by S. M. Shade
“Don’t,” I warn, taking note of the dismal expression on his face.
“Don’t what?”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“You told Jayla it was caught in a fence.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Carson knows it was a snare. He saw it, but he didn’t tell her.” That makes me smile. “Perhaps he didn’t want her to blame me…or him. He may feel responsible because he set some of the traps.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Let me.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Sure.”
The puppy heals quickly, and a week later he’s limping through the house after Carson and Jayla. Their giggles are a delight to hear. A long debate over what to name their new friend follows.
“Rabbit?” Carson jokes, glancing at Airen who quickly tries to hide a smirk.
Jayla is oblivious to the inside joke my smart ass son just cracked. “I’d like to call him Uno. You know, because he’s the only one left,” she explains.
“We don’t know that he’s the only one,” Carson argues, “but I’m fine with Uno.”
Uno fits right in and becomes one of the family. Airen and Carson spend an afternoon building a doghouse, which appears to be a waste since Uno usually ends up sleeping with Carson or Jayla.
* * * *
With Thanksgiving approaching, Airen is determined to shoot a turkey. He and Carson are up before dawn and in the woods. I’m making pancakes when Carson bursts through the door holding a huge turkey in front of him as if it’s a trophy. It’s dripping blood everywhere.
“Mom! I got him! I got him on the first shot!” He’s beaming from ear to ear, so proud of himself.
Airen steps in behind him. “It never had a chance.” A smile stretches across his face as his deep laughter fills the room.
“That’s fantastic, honey! He’s huge! You did a great job.”
“Come on, let’s take him outside and pluck him,” Airen says. He glances at the blood on the floor and gives me an apologetic look, but I smile and shrug. If Carson’s happy, then so am I.
“I’ll heat some water so you two can shower.”
“Thank you, give us an hour.”
Airen found these fabulous camp showers and modified them to hold ten gallons of water. We always keep them half full and when we want to shower, add a few gallons of boiling water to the tanks. Hot showers in the winter are such a luxury.
The turkey is soon plucked, cleaned, and stored in the freezer. The successful hunt is all Carson can talk about at dinner, and Airen is really chipper too. I love to see them so happy.
“It was a great shot. You girls should have seen it. I’m proud of you.” Airen nods at Carson, who smiles and looks down at the table.
“So am I,” I add. I know hearing it from Airen means so much more to him. He’s never had a father, and here is a man treating him like a son, giving Carson confidence he’s never had before. I’m so grateful to Airen for how he has stepped in and filled that role.
The next day, I’m filling a generator with gas when I get the feeling I’m being watched. “I could use some help,” I remark cheerfully, thinking one of the kids must have followed me outside.
“So could I,” a gruff, unfamiliar voice responds.
A man stands a few feet away from me, and he’s huge. He stands at least six foot three and probably weighs two hundred fifty pounds. He’s filthy, and I can smell him; a mixture of body odor, piss, and rotten meat. His beard and long hair hasn’t had even a passing acquaintance with shampoo. I’m so shocked it takes me a moment to find my voice.
“Hi,” I utter. Aren’t I brilliant? He’s eyeing me up and down like a particularly succulent steak when I notice the shotgun propped on his shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Well then, girly, I suggest you keep quiet and get your ass in gear,” he growls. He sounds as if he’s been gargling gravel. “You aren’t goin’ to do anythin’ to make me hurt that little boy of yours, are you?”
Oh no. This can’t be happening. I’m panic stricken, but his threat against Carson keeps me focused. “No, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Please, just leave my son alone.” I don’t know if he’s aware of Jayla or Airen and I have no intention of mentioning them if he doesn’t.
“Damn right. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I don’t know whether to stall or hurry. I’m terrified of letting him take me, but I can’t risk him hurting the kids or Airen.
“Home!” he barks.
Airen appears around the corner of the house, walking fast, no doubt hearing the stranger. No! What do I do now? I hold up my hand as he starts toward us.
