, actually. The icy water he’d blasted me with coupled with the horror of whatever he was up to now made me numb.

  He turned and walked away. Once again out of sight.

  The sounds of scuffling, banging, and a host of other noises I didn’t understand filled the space. I couldn’t see any of what he was doing. All I could do was listen.

  And then he climbed down into the pool. The crinkle of plastic accompanied him, and I watched wide-eyed as he went to the body lying close by.

  He rolled what was left of her in a giant sheet of plastic. Rolling, rolling... until all I could see was the smears of red and brown streaking the inside of the plastic.

  After tying some rope around her wrapped-up body, he hefted her over his shoulder. I stared at the stain her body left behind as he hauled her up out of the pool, leaving me down here completely alone.

  More noise.

  The crinkle of plastic.

  A short while later, I felt him staring. Tilting my head up, I saw him looking down from above.

  Holding up a bag, he dropped it beside me. It was another nightgown. A replica of the one I had on.

  “Change. It’s almost time.”

  He left. I knew if I didn’t do something before he came back, I’d never have the chance again.

  * * *

  Phantom pain. Eighty percent of amputee’s experience this at some point. As if the pain of losing a limb wasn’t enough, a person had to experience painful sensations radiating from a part of them that was no longer there.

  I experienced phantom limb pain quite a bit during the first few years after having my lower leg amputated. Eventually, it went away.

  As I walked through the aisles of the beauty supply store, it haunted me once more. I felt the first twinge and brushed it off. The second twinge made me glance down at my sneaker.

  The third twinge made me stumble into a rack and nearly brought me to my knees.

  The guard closest to me rushed over, catching me around the waist to keep me upright.

  “I’m okay.” I gasped, reacquainting myself with the pain I thought I wouldn’t have to feel again.

  “What’s happened?” The guard seemed concerned.

  He snapped to the other man with us, and he rushed over, pulling out a phone.

  “No!” I said, reaching out to stop him. “Don’t call anyone.”

  “You need medical attention.”

  “No,” I insisted, standing up to support myself. The guard was reluctant to release me, so I pushed his arm away. “I just stumbled. I’m completely fine.”

  I had to make a valiant effort to keep my throbbing foot flat on the floor. The urge to reach down and massage the ankle screaming at me was real.

  It would do no good. I couldn’t massage an ankle that wasn’t even there. Rubbing the prosthetic would result in absolutely nothing.

  The pain was something I had to feel. To live with. To remember.

  It seemed fair I had to lose the leg yet have my body remember the pain.

  I wouldn’t mind the pain if I’d been able to keep the limb.

  It didn’t work like that, though, at least not for me.

  “I’ll call Mr. Preston.” The guard decided.

  I snatched the phone out of his hand. “You will not!”

  “But he said—”

  “I don’t care what he said!”

  “He’s paying us, ma’am.”

  “He’s not paying you to interrupt his workday for no reason at all. I’m fine!” I insisted, then walked down the aisle, turned, and came back. “See?”

  Reluctantly, they nodded. I handed him the phone. “I’m almost done here. Then we head back to set.”

  They returned to guarding, and I went back to throwing things in the basket I was carrying.

  Why now? Why was this happening now?

  The dreams were more frequent; the panic was harder to control. I’d felt like I was being watched before, and now this.

  It almost seemed as if my body was warning me, as if deep inside, I sensed something... someone.

  My leg buckled under my own weight, and sharp stabbing pain shot into my hip. Biting down on my lip and gripping the end of the aisle, I bent my head, trying to breathe through the pain.

  It’s not really there
. It’s just a memory. Your body is playing tricks on you. Your brain is just confused.

  The mantra was nice, but it didn’t make the pain any less real.

  “Ma’am?”

  Taking a deep breath, I spun, shoving the basket with all my supplies at the bodyguard. “I need to use the restroom.”

  His arms closed around the basket, and he signaled to his partner to follow me.

  Quickly, I limped to the bathroom with the man scurrying behind me. His body brushed against mine, making me yelp.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling open the door to hold it open.

  A shuddering breath left my lips. “It’s okay. I’m just jumpy from earlier.”

