His Hideous Heart

by Dahlia Adler

  My heart beats so hard I entertain a split-second fantasy of using it to break through the wires of the cage, but instead I close my trembling fingers into fists and find my voice. “My name is Laura Catherine Martello.”

  “Is this a confession?”

  “My best friend’s name is Mark Montez. Or maybe Shauna Watts is my best friend now—I’m not sure how to define that stuff. I’ve known Mark longer … We sat next to each other in kindergarten, because our seats were in alphabetical order, and I was scared, and when my blue crayon broke and I started to cry he gave me the one from his box—”

  “She stands accused of offending the natural order as laid down by the Almighty, and she speaks of … crayons?”

  “But lately Shauna and I have gotten closer,” I barrel on, desperately, speaking faster. “We met freshman year, in Spanish One, and I don’t think we liked each other at first, but a lot has changed since then—”

  “The accused now tests the Judge’s patience!” my captor snaps, taking an agitated step to one side and then the other, the fabric of his cloak shifting as his shoulders rise.

  Forcing myself up onto an elbow at last, I hear my own voice break as I scramble ahead. “My mom’s name is Kelly. She’s an X-ray technician and a Libra, and she pretends she doesn’t believe in astrology but she totally does. My dad is Matthew, and he does furniture reclamation—like, takes old dressers and tables and refinishes them so they can be sold again? They met when my dad broke his arm falling—”

  “Enough,” the Judge barks angrily. “The … the prisoner wastes the holy court’s time, speaking of trivialities—”

  “I have a cat,” I whimper, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Her name is Dumbledore, and she’s almost fourteen, and she can’t see very well anymore. I’m the only person she likes, and she’s probably l-lonely—”

  “This is false!” the man fulminates from behind his mask. “The accused pours poison in my ears, telling lies upon lies, trying to bury one hideous sin beneath another! When the appointed hour comes, her deceitful tongue will be removed first!” He makes this decision with an air of relief, and his agitation subsides. “Her tongue will be excised so that it may testify against her. She will watch it squirm, and hear her lies, and her unclean soul will cower.”

  “I’m going to be a veterinarian,” I whisper, feeling every fiber of my tongue as I use it to speak. “I’ve always loved animals, and when Dumbledore was diagnosed with feline leukemia, I knew I wanted to help other kids with sick animal friends. I’m seventeen. I’m a senior, and I’ve applied to a bunch of schools, but I want to go somewhere close to home because—because I love my parents.” With a heaving breath I start to sob. “I love my parents so much, and I don’t want to be far away from them.”

  “The accused was offered a chance to admit the transgressions that blacken her soul, but she chose instead to scorn the Judge’s mercy and embrace the devilry that wells within her.” He stalks back to the surgical table, retrieving the hose; and as he returns to the cage, opening the nozzle and drenching me in another stinging blast of gelid water, I finally realize my mistake.

  He has no mercies upon which I could throw myself; and there is no chance I will be set free. My guilt was determined long before he took me, and I can say nothing that won’t stand against me as further proof that I deserve to die. The man isn’t wearing a disguise to keep me from recognizing him, he’s wearing a uniform. Beyond just appointing himself judge, he’s also appointed himself jury and executioner.

  And executioners wear hoods.

  This time, when he cranks the electricity on, I feel it arc between the fillings in my back teeth—hear it snapping in my ears and sizzling along the part in my hair. I try to scream, but my lungs are like stones in my chest, and when I finally black out again, it comes as a blessing.

  * * *

  Time passes in a blur. When I wake next, my bedpan has been emptied, and my bread and water replenished. I don’t know what day it is, how long it’s been since the end of my shift at the café, and I have no idea how close we are to the “appointed hour”—the moment when I’ll pay for sins I never committed in the worst way imaginable.

  I eat and drink as little as possible, needing sustenance but knowing that each swallow stands to rob me of what little time I have left. I grow drowsy after every meal, slipping in and out of consciousness, waking to find more water, more bread.

