This man has done more for me in the short time I’ve known him than Terry ever did. He’s taught me more about life and happiness than Terry ever could.
I can’t say that I would rather live the rest of my days in a hole; I do hope that eventually he lets me out, but I have decided to leave that to his infinitely better judgement. I may not agree with his methods, but I do understand them.
I want to see the sun again.
I miss the way it feels on my skin when there’s no breeze. When the air is still and the temperature is pleasant, the comfortable sting of the sun’s rays in Texas is a sensation that cannot be matched. I like to lie outside on a nice day and just relax. But I suppose right now it does not matter, because it’s winter anyway. There’s no comfort in the winter.
And sometimes I miss the TV, too. I get bored. There’s nothing to keep me entertained but my own thoughts. I miss talking to my mother. I love to call her when I can, to hear her voice and feel comfortable like I’m home again.
My arms still feel weak, and I still feel malnourished, but I feel thinner than I ever have. I don’t know if it’s true or if it’s my imagination, but I feel fifteen or twenty pounds smaller. I’m still not thin by any means, but maybe there are men out there that will find me attractive now. Maybe he finds me attractive now. I don’t think he did before. I think he used to think I was gross. But he talks to me now, and he watches me. He watched me bathe.
I wonder if he’ll come back today.
Today seems to be more of the same, but much more pleasant. I’m continuing to be thankful for the new luxuries that he allows me, and I’m overall much happier with them. The inside of this room isn’t so miserably cold anymore. Some days are colder than others, and it has been especially frigid the last few days. There must have been a cold front, but I spend most of the day bound by the covers and curled into a tight ball.
I’m staring at the back of my eyelids when I hear his voice say, “You look nice.” I hadn’t even noticed he was standing there until he spoke, because I never heard the floor creaking just outside the door. But standing there he was, looming over me on his homemade pier. “You’re dropping weight pretty quickly. I’m impressed.”
I can feel myself blushing.
“Well, I uh, well thank you.” I fumble the words with a half-giggle and wait for a response from him, but receive only a stare.
After an eternity of waiting, he continues.
“I want to let you in the house. Soon. I think you’re ready. But I have some final preparations to make before I can allow you to see inside my home.”
This caught me off guard more than anything he had said or done in the past. I never expected the bath, or the clothes, or the towel, but I just attributed all of that to good behavior and cooperation. This is different.
This is an invitation to his world.
I refuse to allow myself to grin as widely as my face wants to, but compromise with a smile. He sees my face and laughs, then goes on some more.
“I like you, Zoey. I’m glad we met. And I’m glad that you’ve taken to me so quickly. I didn’t think you would like me very much.”
The man’s demeanor says confident, but his voice says shy. He’s looking at me, but again I can’t see his face. The most I can make out is the general outline of his face and his beard.
I continue to meet the void where his eyes should be with my own until I’m prompted to respond.
“I just wish I could start to see you more often. I wish I could see your face.”
He clears his throat and begins to speak, but closes his mouth again and stops himself. Instead, he begins back up the stairs toward the house, but stops at the top of the steps. He turns around to look at me again and, before leaving, he says, “Tomorrow. I’ll give you the grand tour of my home. We’ll have dinner and you can have a shower. Thank you for your patience, Zoey. I’m happy this is working out for us.”
And then he disappeared back out of my room.
---
Friday, January 15th
“Wake up, Zoey.”
The man is standing in his usual place, at the bottom of the steps, blocking out the light from the bulb just outside the door.
I realize my foot is painfully cold as I become more awake and aware, and so I draw it back inside the covers to warm it up. I sit up to more appropriately greet him, and then wait in silence for further instruction.
“It’s almost dinner time,” he continues. “I’ve already cooked, and it’s ready in the kitchen now, sitting on the warmer.”
He motions me to stand up and move toward the edge of the stairs. As I stand up to do as directed, he walks up and out, and then returns seconds later with an old wooden ladder, and lowers it down. This ladder isn’t the kind I’m accustomed to. Terry had a ladder, but it was one of those nice metal retractable and foldable ones that he only used once a year for hanging Christmas lights.
I reluctantly wait before grabbing hold of the first rung, just to make sure I’m not out of line. But then he nods his head in approval, and reluctance changed to eagerness. I grab hold and, one step after another, I’m on the edge. As I pull myself up, he has already stepped back to the top of the stairs, under the doorway. And, finally, after what I think must be at least two weeks, I am on solid ground that isn’t cold dirt.
