by T. L Smith
My feet are heavy, my body feels like a lead weight. I don’t want to move from the sink I’m leaning on to move to the shower. I’ve been sleeping for days and haven’t seen myself in a mirror for as long as I can remember, so I turn my head back and take a glimpse. What I see—I don’t recognize that person staring back at me at all. She doesn’t look like me. Her face is sunken in, and I can see and feel the tremors taking over my body. I want the solution to rid myself of this pain, I want the high the Meth gives me and that my body craves. But I also feel ravenous and my mouth’s dry. My gums even hurt. I snap my head away from the mirror, not wanting to look any longer.
I hear footsteps as I remove my dress. It feels bulky, my arms not wanting to participate. I drop it to the floor, and I hear the brunette’s voice. She isn’t looking at me, her back is to the door. She has a slight smile on her face, I can just make it out by the twitch of her lips, and her eyes roam to whoever it is she’s talking to.
“Yes, I’m showering her,” she says then looks back to me. She rolls her eyes, smiling slightly. I step in, my feet wanting to give way and collapse to the floor, but I manage to stand in the same spot for a few seconds, letting the warm water cleanse me before I finally succumb and drop to the floor. Her head pokes around then, checking on me, and when she sees no sign of anything she disappears again, her voice resuming. I can’t hear who she’s talking to, and I can’t see who it is either.
There’s watermelon shower gel, so I squeeze some onto my hand. Washing under my arms, I feel hair there. I mustn’t have shaved for weeks. Where did those weeks go? What was I doing in all that time? I hardly recall anything. I just knew it was bliss, the bliss of having no worries.
I move my hand downward, washing my most sensitive areas. It’s hairy there too. I shake my head. I don’t need to worry about hair, who cares if I’m hairy or not? I sure as shit don’t.
My head feels sore, my legs sting. I turn slightly to see where the sting is coming from. I have a large gash on my leg and a bandage is covering it. It’s healed, but just barely. It fell off as I continue to wash myself, my skin feels terrible. I don’t recall it ever feeling like this. My hand runs down my side, feeling the dryness that is there, roughness, the softness of my skin has vanished, and what replaces it feels like sandpaper. I open my mouth under the spray of water, washing my mouth out, then swallowing as much as I can.
The brunette pops her head in and she throws a bottle into the shower cubicle, not saying anything as I lap up the water that’s pouring into my mouth. My breathing’s heavy. I’ve exhausted myself and yet I’ve hardly done anything at all.
“Come on, your food is getting cold,” her voice rings in my ears. The thought of food makes my stomach grumble, hunger pangs shooting through me. I pick up the discarded bottle that lay on the floor between my legs and see it’s a combination shampoo and conditioner. One of those cheap ones you can buy for babies. I don’t have the luxury of complaining as I lift my sore arms and squeeze half the bottle over my head. It feels good being clean again, apart from the hair factor.
I use all my strength to stand, but I’m hunched over. Not able to take a full stand. The brunette flings a towel my way. She’s sitting on the toilet, playing with her nails. I grab it, dry my body, and see clean clothes on the sink bench. I place the clean undies on, then a loose fitting dress that hangs on my body.
“Food?” I ask, and the hunger pangs are back. She points out the door, so I walk – well, I wobble to the smell of food. It’s on the bed I’d been sleeping on. Well tied to. The sheets are now clean, the smell gone. I sit and pick up the burger, devouring it. The brunette walks out, coming to stand in front of me, assessing me.
“Why does he help you?” she asks. I lick my fingers, sucking the sauce from them clean.
“Who?” I ask, not knowing what she’s talking about. “Where am I?” I ask, wondering where I am. Sometimes I wake in unusual places. This is not the worst.
“You’re at the devil’s lair,” she replies, smiling.
One.
Two.
Three.
That’s how many steps I take until I’m at her door. It’s quiet and dark with no sound coming from inside. At first, I think maybe, possibly, she’s found a way to escape.
Stella’s voice breaks that silence. I stare at her door. It’s closed, no light showing underneath.
