by Anna Oney
Chapter 27:
Emma
Emma sat in an old grade school auditorium. A grand stage stood before her. She was alone. No eager parents sat in front, behind, or on either side of her. Cobwebs filled the spaces between the foldout chairs. A thin layer of dust clouded the air, forcing Emma to fan it from her nose.
She looked to the chair beside her, and spotted a small mirror. She picked it up, held it in her hands, and brought it to her face to reveal the reflection of her eight-year-old self. Her hair was in a tangled mess, and her clothes dated back to the early '00's.
As Emma gawked at the Pink Power Ranger t-shirt she wore, the red curtains on the stage lifted. A woman wearing a long, black skirt and a pristine, white shirt with a yellow scarf stood center stage, displaying a frazzled, just-kill-me smile. She carried a ball of frizzy blond hair on top of her head. Her red flats held Emma's attention as the woman clapped her hands.
"Thank you all for coming out tonight. My second-grade class will be portraying the everyday lives of a Native American tribe." Her eyes lingered on Emma as she disappeared offstage.
Emma realized she was being forced to sit through the nightmare that was a school program, when a group of children appeared where their teacher had stood only seconds earlier. Each of them was dressed as Native Americans. They wore paper headbands with shapes of feathers taped to them, cut from different colors of construction paper. They carried plastic tools and axes. Some carried small bows and arrows. The huts the children ran to and from were made from old washer and dryer boxes.
After a couple of minutes lapsed, Emma spotted six-year-old Griffin pretending to chop up firewood with a hatchet. For a split second, he seemed to notice his sister among the empty chairs. He broke character and excitedly waved at her, smiling. Just as Emma raised her hand to do the same, Griffin dropped his, and the scene changed from peaceful to a bloody massacre.
Other children arrived from offstage, each of them clothed in old Western cowboy attire. They rode up on their horses, which were made from broomsticks, and began shooting the tribe with their plastic handguns and rifles.
With Emma's eyes glued to Griffin, she watched as he was shot in the shoulder. The blood spurting from his wound made her realize this was no simple second-grade school program.
Blood covered the stage, but the children continued to kill one another. Scanning for her brother among the chaos, Emma found him again, clutching at his shoulder. She tried moving from her seat to help, but her legs wouldn't budge. She watched in horror as the cowboy who had shot her brother towered over him.
Griffin's arm lay stretched out beside him, broken. As he turned his face toward Emma, her spear tip appeared only inches from his grasp. Stretching for it, he locked eyes with her and whispered, "John 11:26: 'Whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.'"
The cowboy shot Emma's brother a second time in the forehead, leaving the lids of Griffin's pale-blue eyes open. Sitting speechless among the empty chairs, Emma watched as the spear tip evaporated into the air beside him.
Tears began streaming down her cheeks, but were frozen solid before reaching her jaw. The atmosphere had changed. A gust of bitterly cold wind wiped the stage clean as snowflakes began falling from the ceiling. As the first flurry landed upon Emma's hand, she looked up to the source of the snow. The ceiling had vanished, and in its place, another program had begun. This time, it was well cast with real Natives from the 1700s. The vast array of characters were being shot and stabbed, allowing their blood to mix in with the snow and rain upon her.
Fear consumed her as her face became drenched with blood. The feel of a hairy arm being placed over her shoulders rendered Emma motionless. Reluctantly, Emma turned toward the source and saw Griffin sitting next to her.
Wearing 3-D glasses and cradling a bowl of popcorn, Griffin donned an unsettling smile. Leaning toward Emma's ear, he glanced up at the ceiling and whispered, "Freaky stuff, huh?"
Jolted awake, Emma was welcomed back to reality with nothing but a severe headache and itchy back. She took in her new surroundings. Emma's kidnappers had locked her in a windowless room no bigger than her closet back home. A block of hay was what they had laid Emma's unconscious body to rest upon.
Everything she owned had been taken from her. The spear tip was the only possession Emma wanted to keep with her at all times, and it too was gone. Looking to the ground beside her, she saw no footprints to ease her racing mind.