  “Understandable,” he said, an unreadable expression on his face.

  I started ahead, and he grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Wait.”

  He went into the bathroom, checking to make sure I could pee in peace. I couldn’t help but wonder how much one was paid to check the toilet before his client used it.

  “I’ll wait right here,” the guard said, appearing again.

  “I hope Nick pays you well,” I muttered.

  I was pretty sure I heard him laugh the second I stepped through the door. Once I was alone, I let the pain twist my face and nearly dragged the prosthetic across the room until I could lean against the sink.

  Even though I knew I would see nothing, I lifted the pant leg and stared at the foot and pylon (the parts of my prosthetic that made up my “ankle”).

  I had no way of knowing when the pain would stop. It could be moments. It could be days.

  I turned on the faucet, allowing cool water to run through my fingers. I wanted so badly to splash it over my face, but that would ruin the makeup I had in place.

  Instead, I drank from the palm of my hand, hoping the feeling of the cool water sliding down my throat would be enough. It wasn’t. In fact, the drink didn’t slide anywhere at all. It lodged in my closing throat like it wanted to choke me.

  Panic clenched my chest and my hand flew up to my neck, grabbing like I could somehow push the water down.

  Struggling to swallow, struggling to drag in even a small breath of air, the attack slammed into me, making my knees buckle. I slid to the floor, where I sat shivering and shaking as phantom pain and dread took control of my body... and my mind.

  * * *

  He’d brought a ladder.

  A rickety wooden one that rose toward the exposed rafters. Sitting at the very top was the toolbox I’d seen him carrying.

  I can use whatever’s inside.

  It didn’t even matter what it was. Anything was better than nothing. I could find something to maybe free me from this chain.

  Of course, the ladder was in sight but out of reach. As if he’d put it there to taunt me, to show me how close yet how very far away escape really was.

  I’d all but given up before, but now my will was reignited. The frigid water, the way he’d taunted me... Glancing over my shoulder, I looked at the dark stain marring the pool floor across the way.

  If I didn’t do something, the next stain down here would be mine.

  Even though I knew it was probably useless, I began fighting with the shackle around my ankle. I tried before to get my foot out, going as far as breaking the skin and using my own blood as lubrication.

  All that resulted in was pain and blood loss.

  As I fought again, more blood welled from the unhealed wounds. Wiping my red fingers on the ruined gown, I got up, dragging the pained foot toward the wall and staring up at the ladder.

  I just needed something... My eyes focused on the crumbling wall nearby. Some sections still had broken tile, even though most of the pool was crumbling plaster. The chain tugged me backward as I ran forward, ignoring the pain in my leg from overextending it. Using my bare hands, I began clawing at the wall, drawing blood, reinjuring wounds as I picked and pulled.

  Pieces of tile and chunks of wall came off, landing in a mess at my bare feet.

  Eventually, one whole tile broke off, landing in my palms. Victorious, I rushed over and steadied myself, throwing the tile up at the toolbox.

  It missed.

  I heard it break when it hit the floor above.

  Rushing back I pulled another chunk of tile free and threw it above. Again and again, I repeated this, sometimes hitting the underside of the box, sometimes missing completely.

  With trembling arms and legs, I collapsed into a heap, weeping in frustration.

  “Why?” I yelled, my voice echoing.

  The bag with the clean gown caught my attention. There was something else inside. Lunging for it, my dirty hands snatched up a plastic water bottle.

  I tested the weight of it in my hand and smiled.

  This was it. My last chance. If I didn’t do it this time, I might as well slit my wrists with the tiles.

  Closing my eyes, I took a steadying breath.

  “Please...” I whispered. Then using the last bit of strength I had, I tossed the bottle up.

  It crashed against the bottom of the toolbox, knocking it off the ladder. The loud banging sound it made as it tumbled down made me crouch and cover my head.

  I heard the contents spill out everywhere. Ping! Pang! Thump!

  When everything fell quiet, I uncovered my head.

  The toolbox was still somewhere above... but a few tools had fallen down to me.

  A surge of hope gave me energy as I scuttled around, gathering my treasure. A screwdriver, a few nails...