  In a dream, Agent Fields speaks to me. We sit at a table in the café, and she taps one blunted nail on the surface before me, her eyes implacable. “He was here, you know. This is where he found you.”

  “I know.” I nod, even though I haven’t been certain.

  “A killer like the Judge … what he wants is control. Try not to give it to him.”

  “I’m locked in an electrified cage,” I explain carefully. “I’m pretty sure he’s got all the control he fucking needs.”

  “No.” Agent Fields shakes her head slowly. “He has power, but not control. The first he can seize, but the latter he must be given. The Judge needs you to capitulate, to play his game; he has a fantasy that he re-creates over and over, and he’s cast you in a specific role. It doesn’t work for him if you don’t say your lines. So don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say lightly. “Are you telling me not to cooperate with my murderer? Because I tried that strategy already, and he electrocuted my ass.”

  “I didn’t say it would work,” Fields replies calmly.

  “Great. Thanks. Thanks for this little pep talk.”

  “There’s a really good chance you’re going to die in this basement, Laura,” Fields goes on, determined to make this the worst date I’ll never have, “but you’ve still got a choice. You can go out like a lamb, or you can go out like a lion. Which is it gonna be?”

  * * *

  I wake up as the Judge is arranging my sad little meal, and when he sees that my eyes are open he lunges back out of the cage, slamming the door shut. Glaring at me through his shabby, pitiful hood, he snarls, “The judgment of the accused draws nigh. Tomorrow, when the sun drops, it shall bring with it the final word. The prisoner must drink.”

  “Is that the final word?” I ask, surly and combative, my imagined exchange with the FBI agent clanking about in my head like loose ball bearings.

  “The prisoner must drink,” he repeats.

  My head is still fogged, a near constant state now, but as I gaze down at the cup some new ideas struggle together. I have to have been in this cage for days already, but I’ve spent most of it sleeping off a drugged stupor; and aside from his demands for a confession, he’s kept our interactions to a minimum. Recalling the way he darted back out of the cage, I also realize that I’ve never seen him open the door before. He’s always waited until I’m out cold to empty my bedpan or set out the food.

  Is he scared of me? He’s tall, but the cloak disguises his build; underneath it, for all I know, he might be some cowardly beanpole with toothpick arms. Keeping me weak and disoriented around the clock might make me easier to manipulate, but it also keeps me from fighting back—or shouting. Maybe he wants me unconscious so I won’t start screaming again and risk being heard by the neighbors or the mailman or whoever.

  It doesn’t work for him if you don’t say your lines. I put my hand on the cup, and for a moment I see myself flinging its contents into the Judge’s face. Telling him no, cursing him out again, refusing to be controlled. But I don’t.

  Whatever time it is, “tomorrow” is still too soon. Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six? Eighteen? Do I really want to go the rest of my life with no food or water, just to prove a point to a masked psycho? Every time I lash out or fight back, he turns on the electricity, and I’ve had enough. It seems like my two options are to spend what time I have left in either a chemical daze or a debilitated state of sheer agony. It isn’t even a toss-up. If I have any hope of mounting an escape, I can’t do it hungry, thirsty, and racked with pain.

  Bringing the cup to my lips, my eyes
on the Judge, I drink.

  * * *

  When I come to again, my body is so heavy I feel half fused to the floor. Whatever the Judge has been giving me, he must have upped the dose, because even pulling air into my lungs takes effort. As I realize I’m awake, a dart of panic careens through me, and I work my eyes open. I can’t focus, the light bulb dancing a minuet as I try to gather my faculties. What time is it? How much longer do I have?

  By the cage door, more bread has been set out, my water cup refilled. I work my way into a sitting position, my head spinning and my stomach overturning, and I barely make it to the bedpan before I throw up. When I’m finally empty, nothing coming out but gooey strings of bile, I can’t hold back anymore—I begin to cry. A foul taste coats my tongue, acid burns my nose, and I can’t even rinse my mouth without the risk of blacking out again and losing what precious little time I have left.

