The Tutor

by K Larsen

  Lotte

  When I come to, a siren blares. I sit up quickly. I rub my eyes and push my hair from my face. I scan the room. A room! I don’t see Holden. I lunge for the door. My ankle stops and I belly flop on the floor. A sharp crack sounds in the dim room and I yelp. My shin throbs. I roll to my side and look at the bed. My ankle is tied to the bed frame. The skin of my shin is torn open and blood runs freely, staining the itchy carpet. A small metal box on the floor, the culprit of my wound.

  I reach for the box, wincing through the pain. When I open it, I cry out. Nora’s friend’s letters, her cell phone and license and other various items rest in the tin. All the missing things. But her license makes me cringe. He has her address. If he takes her, there will never be an escape.

  The door bursts open and with it a cold gust of evening air. Holden stops mid-step and appraises me. The tear in my shin bleeds so much, I am worried that I will die. How much blood can a person lose? Holden kicks the door shut with his foot and kneels by my side.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head.

  He looks me over. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

  I bite my lip.

  Without speaking, he picks me up and places me on the bed, then flips on a light. He goes into the bathroom. I can hear him running water and digging around for something. When he comes out, he carries a wash cloth and a brown bottle of something. The first dab of the cloth sends pain shooting to my fingers and toes, but soon I am numb to it.

  “Stop flinching,” Holden says. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deep ‘Be brave’ Nora’s voice whispers in my ear.

  As he cleans and wraps the wound, I’m whisked into a different time.

  When she wakes in the morning, still handcuffed to his bed, I am tending to at least a dozen small slices on her body. None too deep. None are too long, just enough to draw blood. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to scar.

  I ring out the washcloth in a bowl of water, then dab the cloth gently across her wounds. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “It’s not your fault.” Her voice is hoarse.

  “I didn’t save you.”

  Her eyes connect with mine. “How could you? You’re just a kid.”

  “Yeah, but two of us against him might work. I was too scared to leave my room.” I sniffle. All I want to do is hug her. To hold her close to me but I can’t. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Lotte, look at me,” she says.

  I raise my eyes to meet hers. I muster all the courage I can, so I look confident. She pulls my fingers to her pulse point. “I’m not dead,” she says firmly.

  An involuntary sigh of relief escapes me.

  I had a family once. A normal one. But for the last two years, I’ve lived with a monster. Mostly, he treats me fine. Not warm but not mean either. When Nora came, everything changed. I felt like I belonged to a family again, for a short while. In the midst of my own personal chaos—she created a calm.

  Dr. Richardson

  “Hi, Nora, how are you today?”

  “Fine.” She shrugs and looks around the office of my colleague.

  “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “No. Eve drove me.”

  “How are you adjusting to being home?”

  “It’s . . . underwhelming.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t seem to hold anything for me anymore. All the things are the same. They’re all mine, but yet—they feel like someone else’s now.”

  “Let’s dig a little deeper into that. What was your childhood like?”

  Nora thinks silently for a moment before answering. “My mother loved lace curtains. My father loved his recliner and sports. I used to crawl onto his lap and nap while he watched. There were always flowers in our house. On window sills and tables. My aunt visited occasionally. She was much younger than my mom. When they died . . . things changed. I didn’t feel safe. Ashley wasn’t a good fill-in parent and eventually she left because she didn’t want the burden of me anymore. But before all that, my actual childhood was happy. My parents loved each other and loved me.”

  “That must have been difficult but it sounds as though you coped well under the circumstances.”

  “I suppose. I felt out of place often. A latchkey kid of sorts. All I ever wanted was to belong. To fit in with someone, to have a family of my own.”

  She cocks her head and looks at me. Really looks at me. It makes me feel vulnerable. Her silence eats at the tension in the room.

  “Do you want to tell me something?” I ask her.

  She smirks, “Do you have something you want to hear?”

  I shiver at her words. I decide to be frank with her. “Do you have a word for what Holden did to you?

  “Yes. Nepenthe.”

  I nod my head, as if I know what that means. “I’d like to pick up where we left off.”

  “Okay,” she answers.

  “The morning you were supposed to leave.”

  “Yes. That morning.” She wraps her arms around her middle and looks away.

  Nora

  I hug Lotte to my chest and say goodbye. The color in her face has drained and she feels distant. It makes my chest hurt. He has been quiet this morning. Neither of us want to bring up that this is the end of us. That the summer romance is over. I don’t know what to say to him and I imagine he feels the same.

  “Everything’s packed up,” I tell Holden.

  He nods and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug. He carries me off the porch and I giggle in his ear. “Do you have to go?” he asks, setting me on my feet.

  I look up at him and my chest constricts. “I do. School starts soon.”

  He takes my hand and tugs. Holden walks me to the small building he built. My heart swells when he kisses me on the forehead. I ache to see where this could go but I am not naive enough to give up college to find out.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  He stops at the door, swings it open and smiles at me. Excitement rushes me. Has he made me a parting gift? I look inside the building but it is empty.

  “Your story no longer belongs to you. It’s my story now,” he says. With a quick shove, I stumble into the room he built. I am perplexed at his words.

