Southern Ouroboros

by Matt Kilby

  She swore he looked proud, as if he was her father and this some warped life lesson. His smile lingered as she tore fish away and brought it to her mouth. He picked up his fork and knife and started to eat as well. Behind her, Robert grunted.

  “Yours is warming on the stove,” the other looked up. “I suggest you go eat before it dries out. If we need you, I’ll let you know.”

  He responded with another grunt, and the smaller man scowled and pointed with his knife. “I said go. Don’t worry about me. She’s eating her dinner and listening fine. These bars have held more animated prisoners, and I doubt they’ll fall apart tonight.”

  As she chewed, she hung on his words. She suspected there had been other girls, but hearing it in casual conversation turned her stomach.

  “I swear sometimes,” the man said, his voice trailing to silence. “Do you have siblings, Ms. Morgan?”

  At first, she thought it a rhetorical question, staring at him as she swallowed. But when he went quiet, she realized he wanted an answer. She shook her head.

  “That won’t do,” he said and his face darkened. “I came down here for a dinner conversation, and you’ll give me one. Would you rather see how dinner goes with Robert? He might eat in there with you. We could make a bet on whether you’ll be appetizer, entree, or dessert.”

  “I don’t have any siblings,” she blurted to make him stop.

  “That’s better,” he smiled, and his face lit as if a switch had flipped, dispelling the cruel dark of his eyes. “I hate to be stern, but it is necessary.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Now, he stared as if he didn’t hear the question, the silence agonizing. She regretted the word, but he didn’t react with the cold glare he gave before. He appeared to be deciding how to feel about it, and she didn’t blink until he did.

  “Well, well,” he leaned back in his chair. “Now we’re having a real conversation. Isn’t that better than kneeling in the dark and eating rank stew? Couldn’t you get used to this?”

  “I could,” she forced a smile. Maybe this was her way out. She could earn their trust or convince them she trusted them and run when the time was right. Cooperating through enough dinners might see her chained to a table in their kitchen. Wearing clean clothes. Maybe sleeping strapped to a real bed. The hope was enough to forget what would happen between the decent moments, because mercy wouldn’t come free from these two. It might cost her body and definitely her soul. Once that understanding found her, it wouldn’t leave, threatening to take her already manic false smile.

  “I bet you could,” he took another bite. “But you asked a question I didn’t answer. I apologize for that. You wanted to know why I am stern. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said and nodded.

  “Because it’s the only way you’ll learn. If I let you shake your head and nod like some idiot, you’ll start thinking you are one or I will. Neither option appeals to me. Either I’ll underestimate you or you’ll underestimate yourself. Does that make sense?”

  “Most of it,” she nodded and felt insane, reaching for more fish as if sitting back home and talking with Maribeth. She bet if she closed her eyes, she could imagine the cage gone so made sure to keep them open. Once the fantasy took over, it might not leave easy.

  “Which part doesn’t?” he asked.

  “Why do you care if I underestimate myself?”

  He tilted his head with a smile that hid something else. Her best guess was he meant to look amused, maybe leading to one of those fake intellectual laughs she heard at her father’s dinner parties. But he couldn’t manage the sound, and his eyes betrayed the truth—his answer held enough pain he didn’t know if he could give it.

  “You don’t have to answer,” she offered with a guarded smile, sure she pulled hers off better. She just pretended they were on a first date and she asked something awkward. Taking it back was a favor, a mercy, and if he followed where she led, he might take the bait. He might even start to treat her like a person.

  “No, no,” he shook his head. “Don’t let me off easy. I had you chained in the dirt and dark all this time. The least I can do is answer a difficult question.”

  She didn’t think she did as well hiding her disappointment but reached for her fish as she listened. As the soft flesh gave, something thin and sharp poked the tip of her middle finger, hard enough she almost winced before she realized what she found. They’d missed one of the bones—one thick enough to come in handy. As she considered how to conceal it, the man cleared his throat.

