by Bera, Ilia
My self-preservation instincts kick in—I should say, they kick up and out. As I cry out, my foot connects with Carmine’s crotch and sends him stumbling backwards. He shouts out in pain and hunches over. I leap to my feet. The cell is locked, and the key is in his pocket. How can I get into that pocket?
Hands still locked around my back, I charge forward, using my momentum to knock Carmine onto his back. I fall to the ground with him. Thud! His heavy body causes a small tremor in the cement basement. His face is beet-red as he grunts and squirms to get back onto his feet. I do the same. Don’t stop, Olivia—keep attacking. My eyes zone in on his throat. I can bite his throat. If I bite hard enough, I can pierce his jugular.
“You dumb little cunt,” he says.
Before I can bite, I need to get him down on the ground. I have a plan. If I can catch him off-balance again, I can push him into the bars. With enough force, those crude bars could do a lot of damage. Finally on my feet, I spin around and prepare to charge again.
But Carmine is gone. In his place is a massive creature: a tank of patchy, brown fur. The creature roars, revealing a set of long, sharp teeth, strung together by strands of thick saliva. Its voice booms and then echoes through the cement basement, rattling the iron bars, and shaking the rugged floor.
The creature is a grizzly bear, weighing well over a thousand pounds. Its long roar tappers off into a low growl as it steps towards me. I try to move backwards, but my legs shake and convulse. I fall to the ground.
“You stupid, fucking bitch,” the beast says.
The bear talks. Like the wolf in the gypsy camp, the bear speaks. Bears don’t speak, and neither do wolves. I’m hallucinating—I’ve been drugged again. The gag they gave me must have been coated in some sort of hallucinogen. Or maybe I’m a schizophrenic—yeah, that’s it—I’m a schizophrenic and I’ve finally snapped. There is no bear in front of me. Carmine Pesconi isn’t real, and neither are Freddie, Mel, and Mert. I’m probably not even in a cell right now, but a mental institution, bashing my head into a padded wall.
Somehow, that’s a more comforting thought.
“I’m going to rip your fucking limbs from your body,” the beast growls.
“Mr Pesconi!” a distant, unfamiliar, human voice calls out.
The grizzly’s eyes are dark red; its muscles are bulging. Its breath is hot and humid, penetrating my jeans, penetrating my skin. If it’s a hallucination, it a realistic hallucination.
“Mr Pesconi!” the voice calls out again, this time closer. It’s an adult male’s voice.
“What?” the bear roars back.
“Your wife needs you upstairs.” The voice remains distant.
I try to control my body’s convulsing, but my efforts are in vain.
“Tell her to wait!” the bear says. I can feel its words reverberate in my bones. Bears don’t talk, bears can’t talk, I tell myself over and over.
“She says it’s important—”
“—I said, tell her to wait!”
My fluttering heart fails to pump blood up to my head. I’m lightheaded, on the verge of slipping unconscious. The large creature is a blur through my foggy eyes, though I can see it take another step towards me. It shows its teeth again, curling up its lip. Its long fangs are thicker than my thumbs, stained rose from blood.
“I’m real sorry, Mr Pesconi. She said it’s very important!” the timid male voice says.
The massive grizzly roars, turns to the cement wall, and swipes. Its thick, heavy paw tears through the cement. A plume of shattered cement and dust explodes and rains down on my face. The dust settles, revealing a wide dent, deeper than a blow from a sledgehammer could make.
Also revealed through the settling dust is Carmine Pesconi, in his black suit, peppered gray from the settling cement dust. The bear is gone.
He leaves the cell, locking the cell-door behind him as he goes.
No. It’s impossible. Men can’t turn into bears or wolves. They just can’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BRINK OF INSANITY
The basement is silent once again, but I expect Carmine will return at any second. I jump at every little noise. He’s going to kill me. As soon as he’s done whatever it is his wife called him to do, he’s going to kill me.
I don’t want to die. I want to live. I sit down on the cold cement ground. Whatever god, or magical fairy, or alien race might be listening: I want to live. My desire to survive alone gets me nowhere, gets me nothing.
More powerful than my desire to live, is my desire to see Freddie again. To see him and punch him in the face. I want to take that pocketknife of his and slice off his testicles. If I end up dying in this basement cell, my one regret is that I never got even with the gypsy bastard. I need to get out of this cell.
I may not be able to fit through the one-inch gap above the barred door, but my hands can. With my back to the door, I grab tightly onto one of the bars. Its rough edge cuts into my hand, but I don’t let go, reaching my foot up onto the ledge of the horizontal support. One little slip and I’ll end up smashing my head into the cement floor, with no hands to break my fall. Carefully, I pull myself up, balancing on the narrow platform. A foot above my head is the one-inch gap.