“Stop! Airen, don’t!” He halts and stares from me to the disgusting man standing beside me holding a gun.
“Airen, listen to me,” I plead, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “I have to go. Please tell Carson I love him.” I’m struggling not to cry while I stare into Airen’s eyes, willing him with all my might not to fight. Indecision is written all over his face. “Please, he has a gun.”
The tension is palpable as they eye each other. Finally, Airen says, “I’ll take care of Carson.”
“You stay the fuck away if you want to live long enough to take care of him,” Mr. Disgusting threatens.
Airen’s fists are clenched and his body taut, like a panther preparing to strike. Anger rolls off him in waves. He’s fighting the urge to run at him, weighing the odds of reaching him before he can shoot. Mr. Disgusting shifts the gun so it’s pointing at my head and gives a rotten toothed grin, daring him to try. Airen looks at me helplessly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I’ll be okay.” I try to reassure him, though we both know that’s probably not true. Somehow, I doubt this man wants to sweep me away for a free Caribbean vacation.
“Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’ll take real good care of her.” Laughing, he pulls me away and into the woods. We managed to get through the confrontation without anyone getting hurt. Now I just have to find a way to escape.
We walk north through the woods until we come to a gravel road. This monster lives less than two miles from us. How is it possible we haven’t seen him before? I’m lead to a large A-frame house that looks right at home in the forest, a fairytale house.
“Get inside,” he orders.
He’s drunk. I can smell the whiskey even over his stench. Ugh, so much for fairytales. The inside of the house is filthy. Dirty dishes and food wrappers are scattered over the tables, couches, and floor. I’m ankle deep in whiskey and vodka bottles, and the smell is so foul I have to breathe through my mouth.
“I ain’t much of a housekeeper, girly, but I got you for that now. You’re gonna cook and clean and keep me happy, or I’ll go back for pretty boy and that kid of yours.”
“Can I start by opening a few windows? It needs aired out.” I need time to think and until I can find a way out, I feel like the smart thing to do is play along.
He laughs. “Start wherever you want. I ain’t gonna watch you every minute or chain you to a table. If you run, I’ll kill your boy. It’s as simple as that.”
“I won’t run.”
He plops down on the couch, ignoring the puff of dust and the screech of overstretched springs. Propping the gun beside him, he opens a fresh fifth of whiskey.
Wading through the garbage, I proceed to open windows. I really need some fresh air, but I also want as many escape routes as I can get. Should I escape? There’s nothing to stop him from following through on his threats. My heart sinks as I realize I can’t just leave, even if I get the opportunity. We would have to be on our guard constantly. He could hurt Carson or Jayla. I have only one option. I have to kill him.
He has to pass out eventually, doesn’t he? The way he is guzzling the alcohol, it’s inevitable. I’ve never seen anyone drink like that. I’m afraid to even glance at the gun beside him. Surely, he expects me to try something. It’s better to keep
busy. I want him to think I’m scared enough to obey and way too terrified to attempt an escape.
I find a roll of trash bags and start with the kitchen floor. Whoever lived here before Mr. Disgusting commandeered the place had obviously stocked the cleaning supplies. I can’t imagine he popped down to the store for antibacterial wipes. To my relief, there are also rubber gloves, an apron, and clean towels in a closet beside the stove. After slipping on the gloves, I begin picking up the trash. Oh, it’s so gross! Piles of mouse droppings hide underneath the layer of garbage, and mold grows in patches on the floor. I can’t believe he doesn’t have roaches, but I suppose they’ve had more than enough to feed on lately. I can feel his creepy eyes on me as I bend over to pick up a pile of soda cans.
“That’s quite the show you’re puttin’ on there, girly. That’s the sexiest ass I’ve seen in a long time,” he slurs.
Terror is trying to freeze me in place, but I can’t let it. I can’t panic, or I’ll never be able to defend myself. His eyes narrow when I glare at him, and he raises his voice.
“Got somethin’ you want to say? Well?”