  “To tell you any means I should tell you all, but the reason you’re here makes you special. So you should know how you came to be in this homemade dungeon.”

  “Thank you,” she said when he paused long enough to know he expected something. She met his eyes and hoped he didn’t look down, tearing enough meat to conceal the bone and pulling it to her mouth. The bite seemed as big as her hand, but she didn’t dare look as she took it and stripped the meat away with her tongue.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he shook his head. “By the time I’m done, I’m afraid I’ll spoil your dinner.”

  She leaned forward as if she cared, steepling her fingers to hide the motion of her mouth. Swallowing in portions, she pinned the bone to her teeth.

  “We grew up on a farm in California and had a pretty normal childhood until my father died and left us with our mother. She wasn’t Mother of the Year when he lived, but when it was the three of us, my God, the horns grew. You see, she had a sickness in her that never got diagnosed, something in her mind that made her do awful things. She had a lot of land to hide that from the world—to hide the things she did to us.”

  His face went darker with every word, his eyes blank as if back there again. Suzanne didn’t think it such a good thing but didn’t dare interrupt, even when he snorted loud like a pig. The noise terrified her, but she braced herself by focusing on the bone. If she lost it, she wouldn’t get another chance.

  “The trouble started when Robert went to slop the pigs one morning and took his time coming back. He was always slow, but not disabled by any meaning of the word. My father used to call him a slave to himself, and it made sense when my mother went and found him with his pants around his ankles, in the mud with one of the sows. I heard her yelling all the way from the house as she dragged him home by his genitals. He was embarrassed, flustered to the point he couldn’t form a word, though he almost hyperventilated trying. She shoved him into a chair and screamed into his face. At that point, I snuck into the room and lingered in the corner. She took a frying pan from the rack above the stove and hit him right in the forehead like the gong of a bell but wasn’t satisfied. We both might have gotten out of there intact if, in his blubbering, he didn’t see me. He reached his hands and said “Ben, Ben” as if I could protect him. Instead, she turned her head, and I knew by the way she looked at me there was something wrong. I haven’t seen darkness like that since, even on Robert’s face when he did horrific things to the girls before you.”

  Suzanne didn’t react, telling herself the conversation had a timer. The same went for her captivity. Her life too, but she avoided thinking about that too long. She just had to nod in the right parts and make sure he didn’t find out about the bone in her mouth. When he realized she wouldn’t respond, he continued.

  “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn I was never capable of much fight. I was ten then and more frail than I am now so didn’t have a chance when she came to where I stood. I imagined myself in the chair beside him, maybe taking a blow from the frying pan as he had. I clenched as her hand touched my shoulder and the buttons of my shirt. When one didn’t cooperate, she tore it off and moved on until my chest was bare and then dropped my pants around my ankles. ‘Get up,’ she told him, and he didn’t protest. I think he wanted it to be over and would do whatever it took. I might just be trying to make sense of the rest of that morning, but I’m okay with that as long as I can wake up every day and dress for work. Because my
gut response is the opposite when I think back to that hour of my life. Every part of me except the gray gelatin in my skull wants to devolve, to find a corner and go catatonic until death gives me a reason not to remember anymore. But that isn’t victory. Not for me or Robert. Only for her, and she deserves none.”

  He wanted Suzanne to ask what happened and stalled to give her a chance. She didn’t know what kind of horror he had designed for when she did but couldn’t open her mouth without losing the bone. His eyes flared, but his hate didn’t belong to her.