I’m four feet from the ground, back to the door, with my hands cuffed at my back, down at my waist. Wedging my foot between two bars, I lean forward, and raise my hands up. My shoulders pop out of place—ouch! I want to scream, but I don’t. I push through the sharp pain, extending my hands up more, pushing them far above my head. As the cement ceiling touches my fingers, my shoulders pop back into place, another sharp jolt of pain, followed by a wash of relief.
I feel along the tops of the uneven bars, blindly gauging the size of the gap with my fingers. I find one wide enough to slip my hands through. With a careful shake, I get the short chain that connects my handcuffs over the bar. Then, I drop my arms back down, temporary dislocating my shoulders again.
The image of Freddie’s face returns to my mind—I can see him wiping away the blood that runs down from a newly broken, crooked nose. I can see Mel holding Freddie’s hand, trying to kiss his poor broken nose better.
Using the sharp edge of the crude bar, I saw the chain between my cuffs. The high-pitched sheathing of metal against metal is ear-piercing, cringe-inducing, but I persist. Up and down, up and down…
I place my feet against the door and lean my body forward, adding the force of my bodyweight to every motion. The cuffs dig into my wrists, opening up old wounds. Blood drips down onto the ground. I can’t stop now. There’s no time.
I’m thrown forward, headfirst towards the cement wall. If not for my newly freed hands, my head would be split open against the wall. Thankfully, my palms press against the wall.
My fingers are white, with long red cuts, and splotches of purple bruises. It’s been days since I saw them last. One little victory—but I’m still locked in my cell.
Think, Olivia, think, damnit!
I can’t let Freddie win.
I drop to the floor and pull the boot off of my foot—a beautiful, black-leathered Gucci boot. “Sorry,” I say to the Italian masterpiece, before hacking the sole apart against a bar’s rough edge. I look away. I can’t watch the destruction of the leather beauty, but I can feel small chunks of rubber sole falling at my feet. If there is a God, she’s not here in this cell with me.
After a dozen hacks, the sole is split and the hobnails that hold the shoe together are exposed. I pull one out.
The nail’s first matter of business: unlocking the divided handcuffs around my wrists. I solve the simple mechanism in seconds. Relief—like the day my mother took me to the orthodontist to have my braces removed. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be unrestricted.
Next: the pipe bracket. I have to climb back onto the barred ledge in order to reach the pipe. Of course, given my luck, it’s a hot water pipe, scalding hot. I wedge the hobnail between the groove on the screw’s head and turn. Every muscle in my body is te
nse as I hold myself up, with my face an inch away from the pipe. The first screw falls to the floor, then the second, along with the bracket. The pipe continues its usual business, unaware of the missing bracket, still lacking the ability to be aware.
Footsteps approach. Shit. My mind buzzes through my options… and it buzzes quickly, seeing as I have no options. I hide my hands behind my back, and the cuffs and pipe bracket under my shoeless foot.
Oh no—I forgot to put on my shoe. It’s too late, now. I sweep the black chunks of my sole out of plain sight.
Stepping around the corner is Carmine’s long-faced henchman and the chemical smell of menthol. The man’s hands are buried in the pockets of his long black coat. I try my best to look inconspicuous, but between my rigid, unmoved stance, and my owl-sized, unblinked eyes, I’m off to a terrible start.
“What are you doing?” he asks. His voice as a funny nasality to it. It’s instantly familiar: he was one of the men who took me from the Holiday Inn.
My lips part and I prepare to deliver a convincing excuse. “Huh?” I say instead. It’s the closest thing to a word my mouth can muster.
“Why is your shoe on the ground? What were you doing?”
I have another shot at constructing an elaborate story, a master manipulation. “Huh?” I say again, buying myself more time to think, to piece together my scheme.
“I said, what the hell are you doing? Why are you staring at me like that?” The slanted look in his eyes is a combination of hesitant confusion and genuine concern for my mental health.
“I was changing,” I finally say.
“Changing? Into what?” He looks around.
“Changing out of my clothes.” I’m saying the first words that come to my mind, hoping they form their own plan.
“Why?”
“Because…” I’m silent while I think. The only thing that comes to my mind is Freddie’s face, rolling on the floor, laughing at my pathetic excuse for an alibi. “I have to pee.”
He tilts his long head to the side and squints his eyes. “You’re taking off your clothes to go pee?”
I take another moment to think. I may have bought some time—enough time for my glimmer of a plan to evolve. “I don’t want to ruin them. Do you know how much these boots are worth?” I say, looking down at my poor, disfigured boot.
He looks at the same boot and shrugs his shoulders. “Like, fifteen bucks?” He’s not making fun of me; he’s genuinely guessing the value of my mangled, split-soled boots. His guess is probably right, given the state of them.
“Try fifteen hundred!” I say, scolding him.
“Where were you going to pee?” he ask. Valid question.
I look around the cell; my eyes stop at the corner. “There.”
“You were just going to pee on the ground?”
I swing my head back to the long-faced man. “Oh, is there no toilet here? I guess I must be seeing things.”
The man is about to reply, but he hesitates. Instead, he scratches the patchy scruff on his cheek.
