by Kim Faulks
Digger made a motion with his body, it could have been a shrug, but he wasn't sure. Fucking eyes. “Cause where I come from, the sun doesn't wrap around walls to shine in from each side.”
“And where is that?” Slade snapped. Now he was just getting pissy.
Digger's voice never changed, still slow and smooth as though he had all the fucking time in the world. “Come again?”
Slade pushed up from the floor and stood eye-to-eye, seeing him clearly for the first time. “You said “where I come from.” I just wanna know where that is?”
Digger held his gaze and answered, “Around.”
There was something about his new friend Digger, something that urged him to push and keep pushing, to find the cracks in his slow-ass demeanor and see how deep they’d go. But alliances in here were few and far between, and each one would be hard-won, so why did he have start fighting now?
“Well, now that we have the pissing contest over with, I think we need to figure some shit out, don't you?” Slade snapped his head to where Morgan stood.
Slade eased back. “You're right Wild Thing. Shit’s gonna get crazy in here soon. Fourteen people stuck in a room with no doors, windows, food, or water. Plus it’s a fucking oven. Jesus, this is gonna be bad.”
The hyped-up chatter on the other side of the room died down a little. They were getting tired. About fucking time. Their sniveling only seemed to heighten his own sense of desperation. Slade licked his lips, feeling the flattened skin dry and harden under his tongue. Another bead of sweat raced down his brow to dive from the end of his nose.
How the hell am I gonna keep them alive in this sweat box, with no food or water?
Soft snores came from his left and turned to see Wild Thing's head take a slow, fall, only to jolt upright. Her eyes flew open, then narrowed, staring at him with a hostile expression. She must be exhausted. He guessed it wasn't every day she found herself locked in a room with a bunch of strangers out for blood.
“It's okay,” he mumbled. “Go to sleep, I'll keep watch.”
She nodded and then glared at the others across the room, “You'll wake me?”
“Yeah, sure.” He knew what she meant. They were going to have to be careful, especially when they were asleep. Anyone who wasn't in their little group was a target, especially Morgan. Yeah well, they'll have to get past me first.
He rolled up his jacket and pushed it towards her. She mumbled something that sounded like “thanks” and turned away. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride, watching her roll up his jacket and shove the bundle under her head. Her brown hair slid over her shoulders and white T-shirt, the color rich like dark coffee.
“Stop staring at me.”
Slade couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face and a chuckle rumbled inside his chest, taking him by surprise. He turned his attention back towards the others and leaned his head against the wall. “Why the fuck're we here?”
“I was asking myself the same question,” Digger was so quiet, Slade had forgotten he was there. He even breathed quiet.
That unnerving feeling returned as he focused on Digger. “So what's your deal?”
The big dude pulled up his sleeve and Slade stared at the golden wings pierced through the middle by a sword. The words, ‘Who Dares, Wins’ were tattooed in a scroll underneath.
Jesus, this guy was a more dangerous problem than he thought. “SAS?”
“Was.”
The SAS boys had a reputation of being the best of the Australian Armed Forces. He didn't really need to test that theory. He’d heard about them. Tough bastards, those Aussies.
“I showed you mine.” Digger growled.
Slade turned his back and pulled up his shirt.
It was a second before the other man spoke. “Fuck dude. That's some hard-core shit.”
Slade nodded and dropped his shirt. It was some hard-core shit. He’d been young and stupid when he stepped into the tattooist's studio and told the woman at the counter what he wanted done. The skull and snake had been etched into his entire back by a scalpel. With each cut, he bled for his club. The crosscuts healed, leaving thick, raised scars behind. They’d remind him of where he’d been and where he’d never go again.
The other groups had settled down. Huddled, they sought comfort in each other and slept. He kept watch for a while until Digger spoke, “You got this?”
He nodded, feeling more comfortable with his new friend. “Yeah, I got this.”
Not long after that, snores filled his ear. Digger slept sitting up, his head reclined enough so that he appeared semi-comfortable.