I hear her talking to Rose and I realize she’s prying. I’ve told her to not interfere and just do as I ask. They never listen—women never listen.
I knock once, but hard. Footsteps follow. I don’t look in, I don’t want to see her just yet. Stella smiles at me, showing her crooked teeth. Beautiful she is, just not stunning. She shuts the door behind her, locking it as she goes. Her hand touches my chest, she grazes it, and I step back out of her reach. Smiling seductively, she starts walking up the stairs, stripping her clothes as she goes. I stand there watching, not moving.
She cocks her finger. She’s now completely naked, wanting what only I can give her. I take the steps two at a time and pick her up. She squeals, but she’s wet. I can smell her, she smells good.
I slam her against the window, her tits smashing against the glass. Her hands go up like she’s stuck to the glass pane, squashing her in place. I grab a condom, pull my cock out and bend down.
“Fuck!” she screams as I push into her, her hands not moving. She stays still, not touching, not prying. I fuck her hard, each thrust as firm as the next. I lean forward, sinking my teeth into the edge of her shoulder. She shudders, she’s coming, but I’m not ready. I pull her backward, her hands catching her before she falls head first to the ground.
Her hands are now the only part of her body on the window, holding herself up. She braces herself, she’s smart. I grab her hair, pulling it hard. It’s taking longer and longer each time I’m with a woman to come. There have even been times I haven’t come at all. But I plan to come tonight, plan to release the tension built up and taking hold of me.
Her head snaps back with each thrust, my cock slamming into her again and again. I finally come, pushing her away from me. She catches herself again. She’s getting good at my reactions, and she’s only been here for three days. She found me once Jake told her where I lived and she hasn’t left. I’ve fucked her every day, and each time it’s getting harder, telling myself it’s not the blue-eyed woman that has me so hard.
This better not be my life. I’m too young to have a limp dick.
Thoughts of Rose’s blonde hair and blue eyes come to mind, and my dick jumps.
I want to curse myself, tell my fucked up mind that the woman tied to the bed, the way I want her, it isn’t the same Rose. No, this one’s fucked and a junkie. And I don’t get involved with junkies.
“Why is she special?” Stella asks. I forgot she’s here. She always seems to be around and I have no idea why. I don’t treat her well. Fuck, I don’t even let her sleep in my bed.
“She isn’t,” I say, ridding myself of the condom and pulling my pants up. My headache is back. Stress—too much fucking stress.
“Why is she currently tied to a bed if she isn’t?” she questions and stands there completely naked, questioning me in my own home. She must be crazy.
“Leave,” I bark and she looks shocked. She shakes her head no. “Leave,” I tell her again, my voice not raised, but there’s no mistake in what I’ve said.
She kicks something on my floor with angry intent. I don’t acknowledge her tantrum. I’ve never offered her anything, never once made any promises. My dick was in her, fucking her, and that’s the extent of what we have. She chooses to stay—stay to be fucked.
She slams the door on her way out, then it goes completely quiet. At first I think she may have gone back downstairs, but then I hear my car start up and reverse down my driveway.
Fucking bitch.
I stand on the top of the stairs, looking down. Wondering if she’s sleeping. Does she recognize me? Does she see how dark I’ve become? Could she sti
ll be the same girl I once knew?
Those thoughts don’t mean anything, because in that room downstairs in the dark is a broken girl. One who I don’t know.
It’s black, there’s no light coming in. I hear yelling. I don’t think I’m hallucinating, it sounds real. Then a slam, followed by a car leaving. I lay there, one arm handcuffed to the bed, the rest of my body free. I think about the brunette and her question. “Why does he help you?” I don’t know who she spoke of. Was it the man I saw, the one that doesn’t speak? I wasn’t sure if he was real or not. I didn’t even believe she was real until I felt the shower and tasted the food.
The door latches are being moved, I can hear it. The click, clack. A slight light follows and I look up, expecting it to be the dark figure, but it’s not. It’s a small figure, his head looking in, assessing everything. His eyes stop when they’re on me. He looks me dead in the eyes, and then walks in, shutting the door and flicking on the light.