  “What?” I squeak. My voice echoes in the stillness between us. Holden regards me a moment longer, then swings the door closed. “This isn’t funny. Open the door.” I push on it but nothing happens. The only sound I hear are Holden’s boots stomping away from me. My stomach clenches, as a wave of shock rips through me. “Let me out!” I scream. The steps grow quiet. Quieter. Then, there is nothing. I continue pounding on the walls, the door. Anxiety hits me like a wrecking ball, and depression lunges in to feast on what’s left of me. I cry until I can’t anymore.

  I feel around in the dim light from floor to ceiling with my hands. Splinters repeatedly rip into my skin. I shout. I scream. I sob. There are no windows. No door handle. There is a bucket in one corner and a white dress hanging from a splintered slat on another. As the sun descends, I can make out less and less. “Let me out!”

  “Lotte,” I yell.

  “Holden, please. Why?” I sob.

  I squint and try to listen. Maybe I can hear something.

  Eventually, I fall asleep in a corner.

  I huddle in the corner, knees pulled up under my chin, eyes closed. The rough, unsanded wood of the room snags the fabric of my skirt. Last night, I watched the moonlight on the ceiling, while I listened to the wind in the trees outside this wooden cage. I could feel the space breathe. Wind rattled through the slats as easily as the moonlight crept in. I trace my finger along the scratches and gouges in the wooden walls that my nails have carved. I’m cold and hungry. My stomach gurgles and my throat feels like sand. I’m unbearably thirsty. Every muscle in my body is sore and my mind feels on the precipice of unraveling. But I can’t give up. His boots crunch on the gravel. I dart to a standing position. “Let me out, Holden!”
<
br />   “Lotte! Holden, please,” I sob.

  It is late afternoon and a storm is coming. The wind picks up and towering thunderheads are stacked high to the west. Lightning flashes through a black curtain of rain. There is an odd sound of wood on wood that I haven’t heard before. I scramble to a corner of the room and pull my knees against my chest.

  Lotte. The wooden brick. It slides out and a sliver of lamp light shines in. Two tomatoes and an apple roll in through the small opening. I crawl hastily across the floor and try to reach through the opening to grab Lotte but as I push my arm through, the wooden brick starts to slide back in.

  “Lotte, please. Please,” I whimper. “You knew.” I say, as I realize she absolutely knew what Holden was building. She knew and she cut that wooden brick out.

  “It’s happened before,” she whispers. Before I can respond, I hear the soft swish of her skirt and her tiny footfalls moving away.

  She knew this was coming.

  When I sleep, my brain doesn’t hurt. The world is quiet. The sun is only peeking above the horizon. I watch its meager light through the slats of my cage.

  The wooden box is a musty hybrid of human waste and perspiration. I dig my fingers into the wood, ignoring the splinters that stab my skin. Dust rolls through the fractured sunlight. Time passes slowly, or quickly, I don’t know which. I cannot remember my last meal. My heart beats faster and my lungs refuse to take in air. I cannot tell if the stars in my vision are from the darkness or not. I can feel my head getting lighter, and I welcome the sensation. I want to escape, to leave this place. I slap myself. One day. I can do anything for one day. Lotte is with him in that house, fifty yards from me. If she can survive. I can survive. I walked into a nightmare and now I have to try and walk out. “My name is Nora,” I say. Panic blossoms in my chest, my breathing tight and arrhythmic. The edges of my vision blur and as unconsciousness finds me, I vow to protect Lotte with everything I am when I get out of here.

  Even after all these years, the hard knot of loneliness still rattles around my chest any time I think of my parents. I miss things. Mundane things. The sound of a ringing cellphone, the ambient noise of cars driving, Aubry’s family talking all at once—over each other, the picture on the television and sound of the radio on. I cannot hear Holden or Lotte. I do not understand what is going on. I yell for help until my voice is hoarse.

  I pass the time worrying about Lotte and Aubry and my house. I hope Aubry has begun to wonder why I haven’t shown up yet. Have I been reported missing? Am I on the news? Are there search crews scouring the mountainside. I don’t know. I am in a wooden box—cut off from everything. I’ve lost count of the days. I scream until my voice gives out.

  I pray to God, the universe—whoever may listen. I beg the souls of my parents. “Dear God, I don’t believe in . . .” I do not have the energy to finish my thought aloud. I am lonely. I am starving and thirsty. I miss sounds. Aubry’s laugh. Music on the radio. Traffic. The coffee machine brewing. My body is aching. It has been days. Maybe longer. I don’t know anymore. It reeks of urine and feces. The white gown I eventually unhooked and put on, is grimy and clings to my skin.

  Brick by brick, my mind builds a safe room around me. Until I allow myself to go down, the Devil will own me. I let myself be pulled under the fog my brain creates. Down and down and down. My tears dry up. My terror subsides. My anxiety wanes. I feel it running through my veins, the dark feeling I have been trying to hold off, descending now, falling around my shoulders like a dank shroud, turning me into someone else. I’m shaking hands with a dark part of myself and I know it’s wrong but I don’t care. I let it creep into my heart, filter through my veins, until I am no longer anything worthwhile. I lay my head down on the floor. The morning creeps in and I feel directionless and vacant.