Her face was covered with dirt and sweat. The tie holding back her hair had snapped, allowing her thick curls to glue themselves to her soaked neck. This caused Emma to feel even more claustrophobic than she already felt. She slicked back her hair, and managed to fasten her tangles into a sturdy bun.
Emma began examining the confined space she'd been unfortunate enough to find herself in. The ground proved to be too hard for her to use her hands to dig beneath the walls. The small amount of light that happened to shine through wasn't enough to assist Emma in finding any weak spots she could take advantage of.
Resting upon the block of hay, Emma cradled her pounding head. Brushing her fingers against her bruised forehead, she realized there was a good amount of dried blood leaving a trail to her left brow.
"Asshole," she whispered. "Ouch."
After a while of wallowing in desperation, Emma resorted to banging loudly on the door. She was able to peek outside through the creases between the boards. As far as she could tell, no one was standing guard. No stranger walked past Emma's cell, or even came within the vicinity of it.
Growing tired and overwhelmingly heated, Emma screamed, "Hey! Hey! Let me outta here! I can't breathe. I can't . . . breathe."
Suddenly the door was thrust open, knocking her down. Reed stood in the doorway, towering over her. In his right hand, he held Emma's canteen; in his left, he carried what remained of her cousin's deer jerky.
"Look, you can't tell nobody 'bout this," he said, throwing her belongings to the side. "I was able to hold these things out for you. If you hear anybody comin', it'd be best for both of us if you hide it away somewheres."
"Okay?"
"I'm tryin' to be nice here."
"The nice thing to do would be letting me out of this hot box."
"I can't do that."
"I don't want it then."
"Are you outta your damn mind?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Emma replied, "I don't know. I might be."
"You don't say?"
"My head hurts, and it's hot as hell in here."
"Just sit there and try to keep your mouth shut. Don't be usin' your mouth to get you in trouble," he said, slamming the door behind him.
"I'll try not to!"
The nourishment he'd provided kept Emma going for the next couple of hours. By that time, the sun had set and Emma could hear people moving about and rummaging through their belongings. Because of the time, she assumed they were getting ready for bed. As she rested against the block of hay, Emma found herself consumed by exhaustion.
She drifted in and out of sleep, and was kept awake by the constant whispers of a young boy. After the third "You gonna eat your jerky?" was asked, Emma opened her eyes to find a brown-haired boy clinging tightly to her shoulders.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, shoving him away. "Get off me!"
"Hello," he chirped. "How are you?"
"What do you want?"
"I just wanted to give you a hug."
"Hey, umm, could you help me get outta here?"
"Dad just told me to make sure you eat your food. Can I have a piece?"
"Who's your dad?" she asked, ignoring his question.
"His name is Reedus, but people call him—"
"Reed," she replied in exasperation. "I know."
A loud banging at the door startled them. Together, they looked up to find Reed's face peeking through the door.
"Aiden," he whispered.
"Hey, Dad," the boy replied, waving his hand.
"It's her food, not yours. 'Membe
r?" Reed asked, seeming to avoid Emma's gaze. "Has she eaten yet?"
"One piece."
"Then don't bother her 'bout it anymore. All I asked you to do was make sure she ate. C'mon, it's time for bed."
"But—"
"But what, son?" he asked, exhaling. "But what?"
"Can I get another hug?"
"Do you not see the look on her face?" Reed said, cutting his eyes at her. "Just look at it. Why would you want to give that mean mug another hug?"
"She's squishy." Aiden giggled, scratching behind his ear. "I like her."
"Oh, well, in that case, by all means, hug away, son." Reed chuckled, thrusting his arms in the air.
Hurriedly, the boy pecked Emma's cheek and embraced her tightly as he whispered, "See you later, miss."