My mind is spinning with things I want to say, but I control myself. “You need some mouse traps. They’re getting into your food,” I calmly reply.
He stares at me for a few moments as if I’m some puzzle he can’t solve. Finally, he chuckles. “Ayuh, little bastards are takin’ over.”
“It would probably be easier to get new dishes than to try to wash these.”
“Sure, girly, I’ll get you some tomorrow. We’ll go to the store, and you can get whatever you want.”
How about a gun and a hacksaw? Oh, I hate him! “Thank you.”
“I tole you if you take care of me, I’ll take care of you,” he slurs. “Not gonna be alone no more.”
What he had actually said was if I take care of him then he won’t hurt my son. If it wasn’t for that, I may have been able to have some sympathy for this piece of human garbage. He’s probably been alone for months and obviously decided whiskey was the answer to his loneliness until he saw us living so close to him.
“You just keep on cleanin’, girly. I’m gonna get some air. Gotta make sure that pretty boy you lived with don’t try to take you back.”
“He won’t.”
“Ayuh, I thought he looked a little fruity.”
The screen door slams behind him, and I watch out the window while he plops into an oversized armchair and leans the gun between his legs. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. At least now I can think without him staring at my ass. There must be a way to poison him or knock him out, I think, searching frantically through the cabinets. Damn! All the cleansers are non-toxic or organic. The former occupants must have had small children, or perhaps they were really environmentally conscious.
“Hippies,” I say aloud, laughing. I’m on the edge of losing it, struggling to stay calm and focused. I can’t panic. The sound of a deep rattling snore drifts through the window. He’s passed out in the chair! I can’t take my eyes off of the gun. Do I dare? I have only fired a shotgun once, years ago, and I’m not exactly confident using one. If I screw this up, it’s not only my life at stake. He could kill us all, but I can’t just stand here. I snatch up two of the trash bags I’ve already filled and head outside. I need to determine if he’s really unconscious and if I can creep near enough to grab the gun. If he wakes, I’ll pretend to be carrying the trash to the pile beside the house.
As carefully as possible, I ease out of the squeaky screen door. I walk softly across the porch, down the steps, and into the yard, watching him closely the entire time. He never moves, but he’s not snoring as loudly. Pretending the bags are too heavy, I place one on the ground and carry the other to the garbage pile. He’s a statue, a nasty, revolting, ugly, malodorous statue.
I return for the second bag and move until I’m right in front of him. Three steps and I can grab the gun. I have to do it and now. Quietly, I place the bag of garbage on the ground. Three steps, I coax myself, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, you can do this. I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life. Three steps and my fingers close around the gun as his eyes pop open.
“You fail the test, girly,” he growls.
His hand cracks across my face, hard, sending sparkles and pinpoints of light dancing across my vision. It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m on the ground, and I struggle to get to my feet. My vision clears and he’s pointing the gun at me, swaying as he tries to stay upright. He’s so close, and it’s a shotgun. It doesn’t matter how drunk he is. He doesn’t need the ability to aim to kill me at this distance.
He pumps it. This is it. This is how it ends. After all the struggling and heartache it comes down to one crazy fucking drunk and a shotgun. I think of Carson’s freckles, his smile, and his everlasting mouth. I see Jayla shaking her head in exasperation at him, the small smile she tries to hide. I know Airen will take care of them, but I’ll never see them grow up.
Airen. His dark eyes and lovely lips, how I wish I could’ve kissed him just once. This asshole is going to have to look me in the eye while he kills me. I glare at him with my heart hammering in my chest.
A flash of color catches my eye from the corner of the house. Mr. Disgusting sees my eyes dart to look behind him, and he starts to turn, but not fast enough. It’s Airen. He tackles Mr. Disgusting from behind at the same moment he pulls the trigger. The sound is deafening, and I scream as the burning pain streaks up my arm.
“Abby!” Airen cries.
“I’m okay!”
Mr. Disgusting may be drunk, but he’s strong and heavy. He flips Airen and pins him on his back in the dirt. Straddling Airen, he wraps his massive hands around his throat just as I wrap a wire around his.