He’s small, possibly eight to ten years old. He ambles to me, stopping at the single chair that’s not that far from my bed and sits down. He sees me handcuffed to the bed and looks worried, his eyes shooting back to mine.
“You bad?” he asks, his voice soft. I don’t know how to answer that question so I choose not to. He’s smart, he reads my silence.
“Mr. Black, he isn’t bad. He looks after me, treats me right,” he goes on, looking at the door like he’s expecting to get in trouble at any minute.
“Mr. Black?” I ask him.
“Yeah, Black. The man who owns this house. The man who cuffed you.” He points to my wrist, telling me the obvious.
“Can you get me out of here?” I pull on my cuff, wanting it to break so I can break free. He shakes his head, hard.
“Want a lolly?” he asks, ignoring me, pulling out a lollipop from his pocket. I can’t say no, my hunger is always present. He hands it to me, and I basically snatch it from his hand, peeling the wrapper away and shoving it in my mouth.
“I have to go. See you later, cuffed lady,” he says, standing and running out the door. He doesn’t shut it as he passes through. I try my wrist, attempting to pull myself free. Nothing works, I can’t move.
“Who opened the door?” a voice asks, startling me. Lollipop still in my mouth, I turn to him. He nods to himself like he doesn’t need me to answer, like he already knows.
He’s dressed much as I remember him. I thought I’d fabricated his looks in my head. He’s beautiful—heart-wrenchingly so. His beard is long, but not overgrown, his dark hair is pulled to the side. Dark clothes, only a white shirt.
“Please let me go,” I ask and his eyes shoot to mine. They’re so unique, different from a distance. It appears like he knows my darkest secrets, but I hope like hell no one does. No one needs to know those secrets. I don’t even want to remember them.
“You going to go and get high again, Rose?” That question startles me, I don’t use that name. Haven’t used it for a while now. The people that know me as her wouldn’t recognize me now.
“How do you know who I am?” He steps in, and he seems to do it in slow motion. Like he counts each step. My wrist scratches against the cuff that ties me to the bed, trying to pull myself away from him, away from what he brings—feelings.
“Your name isn’t Rose?” he asks, almost at my bed now.
I shake my head. “No, my name is Cass,” I lie. That’s my street name. The one the drug dealers know me as, the one the whores know me as.
“Don’t lie, Rose.” His voice is soft, but so hard. I don’t think a man like him would ever have to raise his voice, there’s so much authority there already.
“If I tell you the truth, will you let me go?” He ponders my question, not giving me an answer straight away. His eyes look me over. Watching me as if he knows all the answers already.
“Yes, the truth.” I nod my head. Dropping it, trying to think of a lie, but how far can I actually lie? He seems to know me. How much does he really know? How much can I lie about?
“Thinking of a lie won’t help.” He just stands there, he doesn’t seem to move. So when he speaks, it pulls me so my eyes met up with his.
“I was once known as Rose… before… before I was broken.” I hoped that was enough. I chance another look, but he’s waiting for more, he wants more.
“I started the drugs to numb the pain, numb it all out of my existence. A person can only break so much before they’re truly broken.” He steps forward. I thought at first his hands were coming to touch me and that he may hurt me, but he doesn’t touch me once. He reaches out and undoes the cuff, dropping it to the ground, and then walks back out.
I sit there, rubbing my wrist. Wondering why all of a sudden he would just let me walk away. Is it a trap? Where do I go? Where am I?
I immediately use the toilet, and when I’m finished, I step a foot out of the threshold that has held me captive for so long. I look up. There’s a stairwell, and up the stairs the door is open. The smell of food wafting down to me makes my stomach grumble loudly.
Across from my door is another door, leading to my freedom. I open the freedom door, contemplating my options. I could just leave, but where would I go? Who would want me? I don’t even know where I am. I look back up the stairs. Music is playing, it’s dark, sad music. I inch closer, the food and sound bringing me in.
I take the stairs slow, not sure what I’m doing. The thought of food pushes me faster, taking any rational thoughts from my brain.