Emma didn't want to hurt the boy's feelings, so she gave in and hugged him back. By the time they were finished, Emma didn't want him to let go. Aiden couldn't have been older than Claire, and at that moment, the very thing she needed was a warm embrace—an embrace so innocent that it could only come from a child. Even though his chin lingered on the tops of Emma's breasts for longer than it should have, she remained won over by his purehearted nature. Through his actions, the desperation that had thrived was rapidly replaced by hope.
Emma's heart reached its fill as the small, bright-eyed boy with big ears and a button nose whispered in her ear, "I love you, miss."
She wasn't sure how to respond, so Emma simply replied, "Oh. Okay, then. Umm, right back atcha."
"C'mon, let's go," Reed said, ushering Aiden from the room. Before closing the door behind him, he whispered, "You do have a nice pair. I may just have to steal a hug or two for myself."
"Nope," she said. "Never gonna happen."
"Oh, you'll come around." He grinned. "You will."
Once the door was closed, the only thing Emma was certain of was the lack of sleep she'd be experiencing. It was too hot, and the situation Emma was in was not one to be taken lightly. Heskill held a grudge against her for sure, and hate could make a person do unspeakable things.
In the darkness, Emma began exercising. Sitting and doing nothing wasn't the way she wanted to go. Emma started off with sit-ups, then push-ups, and finished off the routine with air punches. It wasn't until Emma had finished, that she heard someone approaching the cell.
She planted herself on the hay, and Emma waited in anticipation for the door to open. But nothing happened. Confused, she leaned forward to listen for whatever was to come. No quiet whispers or footsteps followed, but somehow Emma knew someone was outside.
"I figured you could use some company." She recognized Reed's voice.
"I don't, so . . . ?"
"I think you do, so . . . ?"
Emma's usual limit for how much annoyance she could take was surpassed by the sound of him whistling and humming a tune. Oh, God, make it stop, she thought. Whistlers are the worst.
More humming.
"Please. Please."
More whistling.
"Shut up!" she screamed, pounding the bottoms of her fists against the door. "Stop this madness!"
"Will you talk to me?"
Emma eased herself to the ground, and leaned against the wall.
"Sure, what the hell? Go ahead," she replied.
"What's your favorite band?"
"Really? This is your first question?"
"I'm just tryin' to break the ice. Answer the question."
"Good grief. Well, let me think. I really don't have a—oh, wait! Yeah, it would have to be Creedence Clearwater Revival, for sure—or CCR, if you will. Or the three Bobs closest to my heart."
"They are ancient!" He cackled. "Damn."
"My friend Pete got me hooked on them."
"And the three Bobs?"
"Seger, Marley, and Dylan."
"You're a fan of the oldies."
"Who did you like listening to?"
"Tool," Reed replied. "Keenan was a genius."
"My brother always liked them."
"He still alive?"
"Don't know," Emma replied, fighting off a sudden wave of emotion. "I-I hope so."
Seeming to sense the sadness lingering in her voice, Reed changed the subject. "What's the one thing you miss the most?"
"Miss the most? Hmmm, besides eating large amounts of chocolate and pizza?"
"No food."
"I guess I miss the simplicity of my other life more than anything. Not many people can say they were blessed with the worry-free life I had. Nowadays it seems all I do is worry." She paused. "Hey, why'd you send your son in here? You have no idea who I am. I could be a crazy person. I could've hurt him or something."
"You could be a crazy person?" He laughed. "I've run into a lot of folks these past few months. And I've learned to tell the difference between those who've killed and those who haven't."
"What a skill!" she exclaimed sarcastically.
"I've done my share of killin'," he said. "It's always been in self-defense, though—honest! I can tell when other people have done it because it's a burden that builds up around the shoulders. There are others I've run into who brag about it, but you see, that don't always mean they've done the deed. Some just like to puff up their chests and put on a show. You know?"
"Kind of like a rooster?"
"I guess?" He chuckled at her question.
"But what about the bad people who ain't sorry they've killed?"
"That's easy—they all look like Heskill. We kinda got off track," he said. "What were we talkin' 'bout?"
"Why you sent your boy in here."
"I sent him in there to cheer you up a bit. That kid could make Hitler himself crack a smile."