  “He did everything she told him. ‘If you need to defile some pig, here’s one we ain’t planning to eat,’ she said and ran a hand to my neck, forcing it down so hard I barely kept my feet. I can’t say for sure but imagine some silent protest from him at first. I didn’t hear a word but felt plenty when he gave in. I was torn in two and left in a heap under the dinner table until I gathered my strength to stand. My next stop was bed, where I stayed a full day before she found me. I couldn’t tell you how many times it happened, but it took two years for us to have enough—rather, he decided. One day, one of us did something unforgivable, spilling water on the rug or tracking dirt through the kitchen, and had to pay in the usual way. I remember being in the living room because “Name that Tune” was on the television and served as my distraction while Robert did what she told him. When he finished, he wept. He always did. Usually, I just had to tell him I forgave him, but I couldn’t console him that day. She should have known better than to push, but the mean in her wouldn’t let go. She told him to stop and slapped his face when he didn’t. He let her do it twice before he grabbed her throat. Even at that age, he was big enough to lift her and carry her to the fireplace. I froze and couldn’t do anything to either help or stop him, though I’m not sure what I would have done except cheer him on. He walked with her, her fingers raking his face and arms until they bled, and stopped at the hearth. He pulled her head away and shoved against the brick mantle. The first blow killed her, her body limp except a lingering tremor in her fingers, but he bashed her again and again—I believe five times. I didn’t recognize her when he stopped. I went to him then, the rage seeping out in the moment I touched his shoulder. He dropped her on the hearth like a napping dog, leaving the room for God knows where because I didn’t follow. He did the grunt work, but an abler mind needed to take over. I used one of my father’s old saws to cut her into pieces and slopped her to the pigs over the next month.”

  When he stopped talking, she didn’t think he would let her keep silent this time. So she tucked the bone under her tongue and prayed he couldn’t hear the difference in her voice.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. He stared a moment and then looked at his hands.

  “Somehow I came out of all that more or less intact, but Robert didn’t. I controlled him better when we were young. I went to school as if nothing happened, our farm far enough off the beaten path he didn’t have much choice but to do his work as always. Sure, I found a pig every once in a while, its head looking like our mother’s her last day, but we were raising them to slaughter, so it didn’t seem too big a problem. When I graduated high school, I chose the nearest university to live at home and keep an eye on him. Other than the occasional pig, he seemed fine, so I didn’t think twice when the recruiters started calling. Drunk on ego and the prestige they offered, I didn’t consider there might be deeper issues inside him. And somehow he did manage to control it the year after we moved here. I’d go to work and come home to find him at the pond fishing or repairing some section of fence, maybe hoping we’d buy livestock for him to vent on, but work kept me busy. I smelled the first girl before I found her body. Luckily our closest neighbors are measured by miles or I might have discovered a crowd of police cars first. She was down by the pond, hidden under some broken fence slats at the edge of the water. One day, I saw her picture at the Creek Hollow post office—a sixteen-year-old runaway who picked the wrong highway to hitchhike or woods to cut through. I don’t know the details; I knew better than to ask. He doesn’t talk when he feels scolded, and when he shuts down you would coax easier answers out of a stump. So I did what I always have but this time buried what he left of her in a deep-enough grave she’ll never be found. After all, a human corpse is tougher to explain than a pig’s.”

  He smiled as if he made a joke, but Suzanne only repeated her question.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Of course, there were others, but I had to make sure he didn’t do something stupid like wandering the road for his next victim. I had to participate, but I swear I never killed any of them. My part was to find the girls in a way that made him less likely to be caught. Driving highways and back roads at all hours looking for some girl who happened to be alone. You would be amazed how many there are—or maybe you wouldn’t. After all, you were one. But you’re not the same as the others. At least, I don’t think you are. You might have even gotten away if you didn’t run for the first house you came to. In less panic, you’d come up with a better plan, maybe one that ended with us caught and punished for these things we’ve done. No, I’m positive you’re who I’ve waited for.”

  “Why are you—,” she started a third time, but he held up a hand to stop her.

  “I want you to kill him,” he said and released a long breath as if he waited too long to say those words. “I need you to because I can’t. My original idea was to murder you to prove I’m capable, but the idea makes me nauseous. Some people are built for that work, but I’m not.”

  “You think I am?” she squinted.