He stands at the stove, still dressed as he was before. Boots still on his feet, he doesn’t look to me, doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Even when the floor creaks under my feet.
He continues cooking, the music loud. I stand there, watching what he’s doing. He’s so silent and strong, the way he holds himself is different to most men. It’s scary and exhilarating. His hand moves from the stove top, the music is turned down, and then he speaks, making me jump. Startling me so badly my heart races so hard that I have to place my hand on my chest to make sure it’s still there.
“Drinks are in the fridge,” he says, then turns the music back up. He knew I was there, but chose not to acknowledge me. Instead he scares the living shit out of me.
He’s standing right near it, so I elect to walk around the bench. He’s in the middle, the stove he cooks on has an island across from him. I choose to go around both so I can access the fridge. I open it and only see water, nothing else. I grab two bottles, placing one near the stove and then backing up, putting some distance between us. I chance a look around. The house is colorful. Words line every wall in graffiti. It makes me smile. I love graffiti. He catches me looking, now staring directly at me looking at his walls. I think I see a smirk, but it’s gone as quickly as it was there. He places a plate in front of me with chicken and vegetables lining the plate. My stomach rumbles. He hears and nods to the couch, picking up his own plate which contains the same food, but filled with more.
He carries his plate to the couch, sits down and flicks on the television. He doesn’t watch it, though, it’s just noise to fill the room, much like his music that’s switched off now.
I eat fast, chewing as quickly as possible to devour as much as I can. Soon my plate is empty, and the man next to me is still eating—half his plate still full. He slides it to me, standing and taking mine back to the kitchen. I eat his too.
“Where are we?” I ask, finishing my last bite. He places his plate in the sink, looking at me. He leans on the counter, crossing his legs in front of him.
“Lowood,” he replies, and I drop my plate. It shatters on the floor. He watches, his eyes taking in my reaction. I left this place years ago, never wanting to return, yet here I am in the house of a stranger.
Shock radiates through her, I can see it on her now white face. She wasn’t expecting those words to leave my mouth. It makes me angry, her reaction to a place I once hoped she would return to. But now she’s looking for a way to run, to never look back again.
It’s clea
r she has no idea who I am and in a way it makes me happy. But it also makes me mad, so incredibly angry. She doesn’t speak, but she looks around. Trying to work something out in her mind. I stand and watch her. She still looks sick, she isn’t healthy, her bones I can see sticking through her skin. Her face so tight, sucked in, and swollen.
I wonder what happened to her to get her to this point, to get her to the place she was in now in her life. I shake my head. Fuck this, I wasn’t going back there. I think about saying something, anything. But no words come out. There’s nothing to say.
My phone beeps, pulling me away from her. It’s a job I’ve been working on, and the location just came in for my next hit. I stand, leaving her there, not moving. Walking into my room and shutting the door behind me, I shut out emotions when I shut that door, locking them away like everything else.
I pull my case from under my bed. It’s black, like everything else I own. So it’s not noticeable when you walk into my room. It’s a gun case and carries two guns—a handgun and a sniper rifle. I don’t use any other weapons, one or the other will work for me. It’s never messy what I do. I carry out the hit, get paid, no clean up necessary. I may leave a calling card, but I’m good at it.
I change my boots to freshly cleaned ones. Leaving no trace is imperative. No trace of me whatsoever. I slide on a new jacket, then black gloves, grab my bag and walk out. Rose is now standing. She hears me come out and looks back to me. She’s looking through the window, staring out into the night sky. She looks peaceful for a moment, then it shatters when she sees me. Her face morphs, like I’m the bad guy. I am—I so am. She just doesn’t know to what extent.
“Can I stay?” Her eyes beg me. “Just for the night,” she finishes. I point to the couch. She looks back, nodding her head, understanding my unspoken words.
I take one final look around before I leave. She has gone back to looking out the window. I grab my phone and take off, heading toward my bike and tying down my case to the back. Usually I used my truck, but since Stella stole it and still hasn’t returned it, the bike will have to suffice.
