The Fifth Circle

by Tricia Drammeh

  My dad beat on the door and laughed. “What are you doing in there? It sounds like you’re moving furniture.” He laughed again. “You think you can keep me out? I’ll hack the fucking door apart with my ax.”

  “If you do, I’ll call 911,” I shouted.

  “And tell them what? That I’m just trying to get into a room in my own house? Open the fucking door!”

  I was crying too hard to respond. He half-heartedly wiggled the doorknob a few times, then with a few muffled curses, went back down the hallway to his room. I sat on the edge of my bed, afraid to go to sleep. My knees trembled and my hands shook. After what seemed like an eternity, my eyes began to feel heavy. I had to blink several times to keep them open. Fear kept me from sleeping.

  When the sun came up, I heard my dad moving around in his bedroom. The sound of running water gushed through the pipes in the walls, so I grabbed my backpack and stuffed all my books inside. Then, I snatched my suitcase from the top shelf of my closet and filled it with clothing. Next, I put on my shoes and waited.

  I waited until I heard his bedroom door open, until I heard feet descend the stairs, until I heard cabinets rattled in the kitchen. At last, I heard the front door open and shut. Peeking out from behind my mini blinds, I watched while he climbed inside his van and fired it up.

  With a painful heave, I shoved my dresser away from my bedroom door. Back at the window, I watched while my dad drove away. My hands shook as I unlocked my bedroom door. If my dad came back for any reason, he’d catch me trying to escape. That’s what I was doing—escaping my house. I wouldn’t stay there another night. No matter what.

  I didn’t even stop to pee—I just lugged my stuff down the steps and out the door. Sean was waiting for me when I knocked on his door. “Hey. I’m glad you came. How…”

  “My dad just left. I…” Sobbing, I fell into his arms. His mom came down the hallway and stood helplessly while Sean tried to console me.

  “What happened?” he asked after my sobs faded to shuddering gulps. His mom handed me a glass of water and I took a sip before answering.

  “I…I just can’t stay there without my mom. I can’t be alone with him. He…” I glanced at Sean’s mom. Did it matter if she knew the whole story? I didn’t care anymore. I was too tired to be ashamed. “He came for me. I sat up almost all night, afraid to go to the bathroom. He caught me…”

  “That son of a bitch!” Sean gasped.

  “I got away.”

  “Oh, Alex,” Mrs. Droste said, patting me on the shoulder.

  “She can’t go back there,” Sean said, looking at his mother. “He’ll end up killing her.”

  “No, you’re right. Alex, I guess you can stay here with us.”

  She sounded unsure and I knew why—everyone knew my dad would flip out when I didn’t come home. By dinner time, he’d be pounding on her door, cursing and hurling threats. Every day thereafter, it would be more of the same. Mrs. Droste would have to risk facing him each time she left her house to get the mail, go to work, or run errands. She’d feel like a prisoner in her own home.

  I knew what it was like to feel like a prisoner. I hated the fact that I was sentencing her to the same fate that had befallen me. In a way, it was different, though. Mrs. Droste might have to endure discomfort, maybe even a few taunts each time she walked from the front door to the car, but at the end of the day, when the door locked behind her, she was safe. I hadn’t felt safe in nine years. Nine years of fear and anxiety and pain. Nine years of being afraid to go to sleep at night. Nine years of hating my life and my very existence.

  Sean carried my stuff to his room. I sat on the bed while he cleared out a few dresser drawers for me to use. Judging from his red-rimmed eyes, it was obvious he hadn’t slept the night before, but his energy was boundless. Several times, he walked up and down the hallway to obtain trash bags and cleaning supplies. He hauled out baskets of dirty laundry, bags of soda cans, empty fast food wrappers, and other debris. By noon, his room—our room—was spotless and there was a space for my meager belongings.

  My dad hadn’t returned home yet, so Sean escorted me to my house so I could grab a few things I’d forgotten. I rushed around, nervous and fearful he would return, but he didn’t. I escaped with a trash bag full of clothes and a laundry basket full of toiletries and personal items.