“Mr Pesconi wants you dead.” He changes the subject. “Wants to do it himself.” He says it in a chillingly casual tone, and then he stares at me, waiting for a reply. I’m not sure what he wants me to say.
“Is that all you came to tell me?”
The man has dumb eyes, sunken and distant, matching the rest of his body. “He asked me to bring you up. He wants to make an example out of you.” Again, he speaks with a chilling coolness.
“Well,” I say, my brain throbbing as it searches for an out. “I really have to pee.”
“Can’t you just hold it?” he asks.
“No, I can’t just hold it.”
“He’s just going to kill you—”
“—I’m not just going to hold it!” I say again.
His eyes become wide. Again, he hesitates to reply. “O—Okay, sure. Just hurry up, okay?” He walks down the hall, keeping his eyes locked on me until he turns around the corner and stops. His shadow remains in the hallway while he waits at the bottom of the stairwell.
Last chance, Olivia. What can I do? If I’m going to live, if I’m going to get my revenge on Freddie, then I need to come up with something good.
I lift up my foot and look down at my pile of tools: a pair of detached handcuffs, two little screws, two detached brackets, and a hobnail.
A tapping echoes through the cement dungeon. The long shadow, now leaning against the wall, impatiently taps his foot, like a clock, ticking down the seconds to my death. “What’s taking so long?” he calls out. His foot’s tapping becomes faster, like a bomb preparing to explode.
“It’s hard with you standing right there!” I call back.
With my pile of useless tools, I move to the corner, pull down my pants, and wait for my pride to empty out from my bladder. It takes a few seconds; there isn’t much left in there.
As I sit, squatted in a cell with my pants around my ankles, peeing on the ground like some feral animal, I reassemble my handcuffs. I connect the open rings with the plumbing bracket, using the hobnail to tighten the screws and secure the makeshift device. I’m not so different from the man who welded his own cell with scrap iron, building my own handcuffs with a pile of junk.
With the last of my pride trickling along the cement floor, I take off my second boot and my shirt. The subterranean chill nearly makes me re-evaluate my crude plan—crude plan, but good plan. I remember the man’s name. Eddie.
I remember three things about Eddie: he never questions Carmine Pesconi, he smokes menthol cigarettes, and he has a soft spot for whores. Not just any whores, human whores. It’s this third trait that will prove useful.
The tapping stops. “Are you done yet?” he asks. His shadow stands upright.
I sit down, away from my puddle, next to the wall of bars. “Yeah,” I say, hiding my hands behind my back. The makeshift handcuffs are open, a ring in each hand.
The man steps up to the bars, the key to my cell in his hand. He stops and stares at me, re-enacting the same confused glare from before. “What are you doing?” He scratches his scruffy cheek.
I look up at him. His judgmental glare makes my body feel broken and confirms that I’ve reached a new low. It’s hard to look him in his dumb, sunken eyes, but I know I have to. If I want to live, I can’t look away, not even for a second. “I can’t get my pants back on.” I continue to stare into his eyes.
“Why not?” he asks, reaching up and scratching his face again. I consider myself lucky that they sent their slowest henchman.
“I can’t seem to do anything with these handcuffs on my wrists. I’m only human, after all.”
His eyes light up as if a light goes off in his hollow brain. He shakes his head, refocuses, and looks around the cell. “Well, I’m not taking them off,” he says.
“Really?”
“Sorry.” His voice lacks both genuineness and sympathy as he unlocks the door.
“Maybe you can just help me get my pants back on,” I say, my eyes still locked on his.
He stops, his mind reconsidering. “What?” he says.
“Please?” I ask. My heart attempts to rat me out, rapidly clanging against my chest.
He looks at my chest, and then looks away quickly. He reaches up and scratching his scruff. “We should get going.”
“I can’t go anywhere like this,” I say, looking down at my bare legs.
His cheeks glow a shade of rose. He stares at my legs, considering the offer, considering any consequences—deciding if there are any consequences. His eyebrows rise and fall, and his head tilts from side to side, as if he’s considering the arguments from the little angel on his one shoulder, and the little devil on the other. He’s thinking, what do I have to lose? Then, his expression drops and he looks at me through squinted eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“I just need help with my pants.” My eyes remain locked on target.
“No—don’t give me that. What are you up to? You think if you put out, I
won’t bring you up to Mr Pesconi. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“What? No.”
“Yes. I’m not an idiot. You think I’m going to feel bad for you, and I won’t be able to bring you up to Mr Pesconi. It doesn’t matter what I think, you know. Mr Pesconi doesn’t care. If he wants you dead, he’s going to have you killed, whether you like it or not.”
“I never thought that.” I bite my lip.
“Nice try though. Get up.”
“Are you clingy?”
“Huh?”
“You know, clingy. Are you?” Goosebumps spread across my cold body; everywhere except my hands, which are hot and sweaty, struggling to hold onto the handcuffs.