  When the heaving stops and my gut settles, I slump back, wiping my eyes on my work shirt. I’ve been wearing it for days, and now it’s filthy and rumpled. Distantly, I wonder if I can fashion a noose out of the sleeves. I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. But if death is inevitable, I’d rather meet it on my own terms than let the Judge cut me apart—still alive.

  “She is awake.”

  His voice takes me by surprise, and I whirl around, the room tilting a little. Standing by the door, he peers at me with reptilian eyes. My throat raw, I croak, “What time is it?”

  “It is afternoon. The ritual will begin in a few hours.”

  “A few hours?” My heart starts to thud. It’s too soon—I’d planned on having time to think, time to come up with … with something. “You keep saying I’m ‘accused.’ Who’s accusing me?”

  “She is accused by the divine truth itself, which, when violated, always seeks justice.” He speaks pompously, straightening his shoulders. “This is the prisoner’s last chance to make a full confession, so that she may go to her creator with one less lie on her soul. To show contrition before she reaps the harvest of her indecent acts.”

  I don’t know what to do. Out like a lamb, or out like a lion? Drawing back, I look him in the eyes. “I have nothing to confess.”

  “Hell will be ugly.” He stands there, waiting in the spill of light while I watch him back. Thinking. Impatiently, he says, “The prisoner will eat and drink.”

  “Laura Catherine Martello is not hungry or thirsty just now,” I reply, anger creeping into my blood, “and this bread is shitty, anyway.”

  The Judge shifts, eyes narrowing into slits. “The accused compounds her sins even to the last. She knows the payment for her foul tongue and obstreperous behavior!”

  “Oh, is not being hungry a crime now, too?”

  “The prisoner will drink.”

  My eyes drop to the cup. Up till now, I haven’t really put much thought into how he intends to get me on the table. He’s done it six times already, and clearly he has a method. But finally I’m coming to realize that he needs me sedated. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be unconscious when he saws my chest open—still alive—but it makes sense.

  Pushing my foot across the cage, I kick over the water, the tainted liquid spilling across the floor and soaking into the hem of the Judge’s robes. He steps back instinctively, and I smile up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Oops.”

  “She did this on purpose!”

  “No, it was a total accident, I swear.” I don’t even bother to sound convincing. “I’m such a butterfingers. I mean, buttertoes.”

  “She has the devil in her! The very devil!” He sputters furiously. “Faced with her divine judgment, a hair’s breadth from the appointed hour when she will reap damnation, she flaunts her pride! Very well.” Turning on his heel, robes swirling, the Judge stalks for the hose. I’m scrambling to the rear of the cage as he marches back again, the nozzle in his hand. “She shall soon see what her pride is truly worth when weighed against the ugliness of her heart!”

  With that, he opens fire, the jet of ice-cold water drenching me, soaking my clothes and flooding the cage. I’m shivering violently when he shuts the stream off again, and as he starts for the black box with the electrical cables, I blurt, “Stop! I’m sorry—I’m sorry! I’ll confess, okay? I’ll—I’ll give you a confession, just please don’t electrocute me again!”

  He hesitates. I try to read his body language, but it’s nearly impossible. I know his preference is to drug me, though; his script calls for me to be pliable, repentant.

  “I’m really sorry. Bring another glass of water and I’ll drink it this time, I swear. I’ll eat, and I’ll drink, and I’ll give you a full confession. That’s what you want, right? Please!”

  He turns, peering suspiciously through the mesh. “The accused will confess?”

  “To everything,” I promise, still trembling all over.

  “If this is another trick, she will regret it swiftly and absolutely.” His tone is dark and his words terrifyingly final.

  “No tricks.” I pick up the bread, soggy now from the drenching with the hose, and stuff some of it in my mouth. “See? I’m eating.”

  It’s mushy and gross—but it’s also the first liquid I’ve consumed in days that isn’t poisoned, and it cleanses the taste of vomit from my mouth. The Judge watches me, his eyes beady and unforgiving; but he finally turns back and heads for the invisible slit in the curtain. “The accused receives one more chance to make her confession, and only one. May the Divine have mercy on her unworthy soul.”