  Once everything was unpacked and put away in Sean’s bedroom, I let out a shaky breath. It was over. I’d moved out. I’d cast my childhood behind me. Soon, I’d have a baby of my own—a husband as well. I’d grown up in one quick morning. Or, perhaps I’d been forced to grow up at the age of nine when my dad stole my innocence.

  I bit my lip and tried to stifle the sob coming up from my chest. I was an adult now, and grownups weren’t supposed to cry.

  Chapter 22- Sean

  He turned his talons upon his companion

  And grappled with him right above the moat

  (Canto XXII, lines 137 & 138)

  At five, Mr. Elmwood came crashing over to my house and beat on the door. I wouldn’t let my mom answer it. Alex was my responsibility, so it was my job to deal with her father.

  “Come out here, you little son of a bitch.” His shriek was accompanied by a loud thump, presumably where he grew tired of pounding on the door with his fists and switched to kicking it instead.

  “Where the fuck’s my daughter?”

  I flung open the door and glared at him, daring him to step across the threshold. In one hand, I held my cell phone, ready to call 911, in the other I held a baseball bat. It was pint sized; I hadn’t played sports since I was in elementary school.

  “She’s staying here,” I said, struggling to keep the fear out of my voice.

  “The hell she is. Alex,” he screamed.

  I cursed under my breath when she came scurrying down the hallway. I’d specifically told her to stay in our room and to let me handle this myself.

  “Come on,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “No. I’m not coming home. Ever.” Her voice shook, but she crossed her arms in front of her and remained behind me, afraid, but determined.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Why do you think, you sick fuck?” I asked. My mom hissed at me from the kitchen, begging me not to make the situation worse.

  “I’ll kick your ass!” he screamed at me. “Are you fucking my daughter? Are you? You faggot-ass piece of shit!”

  “If I’m a faggot, why are you concerned about me fucking your daughter? Is it because you want her for yourself?”

  He pushed his way into the house, screaming obscenities and reaching for Alex, who cowered behind me.

  Mom came out of the kitchen just as Mr. Elmwood shoved me against the wall. “I’ve already called 911. The police are on their way. If you go home now, I won’t press charges.”

  He spun around and glared at her. With a scream of fury, he lurched toward the door, staggering and almost falling down the front porch steps. A few neighbors stood outside watching the dramatic scene. Sirens sounded in the distance.

  The police talked to my mom and then to me. A tall, middle-aged cop with a slight beer belly seemed almost bored when he asked if we wanted to press charges for trespass.

  “Hell, yeah,” I said.

  “What’ll happen if we do?” Mom asked.

  “You’ll have to file a report. We’ll arrest him and he’ll be placed on a twenty-four hour hold, then released. He’ll go to court, probably get a fine or probation.”

  “It isn’t worth it,” she decided.

  It probably wasn’t worth it, but I complained nonetheless.

  “It’ll just make things worse,” she said. “We’ll still be neighbors, and he’s still Alex’s father.”

  Everyone turned to Alex. The police officer looked down at his notebook and said, “You mentioned that you and your father got into an argument last night. Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight—just until everyone settles down?”

  I interrupted before she could ev
en form a sentence. “She’s staying here. Permanently.”

  A second cop—the younger one who’d been interviewing Mr. Elmwood—came up the porch steps. “Well, it seems like everyone has settled down. Do you folks need anything else?”

  “He abuses her,” I blurted. Alex shot me a look of terror and shook her head.

  “Do you want to press charges?” the tall cop asked.

  “What do I have to do?” she asked.

  “File a report, talk to the DA…”

  “No. I…I don’t want to press charges. I’ve moved out, so everything is fine now.” Alex looked like she was ready to shove the cops down the steps. She was panicked. She wasn’t ready to tell. She might never be.

  “If you folks need anything, give us a call,” the younger cop said before they both turned away.

  “Don’t you want him to pay for what he did?” I asked after the door shut behind them.

  “It’s over now. I just want to forget it ever happened.”

  “She’s right,” my mom said. “Nothing ever happens in these cases. He’ll get off with a slap on the wrist, and it’ll rip the family apart.”