Large dirty hands grasp at the wire. I don’t know where it came from or what it’s made of, but it’s sharp. It’s sinking into his throat as it’s choking him. I twist it as tight as I can and the blood pours from his neck, raining down on Airen while he struggles to get loose. He manages to slide out from under him just in time as Mr. Disgusting collapses face first into the dirt.
“Abby, let go. Let go. He’s dead. You’re cutting your hands, sweetheart.” Airen’s voice filters through the buzzing in my ears. He takes my chin and turns my head until I’m looking him in the eye. “Let go. He’s dead.”
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” I mutter, trying to convince myself it’s over. It all happened so fast. A few hours earlier I was at home, filling a generator. Now I’ve killed a man.
“Yes, Abby, he’s dead. You’re safe darlin’. Let me see your arm.” I hold it up mindlessly, and he moans, “We need to get you home.” Tugging off his sweatshirt, he gently wraps it around my bleeding arm.
“It’s numb,” I reassure him. “It doesn’t hurt. My hands sting, though.” The wire has cut a line across both of my palms, and they’re dripping blood. “There are some clean towels on the kitchen table.” I giggle, and Airen eyes me closely. “I’m fine, go ahead. I can’t go back in there.”
When he comes out of the house, he is cursing a blue streak. “Fucking low life son of a bitch.” He wraps a towel around each of my hands. “Can you stand up?”
Can I? I stand, and a second later his arms are around me, pressing my face to his bare chest. I try to hold him, but it’s not easy with my hands and arm wrapped. We stand there in the yard beside the bloody mess that was Mr. Disgusting, and he holds me as if I may float away or disappear.
“God, Abby, I was so scared I’d be too late,” he breathes. “I couldn’t get a good shot. I was afraid I’d hit you. Did he hurt you? Did he…touch you?”
I realize what he’s actually worried about. “No, he didn’t touch me.” I start to shake as it hits me, what he surely had planned when he sobered up enough. My stomach turns, and I almost gag. “He didn’t touch me,” I repeat, trying to reassure myself.
“All right, we don’t have to talk about it. Take a deep breath. You’re okay.” He speaks
softly, his hand stroking the back of my head, and I tighten my arms around his waist, burying my face in his neck. For just a few seconds, I let myself need him. He came after me, saved me, and I’ve never felt safer than I do in his arms.
“The kids! Are they...?”
“They’re fine,” he interrupts. “Just scared. I’ve left the radio in the car. Let’s go tell them it’s over.”
“How did they know what happened?” He keeps his arm tucked around me as we walk to the car.
“Carson was watching. He made Jayla stay inside and keep quiet.”
They must have been so frightened. We climb into the car, and I turn on the heater.
“Are you cold?”
“Not really, but you’ve got some really pointy nipples there.” I giggle, covering my mouth with my towel wrapped hand.
“Never mind my nipples,” he says dryly, giving me an over the top, seductive, sideways look that makes me giggle again. He keeps glancing at me like I may explode, and it makes me laugh harder. When we pull into the driveway, he puts his hand on my knee.
“Try to calm down. It’s the adrenaline. You’re all worked up. It’ll pass.”
I nod and wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes. I have to face the kids, both of us do, and we’re covered in blood. The next hour is hard on all of us. We tell the kids everything is all right, and it’s over. It’s kind of hard to do with an arm full of pellets and two lacerated hands. Jayla brings me the medical supplies I need to treat my wounds.
“You don’t have to stay for this,” I inform Airen. He’s looking a little green.
“Yes I do. I got you shot.”
What? I stare at him as if he’s grown a second head. “You got me shot in the arm instead of the chest. You saved my life,” I correct in a stern voice, staring him in those oh-so-beautiful eyes.
“Right before you saved mine.”
“So we’re even.” I smile at him, but he frowns, looking at my arm as Jayla wipes the blood off with a peroxide soaked cloth.
“I don’t have a scratch on me.”