  “No,” he shook his head, “but I think you’re built to survive. Did you know I have a camera mounted in the corner?”

  He pointed at the ceiling behind her, and she turned to look. A red dot blinked in the dark.

  “Robert would never figure out how it works, but I know how you hurt your hands and what you did after. You were stupid to try to match him physically, but you weren’t afraid. You can do what I’m asking.”

  “And if I do?”

  “We could come to some better arrangement. We’re past the point of pretending freedom is an option, but other rewards are close enough.”

  She studied him as she ran her tongue over the fish bone.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I won’t threaten you. I don’t need to. One day, he’ll wonder if you’re different than the other girls and come to find out. Like every pig before, he’ll do to you what he did to me, and in his shame and regret, he’ll kill you.”

  Suzanne breathed through her nose, trying to force the image out of her head.

  “Don’t answer now,” he said. “It might be better if you never do. Despite myself, I might stop it. If you’re going to, just do it.”

  “How would I even—”

  “By keeping your mouth shut,” he raised his eyebrows in a way that told her she hadn’t been hiding the bone from him. He gave it to her along with a way out, but how could he know she would do what he wanted. What if she picked those locks and ran instead, straight for the highway without looking back? He must have planned for that too, which meant she had to deal with him first.

  “Well, I’m stuffed,” he said with a broad smile, taking his napkin from his lap and draping it over his plate. “Have you had enough? I’ll tell Robert to clear this away.”

  He stood and turned without any other glance, but it wouldn’t matter if he gave a big wink before starting up the stairs. Instead, she stared at the knife he left behind. It wouldn’t be sharp enough to do much but would hurt someone plenty if she aimed for the right places. The eyes, for example. She doubted he would make that big of a mistake but waited until his feet were off the steps before she snatched it. She had to hide it and anywhere on her risked showing or falling out if Robert got too rough putting her back in the chains. She eyed the bucket with the dirt floor beneath and dove, digging with the knife. She got it buried as the first heavy clomp sounded down the stairs. With the bucket in pl
ace, she slipped into her chair and waited, taking another bite of fish. At the bottom, he stopped and stared long enough she thought he either noticed the missing knife or was losing his battle with the bad thoughts. She steeled herself for whatever was about to happen, planning in her mind how fast she could reach the knife.

  “Get to the back and I won’t hurt you,” he said and walked around the table to meet her there. Keeping silent, she did and sat on the floor, lifting her arms so he could put them into the shackles. She wondered if she should put up some fight so he didn’t get suspicious but wondered why she cared. It was his brother’s plan, not hers. Then she realized she might be able to take care of Ben without even breaking a sweat.

  “He asked me to kill you, you know?” she said. His fingers stopped around her wrist.

  “Shut up,” he told her.

  “I can prove it. See that blinking light on the ceiling? That’s a video camera. If you find the TV on the other end, you can see for yourself. Just press the button with two backwards arrows and then the one with the triangle before our dinner.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “He told me everything,” she ignored him. “About the pigs. About your mother.”

  He put his hand on her head and pushed away from the bars before slamming it back with a loud clang. The cell went bright with flickering lights cascading in her eyes. Through the pain, she thought about his mom and understood this was a warning. Maybe Ben had her wrong after all because just then she didn’t feel so smart.

  “Next time you don’t listen, I’ll kill you,” he growled into one of her buzzing ears and went to clear away the plates. She couldn’t focus through the fog, but the best she could tell, he never looked for the knife.

  11

  The cowboy sat at the small table across the room, the first time he didn’t take the chair beside the bed. Carly guessed the need had passed. Though the idea of heroin never strayed far from her mind, the agony of withdrawal was gone. Instead of shivering under the covers, she sat at the foot of the mattress and watched him clean the large, horse-handled revolver. With a small, worn cloth, he polished inside and out, through the barrel and the cylinder with a small metal rod and again for good measure. Satisfied, he loaded each chamber and replaced the gun in its holster.