  Alex walked down the hall to our bedroom, signaling the end of her participation in the conversation. With a final glance at my mother, I followed Alex down the hall. Her eyes were glassy when she sat down on the bed.

  “You should have pressed charges,” I said. Silence. “He deserves to go to jail for what he did.” No response. “How can you just let him get away with what he did?”

  When she started to cry, I said, “It’s okay, Alex. It’s your choice, not mine. The important thing is that it’s over.” I sat down next to her and pulled her close and waited for her sobs to subside.

  Alex went to sleep early, so I got on the computer. My whole quad was online and it was time for a Raid. An opposing quad sacked our empire and stole our winter supplies, so we launched an attack, slashing, burning, and killing. TOA was a good parallel for real life—if you let someone get away with trying to take what was yours, they’d do it again. It was essential to slaughter the enemy before they got you. Survival of the fittest.

  My mind kept drifting back to Alex. She didn’t want to press charges. Was it because she planned to return home? She wouldn’t return there, or if she did, it wouldn’t be her idea. Her father had a sinister hold on her mind. He used a combination of fear and manipulation to keep her in line.

  I hated her father, not just because of what he did to her, but because she would never be free of him. I would never completely hold Alex’s soul while he was still inside it, rotting it from the inside out. If Alex didn’t want to have sex, it was because she was having flashbacks. If she woke up with nightmares, it was because of him. She never dreamed of me. He claimed her insecurities, her fears, her earliest memories and she would never truly be mine.

  With a vicious thrust, I plunged a dagger into my opponent, spinning and slashing until the entire battlefield was empty. Only Stryder2 remained, my teammates having long since retired. It was three in the morning, and my eyes burned from being open for so long.

  I switched off the computer and curled up next to Alex. My hand grazed her breast and she whimpered in her sleep—I cursed and punched the pillow. Her father’s presence intruded on her sleep and mine. How could I fall asleep with her right next to me? My body was hard with desire, but I couldn’t ease the tension because Alex was too fucked in the head to have a normal sexual relationship with me.

  Four o’clock came, and I was no closer to falling asleep than I was before. The strain of unrelieved sexual tension was a constant, throbbing ache between my legs. Alex sighed and rolled over on her side. I could smell her and it made me want her even more.

  How would things play out tomorrow when she woke up and had to face the reality of what she’d done? Would she regret it? When she inevitably ran into her father, would he convince her to come home? Or threaten and manipulate her? We should move away—put some distance between her and her father. Maybe California. Then I remembered—I’d never be able to save up enough money for a move across the country. I owed the lawyer a shitload of money, and the rest would be used for the baby.

  Maybe her parents would move away. A fantasy formed in my mind, so real I almost convinced myself it was true. I could see the mountains of boxes, the moving truck, her father gesturing at the movers, trying to tell them how to load the truck. Asshole. I could hear her mother’s tearful goodbye.

  Or, better yet, maybe her father would die. A permanent solution. Dead. He deserved it. When he died, I hoped it hurt. A fall from a building…no, too fast. He wouldn’t suffer enough. A painful disease—cancer turning his insides to rot. An extended illness with unrelieved pain that brought him to his knees. Or, murder. A home invasion where he couldn’t get to his gun in time and was forced to watch as armed bandits ransacked his house and destroyed his possessions. Then the intruders would turn on him. A gunshot to the head. Or better—gunshots to the knees, the shoulder, the groin—non fatal areas. Then, when he was crying in fear, lying in his own excrement, begging for his life, the intruder would put the bullet in his head.

  Alex would be free. We all would.

  I slid from the bed, silent, stealthy. Slipped on my shoes. Reached into Alex’s purse and took out her keys. She stirred, but didn’t wake. I opened the bedroom door and eased it shut behind me. Trekked down the hallway. Grabbed a kitchen knife—the sharpest one.

  Out the front door. Down the steps. Across the grass. The smell of nighttime, the sounds of crickets. Quiet. The keys jingled as I lifted them to unlock the Elmwood’s front door. Shhh.