Exhaustion was a dark and lonely road. Slade bit his lips to stifle a yawn, but he refused to close his eyes. He was keeping watch. He was keeping them safe.
RACHEL LEANED AGAINST THE WALL and took one final look around the room before she closed her eyes. The massive biker opposite drilled her with his stare. He watched everything and everyone. She knew what he was, nothing more than a low-life thug. She’d seen his kind before.
She took a shallow breath and focused on getting through one more hour in this godforsaken place. She had to stay strong. I’ll be out of here soon. Rachel could imagine the frantic activity inside her house at this very moment.
Her father would be screaming on the phone, moving money from one account to another, while his advisors phoned every powerful person in their state. They’d pressure the chief of police, the mayor, and God himself to get her home safe and sound. There was nothing her father wouldn’t do for her. The thought eased the grip around her stomach.
Daddy will get me out of here, he’ll save me. She tried not to inhale. Instead, she swallowed the fetid air. The stench and the dust were disgusting. She’d need to bathe for a week to get rid of the smell.
She’d give anything to feel clean and safe again. The memory of her bath, filled with jasmine-scented water, surfaced in her mind. She groaned and dragged her tongue across the painful cracks in her lips. The image of her home morphed into an unwanted memory.
She wrenched away from the image. No. Don’t… I don’t want to think about that…. But her efforts were useless, the memory’s hold was unrelenting, and she was dragged down.
The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stiffened. No matter how powerful Rachel became, she could never escape that moment in her life—the moment where her world had changed. No matter how hard she tried to think of something else, that painful time was where her memory seemed determined to drag her.
Her home had sparkled, from white floor tiles to the crystal chandelier. The entrance was filled with antiques and their timeless de Goya, which was hung in the most prominent position, for all to see. The hallways, to one making small steps, were endless—her world one big playground. Drawn by the sparkle in her shiny leather shoes, Rachel gazed at her feet. She twirled, watching her new dress fan out, and was mesmerized. Her white lace dress was now her favorite, a gift from her daddy. Her heart swelled to bursting.
“Rachel, hurry up. We’ll be late.”
The sound of her mother’s steps caused her to falter. She spun off balance, the perfect arc of her dress now ruined. She stopped. Her mother’s heels clacked loudly on the marble stairs and Rachel’s heart matched each step. She lifted her gaze, searching for her knight in shining armor—but he wasn’t here—he hadn’t come.
Didn’t he understand what was happening? Didn’t he care that the wicked queen wanted to take her away… far, far away? Rachel was paralyzed as her mother swooped down claws extended, ready to tear her away from her home. She shuffled backwards.
Maybe she could get away. Maybe she could hide, and the evil queen would leave without her. Daddy where are you? As though her thoughts summoned him, her father appeared at the top of the stairs. His gaze found her and with her heart in her mouth, she smiled up at him.
“Daddy, watch this.” She twirled, her dress fanning in a perfect circle until her mother’s grip yanked her off balance again. Her new shoes slipped on the
polished floor. She stumbled and whimpered. The bones in her hand ground together. Her mother’s grasp was a cruel vise.
“Let me go.” Rachel tugged, trying her best to pull away. But her tiny muscles were no match for the anger in her mother’s eyes or the strength in her grip.
“No!” She searched for him, his silhouette blurring in her gaze. “Daddy, I don't want to go. I don’t want to go.”
“You’re coming with me Rachel, and that's that. Your things are packed, they’re in the car and we’re leaving now.”
She’d never left her father before. Not even to go to camp, not once. Pain ripped through her chest. She whimpered and shook her head. “No. I won't go. I won't leave. Daddy! Daddy!”
She glimpsed a flash of movement through her distorting tears, and froze. Caught on the sparkle of her mother’s ring, Rachel stared as her hand arced through the air. The blow thundered inside her head. Her head snapped sideways and she stumbled. Her shiny shoes shrieked on the polished floor as she fell.