"He certainly got one outta me, and I can be a hard shell to crack. Next topic." She said, mulling it over. "I'm all for killing something yourself and eating it. But I do miss the microwave. You know, I've heard some people won't eat a certain type of meat because it's against their religion."
"I don't think eating a certain type of meat will send you to Hell. Now, on the other hand, if you're chowin' down on another human bein', that's a completely different story."
Together they laughed, and Emma managed to reply, "Agreed."
"They may've bought themselves a first-class ticket to watch ol' Satan perform his greatest. But I guess if that were your only option maybe the Lord would take pity on you."
"Maybe."
"What about the thing you regret doing the most?" he asked. "I've got plenty."
"Lemme think." Trying to find the humor in the situation, Emma said, "At this particular moment, it's gotta be not approving that loan when I had the chance."
"Ha! Bet it is."
"What's yours?"
"I always believed when I married the right woman, I'd never say the word 'divorce.' But I did. And I did two times."
"I wouldn't have pegged you for the marrying type."
"I wouldn't have figured you for a bad bitch, but you've proven to be as much."
"Me?" she scoffed. "A bad bitch?"
"No one here has ever stood up to Heskill," he said. "Tell me somethin' . . . it's hot in there, ain't it?"
"It's like a sauna in here. I think I've sweat off about ten pounds already."
"Yeah, he don't like his captives bein' comfortable."
"By the way, what's he planning on doing with me?"
"I guess you figured how the vote went?" Reed asked. He cleared his throat.
"Not in my favor, I reckon. I was trying to be optimistic."
"Ain't no use in tryin', sweetheart. Heskill does what he wants. And he's kept these people alive for this long. Nobody's goin' against him."
"What about you?"
"I've got my boy to think about. And if I were to stand up for you, he'd kick us both out on our asses."
Suddenly, there was movement coming from outside.
"What's going on?" Emma asked as she heard Reed rising from the ground.
"Hey, man," a stranger said. "You need any h
elp?"
"No, I'm good."
"You sure? I can take this watch."
"Naw, man, I got this one."
When Emma felt the pressure of Reed's back leaning against the outer wall, she felt it safe enough to ask, "Who was that?"
"Yeah, that's—hold up. You know, I don't believe I know that dude's name."
"He just join your group?"
"'Bout three or four months ago. Turned out he and boss man were old drinkin' buddies. Small world."
"Was he traveling with anybody? His voice sounds familiar." Emma couldn't help but think, I know him somehow.
"He said he lost his boys along the way."
"They dead?"
"Figured as much, but I ain't askin'."
After a while, both of their brains were exhausted from coming up with clever things to say to each other. Before Emma knew it, she was lying on her side, using her arm as a pillow. No more questions were asked as exhaustion slowly got the better of them.
Lying comfortably in a bed, a blanket was wrapped around her, but an arm was as well. Sitting up, Emma realized she was back in her bedroom, but the linoleum had been replaced by white carpet and the curtains had been changed from a light shade of green to deep crimson. Both of her ceiling-high bookshelves were missing, and in their place stood a black counter with a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey on top.
"What the hell is this?" she muttered, confused.
"Baby, you up?" a man's voice whispered.
"What's going on?" she said, pulling the covers from his face.
The man lying next to Emma wasn't who she'd wished it to be. Instead of Tom's face, Reed's stared back at her. As he looked at Emma, seemingly concerned, she took in his appearance. His hair was cut the length she preferred, and his beard had been shaved. Reed had become something she desired completely, naked and clean.
"C'mon, baby, lie back down."
"Don't you call me 'baby,'" she said. "I'm not yours."
"Somethin' wrong?" he asked as he reached for her hand. "You mad at me or somethin'?"
Standing, Emma felt her curls drape over her shoulders. She was clothed in a garment she would never feel confident enough in herself to wear. An emerald-green, silk, and slinky nightgown hugged Emma's curves and emphasized her breasts. Horrified, she covered her nearly bare chest, and replied, "You're not supposed to be in here! This is my room!"