  Over there!

  I had to stretch and claw at the ground to reach it. My bones felt like they were separating from their sockets, but when my hand closed around the handle of that hammer, triumph soothed the worst of my pain.

  Using one of the nails and then the screwdriver, I tried to pick the lock keeping the steel around my ankle.

  “Ahh!” I screamed when the screwdriver slipped, stabbing into the already damaged flesh. Pitching to the side, I vomited the water I’d drunk from the hose.

  Feeling hollow and wrung out, I sat back, convincing myself not to give up.

  Next, I tried beating the chain with the hammer, hoping it would break and I could run free. The chain was stronger than the hammer, and my entire foot was bathed in red. The constant struggle to get free had taken its toll.

  My strangled cry bounced up to the rafters, and I lay back, staring up into the shadows. The chain tugged, making me wince, but it gave me an idea.

  Rising on shaking legs, my arms hanging limply at my sides, I shuffled to the wall where the chain was bolted in.

  Bolted into the crumbling, weakened wall.

  The iron and chain were too strong to break... but the plaster it was anchored in was not.

  Gripping the hammer, I brought it down against the wall. Plaster and dust exploded everywhere, particles slapping my cheeks and going into my eyes. Satisfied, I hit the wall again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Each time, it crumbled a little more. With each hit, I grew weaker but even more determined.

  I hammered until I collapsed, shaking and dizzy. The metal plate anchoring the chain to the wall was wobbling, hanging crookedly from the crumbling plaster.

  One. More. Hit.

  Raising the hammer above my head, swaying on my feet, I summoned the very last bit of will I had inside me and brought it down as hard as my body would allow.

  The hit vibrated my arms and legs, stinging my hands and making the hammer fall to the floor. I fell back, my arms flailing at my sides, grappling at thin air. My bloody heel slipped as I stumbled, propelling me back even more.

  I slammed into the ground so hard I was momentarily stunned. When reality seeped back in, I felt the splashing of water against my ear.

  Horrified, I sat up, shuddering.

  I landed in the puddle of stagnant water. Oh God, the way it smelled.

  Wait...

  How did I get over here? This filthy water had been something I couldn’t reach. Scrambling up
, I braced all the weight I had on my right leg because my left foot could no longer bear anything but pain.

  That’s when I realized. Staring in disbelief, I started to sob.

  That last hit... the force of my fall... It pulled the anchor out of the wall.

  I was free.

  Traffic in L.A. was a bitch, but there were ways around it. My entire body leaned with the turn as I pulled into the parking lot, driving right up onto the sidewalk near the doors.

  Shutting down the engine with one hand and ripping off the helmet with the other, I didn’t even think about the possibility of the press being around.

  A rush of conditioned air blasted me when I dashed inside, a bell on the door signaling my arrival.

  One of the bodyguards I’d hired stepped around the corner, glancing in the direction of the sound. Surprise flickered over his features when he saw it was me. “That was fast.”

  “Where is she?” I demanded, stalking through the store.

  One of the employees appeared and gave me one of those gaping shocked looks. “Nick Preston?”

  “Please don’t tell anyone I’m here until after I leave,” I pleaded, rushing by.

  “She’s in the bathroom.” The bodyguard continued our conversation as if we hadn’t been interrupted. As he spoke, he pointed in the direction I needed to go.

  The second man I’d hired stood outside the door, blocking anyone else from going inside.

  “She’s been in there a while,” he reported. “I yelled through the door. She said she was fine.”

  I didn’t have to tell him to move. The look on my face said it for me. He stepped aside, and I yanked the ladies’ room door open and barged inside. “Zoey!”

  She was sitting in the middle of the floor, dark head bowed, hands clutched in the center of her lap. Her eyes, which were bloodshot and slightly unfocused, widened. “Nick?”

  Dropping into a low crouch, I reached for her hand, which was unnaturally cold. “What happened? Why are you on the floor?”

  “What are you doing here?” She wondered, staring at our linked hands.

  The sound of rushing water made me look up and around. The middle sink was turned on, a stream of water rushing down the drain. Without releasing her hand, I leaned up to shut it off.