  The light stabs into my pupils when the door is jerked open. I am huddled in the corner. He holds out his hand to me. I do not take it. He crouches before me. “Rule one. You do as instructed.” He holds out his hand again. This time I take it. When I’m on my feet, Holden grabs the chain of my necklace. It tugs against my skin, then the smallest snap sounds and with it the last of my sanity. The charm hits the floor and rolls out of sight while Holden clutches the chain.

  Holden grabs my chin, sliding his thumb along my bottom lip before pulling my mouth open. The lip of the glass meets my mouth, tilts up. “Swallow.” He looks me over with a critical eye. He releases me and makes me walk on my own unsteady legs toward the squat brown cabin.

  I shake and tremble with each step. I am weak from hunger. One step falters and I stumble toward the ground. Strong large hands catch me. “You can’t walk. I’m going to carry you.”

  “Welcome home,” he says.

  Reality fragments around me. The mattress sinks as Holden sits on the edge. He puts a hand on my forearm. I do not react. I do not have the energy to shrug him off. I do not have the energy to care. It’s wrong . . . it is all wrong. Dust motes sparkle in the morning sunlight.

  “Let’s get you in something clean.” His voice is calm and tender.

  I do not speak. I do not help.

  Holden dresses me like one would a doll.

  I am limp in his arms.

  I do not move a muscle.

  This is not home.

  Dr. Richardson

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “How long were you in the box?”

  Nora shrugs. “Five days? A week maybe?”

  Despite her laissez-faire attitude, she trembles slightly but only slightly.

  “Holden dressed me that first day out of the box. He dressed me and left me in his bedroom on his bed. I sobbed until my body had no more liquid to expel. I curled into a tiny ball and willed everything not to be true. At some point, probably mid-day, he came in with a bucket, washcloth, and tray of food. He gently, tenderly almost, sat me up and fed me. Small bites. He murmured that things would be okay. That I would see. When the food was gone, he lifted my dress from my body. I stared at the wall, unmoving. He dampened the washcloth and washed me head to toe. There was nothing sexual about it. It was simply cleaning the filth and stench from my skin. If I’m honest, I almost enjoyed it. Being clean is something we take for granted. He left me in his room after a swift kiss on the crown of my head until dinner. He brought in a tray and fed me again. Afterward, he brushed my hair free of all the knots and braided it. When he finished, I laid back down and squeezed my eyes shut so tightly, that the apples of my cheeks began to burn.” I watch her closely. She is detached from this part. It is apparent in her voice and body language.

  “I think that’s enough for today. You did well. How do you feel?” I ask.

  She pushes her hair behind her ears. “I feel the same.” She angles herself to a standing position and reaches for her crutches.

  “You’ve mentioned your hair was long. When did you cut it?” I ask because I am curious. Did it have something to do with the escape attempt?

  “That is a different day’s story,” she says. I don’t push her.

  “Do you need me to call Eve for you?”

  She shakes her head. “She’s parked out front.”

  “See you in a few days, Nora.”

  “Yeah,” she replies. She hobbles from the office without bothering to look back at me.

  Nepenthe. I have to look it up after Nora leaves. Her quirks fascinate me but I find myself tired at the end of our sessions. I jot down words she uses that I don’t know so I can look them up later. Like nepenthe. I run my finger under the definition as I go. Something that makes you forget grief or suffering. Huh. Interesting. Nora is so very aware yet not—it baffles me in a professional way. I find myself second guessing my treatment plan for her. She is a-typical for the profile I generally encounter.

  She said that what he did to her was nepenthe and that her time with Holden was ineffable. Which means she knew she changed to cope. She adapted to survive but that she also found herself content in that state of survival. Unraveling her might
be my greatest feat to date. I close the dictionary and set it aside. Leaning back in my chair, I stare at the ceiling, pen clamped between teeth and think. If someone knows a particular action or circumstance is wrong, but doesn’t essentially care, how do you work them through it?

  My patients typically do not see right or wrong any longer and therapy is about reshaping their perception of right and wrong until it aligns with society’s. But Nora knows and simply chooses to overlook it. I will need to tread carefully with her and get her to dig deep, emotionally. I will not let her be lost to a fractured mind. I will bring her back.

  Nora

  Can Eve tell by looking at me that is has been days since I’ve managed any personal hygiene more than a cold splash of water? I assume sitting in close quarters like we are, she can. I am tired and irritable.

  “How was it?” she asks, while navigating traffic.

  “It was fine. I don’t know why I bother. It won’t fix me.”

  Eve chances a glance at me. “It might help you. How can you know, unless you try it?”

  “Are you liking the house, okay?” I steer the conversation away from me.

  Eve’s face wrinkles up. I find myself wondering if Holden found it endearing like I do. “Yes. It’s good. I feel a little guilt, though.”

  “About what?”

  “About being so far away from Lotte.” She keeps her eyes on the road.