“Margaret. No!”
Her father’s thundering footfalls raced toward her. Tears blurred her gaze. She wanted him to sweep her up in his arms and make everything all right. She wanted to be a baby in his arms… but I’m not a baby… I’m. Not. A. Baby.
Rachel pushed against the hard floor. Her legs trembled as she climbed to her feet. She touched her burning cheek and traced the swollen shape of her mother’s hand, like a brand on her skin.
Her tears dried and her inner pain turned to ice. She lifted her gaze to stare at the woman who used to be her mother. “I hate you.”
The words were uttered without a thought. Rachel meant every word. Her mother's mouth was pressed shut, her red lipstick a bloody slash on a pale face.
Rachel’s unwilling vision of her childhood skipped to when she was older. She stood taller, thinner. The budding swell of her breasts pushed against her white cotton blouse as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. The tray she carried was burdened with covered plates and polished silver. The smell of quail wafted to her. Any other time, her stomach would’ve howled with ravenous teenage hunger, but the thought of where she was headed killed any desire for food.
Her arms strained under the weight as she reached the landing and turned right, along the west wing. The air here covered her in an icy embrace. She shivered. She hated this part of the house. Even the paintings were dark and decrepit—all except one.
There was more than one reason why she hated this place. This was where her nightmares lived. Some were behind closed doors and others out in the open for all to see.
The silverware on the tray clinked softly at first, until her shudders forced the cutlery apart. Her steps slowed. Each step jarred, until she stopped in front of the only splash of color in an otherwise drab hallway.
The sky blue and pastel pink looked inviting, enticing her to look a little closer, and in an instant Rachel was drawn into the battle. This was just another of mother’s cruel taunts. The recreation of the famous painting by Michelangelo, The Last Judgment, was near-perfect. The only difference was the unmistakable resemblance to her father on one of the demons. She stared at his bulging eyes, his mouth frozen in a sneer as he raced from Hell’s gates, ready to drag the lost souls into the pit below. Rachel stared at the trapped souls, reaching for Heaven. Their panicked, searching eyes held her transfixed. She swallowed, and felt her heart speed inside her chest. She knew how they felt. Herded like lambs to the slaughter. She inhaled and the spell was broken. She shook off the power this painting held over her with one simple command. Move. Her feet obeyed and her knees unlocked. Rachel stumbled down the hall, her gaze already searching for her own gate to Hell.
The engraved patterns in the wooden door were far too pretty for what was inside. Twisted vines and intricate flowers ended in a thicket, which made the brass handle. She inhaled the stale air and steadied herself. Her legs were like jelly, her knees weak, threatening to take her down any moment. Balancing the tray on one hand she knocked hard, twice. There was no response, not to her knock, nor to her entrance into the room. The huddled shape at the window made no move to turn. If not for the reflection of her face in the window, Rachel wouldn’t have recognized this woman at all.
“Your dinner is here, Mother. The chef has served your favorite, stuffed quail with baby potatoes and carrots.” Her voice sounded hollow and forced. There was nothing else she could offer this woman.
The woman at the window made no movement toward her. For that, Rachel was grateful. Her silence was better than the days she wanted to talk. She placed the tray on the dresser and uncovered the plate before stepping away.
“I see you’re developing, Rachel.”
Her face flushed and she looked to the floor. I’m not listening to you, Mother. No matter what you say, you can’t hurt me anymore. Rachel checked the musty room, making sure there was nothing that needed attention before the servants returned
“Your breasts are swelling. Tell me, have you started bleeding yet?”
She jerked her head up to find the cold reflection of her mother's gaze in the glass. Her ears felt as though they burned and she shuffled back. I won’t let you get to me. You… you’re just a crazy old lady. You don’t mean anything to me anymore. Rachel swallowed and glanced toward the door.
“Well? Answer me, Rachel.”
Her mother’s tone was cold, hard—impossible to ignore. Humiliation dragged her down in a never-ending black hole. She shook her head. “No.”
She couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat, no matter how hard she tried. Rachel could only stand there, feeling like a child once more. Why can’t she just leave me alone? The fighter inside reared her head, ready to hit back, and she was swept away in a sea of anger. “I can’t wait for the day I forget you.”
Rachel caught her mother’s flinch and smiled inside. This woman was no more than a faded reflection of the woman she used to be. No longer primed and elegantly perfect, she was now wrinkled and drawn. Her skin hadn’t felt the touch of fresh air in years. Not since the day she tried to take Rachel away. That day still felt raw like a burn that wouldn’t heal.
Her mother created her fate, and being locked away here was better than she deserved.
“It won't be long now, will it? Or, has your Daddy already made you the woman of the house?”
The woman of the house? Confused, Rachel focused on the question and searched for the answer. She’d taken some of the household duties her mother once had, organizing the staff, the dinners her father gave on a regular basis. Her father needed someone to take care of the smaller details, someone he could trust, and that someone was her.
She lifted her head and straightened her spine. “Yes, mother. He has.”
Her mother’s reflection was silent. Her brown eyes shimmered in the glass before she whispered. “Well, it seems he’s found my replacement in more ways than one. Maybe now the monster will let me find some peace.”
Monster? Rachel felt her hands stiffen and clench. She lowered her head as her upper lip curled. This woman was the only monster here. She always had been, and always would be. Rachel opened her mouth, ready to speak the truth, to throw her mother’s words back into her face—and caught sight of her reflection. The way she held her head, the haughty expression she looked… just like her.
She dropped her clenched fist and took a step back. The image stayed with her, even when she turned and slammed the door.
She fled along the hall and down the marble stairs. Tears filled her eyes and slid down her face. She brushed them away, feeling like a child, waiting for her father to save her once more. A crack echoed through the house, followed by a loud thump as Rachel hit the last stair. The word earthquake ripped through her mind and she gripped the railing, waiting for the sound to continue and the house to shudder and shake.
A screamed punctured the air. The raw, horrific sound called her forward. She scrambled forward on shaky legs, heading for the open patio doors and the gardens at the back
of the house. The low-lying sun blazed red on the horizon. Rachel turned from the glare and headed to where one of the housemaids stood. The sight of her, covering her mouth, made Rachel falter at first. Her mind refused to understand what was happening. The flapping of a white flag caught her attention, a signal of surrender in the midst of chaos.
Rachel lifted her gaze to stare at the second floor window and the realization was a blow. It’s not a flag… the flapping was from white curtains sucked out of an open window… a broken window. The world around Rachel tilted as she dropped her gaze to the pebbled ground below.
Her world became a vacuum. There was no air, no sound—nothing but the broken gaze of her mother eyes as she stared at Rachel. Nausea forced icy blood through her veins. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t do anything, only stand there riveted by the twisted body, even when strong arms tried to pull her away. She shook her head and forced herself to swallow as a pathetic voice inside her head whispered. This is just a joke. A bad, bad joke. Get up Mother… just get up!
The grip on her arm tightened and her father’s voice broke through the fog in her mind. “Rachel, Jesus. Look away honey, she’s dead. Rachel… Rachel.”
One small part of her knew the mangled mess on the ground was her mother. But a larger part refused to understand what had happened—refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. She looked away. This wasn’t her mother. This was someone’s idea of a sick joke.
The horrific vision of the past rippled. Movement in the corner of her eye dragged her gaze back. Her mother’s body twitched once, twice and then sat up. The side of her mother’s head caved inward. Her once-perfect hair was now a mangled mess of blood, flecked with white… that’s her brain…
Rachel’s stomach rolled. Something was wrong, this hadn’t happened. She lurched forward, coughing a thin stream of water onto the ground. Spittle dripped from her lips as the soft chinking of rocks sounded behind her.
Her hair whipped across her face as she spun toward the sound. “Get away from me. I didn’t do anything to you!”