  The door swung open when I twisted the knob. Dropped the keys on the welcome rug. Knife in my hand. A click as the door shut behind me. The soft brush of my shoes against the hardwood floor. A muffled shuffle. A whisper of rubber on wood.

  Everything was in slow motion. The world was still. A soft snore came from the living room. Crunch. A beer can underfoot. A snort as the man woke up. I stood still and he eased back into slumber.

  I watched. Hatred skipped along the edges of my consciousness, but couldn’t penetrate the haze of detached unawareness.

  I took a step forward. Another. Then another. Raised the knife. Brought it down. Soft and fleshy. Skin on skin. Something warm and wet. Comforting.

  The world woke up. A scream. Thrashing. Sputtering. I lifted the knife and brought it down again. Something crashed into me, fingernails tearing and ripping, the sound of crashing glass, the metallic smell of blood.

  I lifted the knife and brought it down again. An obstruction. Metal on bone.

  Again. Faster now. The knife was moving of its own accord. I wasn’t in control—maybe I never was. The knife was alive, vengeful, reaching out for a blood offering.

  I laughed. He screamed, a gurgling cry of horror.

  A rushing in my ears, then the world was quiet again. He was still, but the knife wouldn’t stop. It just kept going. Slashing, killing.

  “Stryder,” I whispered. “Are you here?”

  Silence. But, I could feel him near me. Feel his pride. I did it. I was him and he was me and I couldn’t wait to tell Alex.

  I dropped the knife, tripped over an overturned coffee table, righted myself, staggered to the door. My fingers were wet and slipped on the doorknob. Slickery. My mom used to use that silly, made-up word when I was a kid. I laughed as the slickery doorknob turned and the door swung open at last.

  The keys jingled again when I accidentally kicked them, but I didn’t pick them up. Alex didn’t need her keys anymore. She lived with me now. Forever.

  Home sweet home. Another slickery doorknob. Everything was slickery, it seemed. Or, sticky. My shoes made a slapping sound, like I’d stepped in pancake syrup and tracked it through the house. Fwap. Fwap.

  In the bathroom, I turned on the light. There was blood all over me but I couldn’t remember hurting myself. I took off my shirt. It was ruined. I threw it in the tub. My sweat pants were wrecked. Maybe
my mom could use bleach to get the stains out—I wasn’t sure. I’d have to ask. I kicked my shoes into the corner, stripped off my pants, and stood before the mirror. I needed a haircut.

  At last, I was tired. So tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. Too tired to take a shower. Switching on the sink, I grabbed a bar of soap and washed my hands up to my elbows. With a slightly dampened towel, I rubbed some of the red stuff out of my hair. It must have been blood. Did I hurt myself?

  Alex was still sleeping when I crawled in bed next to her. My eyes flickered shut as sirens shrieked outside, coming closer. Closer. I was gone.

  Chapter 23- Alex

  But who are ye, in whom there trickles down

  Along your cheeks such grief as I behold?

  (Canto XXIII, lines 97 & 98)

  At first, I thought it was my dad pounding on the door. Reaching for my cell phone, I glanced at the time. 4:42. Seriously? My dad was never up that early.

  “Wake up.” I shook Sean, but he didn’t move. He’d probably been up half the night playing his stupid game.

  Sounds of movement drifted down the hall. A thin light underneath the door pierced the pitch darkness in our bedroom. I sat up. I had to pee. Opening the door and heading down the hallway, I realized the voices at the door weren’t familiar. Maybe my dad wasn’t here after all, but who would be knocking on the door at a time when the rest of the world was asleep?

  “Alex? Sean?” Mrs. Droste called.

  “I’ll be right there.” Nature called. I ducked into the bathroom and shut the door.

  My shriek of terror rebounded off the porcelain sink and tub, echoing back and fueling my fear. I screamed again, then gagging and retching, threw open the bathroom door and staggered into the hallway.

  It was a scene from a horror movie. Blood was smeared everywhere—the sink, the toilet, the linoleum, the mirror. Red rivulets meandered from a sodden mass at one end of the tub and trickled toward the drain. Acid burned my throat and vomit rose up into my mouth. I gagged again.