  And then he’s gone. The bread sits heavy in my stomach, the most I’ve eaten in a long while—but my head is already clearer than it’s been since the minute I first woke up in this cage, and at last I have some space to think.

  When he comes back, if I drink the water … that will be it. I’ll never wake up again. And the sick truth is, there are worse fates. Like being electrocuted and then sawed open—still awake—after the Judge cuts out my tongue to teach me a lesson for not admitting I’m a harlot. But either way, he plans to kill me; and I can either hit my cues like a good leading lady, or I can sabotage the show and deny him the fix he craves.

  When the Judge returns, he stands before the cage with a fresh cup in his hand, his tone imperious. “Only if the accused gives a complete confession will her request for the water be granted.”

  “I’m guilty of the sins of pride and lust,” I begin, speaking in an obediently somber tone, even though my teeth chatter. “I have defied the natural order and offended God, and … and I see now that it contaminated my soul. And I’m sorry.”

  The Judge is quiet for an unnerving moment. Then, “This is not enough. For any hope of absolution in the afterlife, the accused must enumerate her sins.”

  Here I stumble. Whether it came to me in a psychic flash or was pulled from my subconscious, I firmly believe what Agent Fields told me in my dream: the Judge found me at the café. It’s the only scenario that really makes sense. But if I did something at work to trigger this guy’s punishment-fantasy bloodlust, I can’t think what it was; probably I did nothing at all.

  The girls he’s killed were guilty of nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Improvising, I recount rolling my eyes at certain customers and flirting with others, overcharging people I didn’t like and undercharging those I found attractive. It’s almost entirely nonsense—I roll my eyes at everyone, because the job sucks and I hate it, and I never feel less like flirting than when I stink of sweat and coffee from my scalp to my feet—but I deliver my speech with the conviction of Desdemona. When I finally run out of things to say, the room vibrates with another tense silence.

  “The accused’s confession is … barely adequate,” the Judge decides snappishly, “but time is short. At least her sins are acknowledged. She will back away from the door.”

  My pulse rising, I edge to the rear of the enclosure, and once I’m pressed to the far wall, he unlocks the cage and eases the cup of water inside. For a heartbeat, I want to lunge
forward—catch the door while it’s still open, force my way out, attack. But I sit still. He’d slam it shut again before I could reach my knees, and then would come the electroshock.

  Once he at last signals his permission, I dutifully fetch the drugged water, retreating back to the rear—as far from the door and the overhead light as I can get. I want him to leave, but he stands there, watching. Finally, he commands, “She will drink.”

  Lifting the cup, I pretend to take a sip. “This is it. Isn’t it? When I drink this, I’ll fall asleep, and then … you’ll kill me?”

  “The hour for the accused to answer for her sins is close at hand,” he confirms. “The devil awaits.”

  “I’ll tell him to expect you,” I retort, but without much vigor, and feign another sip. Then I turn away, facing the corner with my back to the light. Pressing the cup to my mouth, my lips tightly closed, I tilt my head back and let the water stream quietly over my chin and down my neck. It soaks into my shirt and pants, disappearing into the already wet fabric, while I make loud gulping noises in my throat.

  Provoking him into spraying me with the hose had been a risky gambit, but it had offered the only way I could think of to pull off this trick—to spill out the contents of the cup right under his nose, without being caught. When it’s empty, I set it down and curl up on the floor. Eyeing the Judge balefully, I give a slow, drowsy blink. “See you in hell.”

  He waits as my lids close, as I slow and deepen my breaths, counting on the inhale and blowing out heavily. I’ve faked sleep before—for parents, babysitters, guys who won’t take a hint—and I’m good at it; but I can feel him, lurking, watching, and it unsettles me. It takes all my concentration to keep from twitching with nerves.

  Is he buying it? Does he believe I’m succumbing to the drug? Or has he seen through my ruse? A knot of painful tension spreads across my lower back when the man begins to move, edging around the cage, the hair on my neck rising. Breathe in for a count of eight, exhale; in for eight, exhale.