My legs felt especially weak throughout the process of climbing the ladder and stepping up the steps towards the top. I feel exhausted by the time I reach the door, and he has already stepped further back into the house, but not so far back that I can’t see him. I continue to walk towards him, and out through the basement door into the home.
The bright, brilliant lights burn my eyes, unlike any migraine in the past ever has. I look down at my arms, and I’m paler than I ever have been before. While they are unpleasantly white, some of the fat has receded and been replaced by thinner, but looser skin. I can finally see my own body in light, and I can already tell I have indeed lost weight. I’m a long way from my goal, but I’m making progress.
The house is exactly as I pictured. So much so in fact that I am completely and utterly speechless by the accuracy. Everything down to the placement of rooms is completely how I pictured. When walking out of the basement, I enter a hallway. This hallway leads directly straight into the front door. In this narrow hallway, there are four doorways.
First, he takes me into the first doorway to the left, which was the kitchen, exactly as I pictured. Complete with basic tile flooring and basic appliances, it was nothing to behold. On the right-hand side of the kitchen, another doorway led into a carpeted living room, exactly as I had pictured.
We walk through the living room to the other end on the right, and through the doorway that connects with the same hallway. Directly across, we pass through the hallway and walk into the bathroom. The tile and granite matches that of the kitchen and, of course, on the right there is a doorway leading into the bedroom, exactly as I had pictured.
The entire tour around the small house, he is telling me about certain things - about the tile, the paintings, the carpet or the wood paneling, but I listen to none of it. I’m too focused on and dumbfounded by the accuracy of my own imagination, that it is impossible to register a word he is saying. Eventually, though, we head back into the kitchen and he shows me what he has prepared.
It’s a simple pasta this time, but for once it looks like I’m getting a meal that hasn’t been thrown into a bucket and mixed around. He’s allowing me to feel like a real lady, and treating me to a nice meal accompanied by a certain amount of respect. This time, it is penne noodles in a bath of alfredo sauce and seasoned with pepper and a couple different spices. In with the pasta sits diced chicken breast and grilled shrimp. Sitting on a small tray next to the pot on the stove are two slices of garlic bread that are the perfect shade of crispy golden. The meal looks faultless and smells even better.
He turns to look at me in direct light for the first time. During the walkaround of the house, he kept his b
ack turned to me and didn’t look at me to speak. But now, standing in the kitchen, under direct light I can finally see him.
His face is chubby and his cheeks are pink, but he isn’t obese by any stretch. He’s got a kind of patchy beard. It’s dark and black in the area just underneath his sideburns, but as it heads down his jawline, it becomes thinner until it is bald completely, then growth resumes closer to his chin, until it sprouts up into a rather bushy goatee. There is no mustache, though. It’s either bald there too, or he shaves it.
His eyes are wide-set and brown, but the size is hard to accurately judge, due to being distorted by a rather thick pair of glasses. His nose is small, like it belongs on a baby. Certainly too small for his face, but I can’t possibly judge him for that. I think he’s handsome.
He’s about Terry’s height too, which isn’t much taller than me. I think he’s maybe just under six feet.
I recognize him. I’ve seen him before; I just know it. I think Terry knows him.
“I’ll keep it warm. Why don’t you take a hot shower before we eat?”
“Okay,” I pause. “It hasn’t already been three days yet, has it?” At this moment, I feel like it hasn’t but I’m not entirely sure, either. Time has been hard to keep track of with no sunlight and no clock.
“No, darling. It has not yet. But I thought we could have a celebratory dinner together this one time.” He looks at me with kind eyes, then notions me towards the bathroom. Timidly, I turn and make my way down the hallway towards the bathroom, but I can’t help but feel as though I’m intruding in his private space. It feels to me like this is his area, and the basement downstairs is mine. Like that’s my room.
I close the bathroom door behind me, but leave both doors unlocked. Maybe I hope he comes in. I run the shower and let it heat up as I get undressed, then stand there naked with my hand in the water until it has reached the desired temperature.
I jump in and take my shower. The water pressure is just like at home; the shower head is even identical to the one at home. I feel at home. He’s even gathered feminine shower products, including my favorite scented body wash, and shampoo and conditioner set.
But wait. These products have been used partially. And in the corner is my own razor from home. These are my products from my shower, from my home.
He was in my home.
I take my time with the shower. I didn’t realize before how much I had missed a hot shower. Watching the steam roll off of my body and over the shower rod, dancing in front of the light.
Finished, I step out of the shower, and pull one of my very own towels from the towel rack. The bathroom is warm and not at all unpleasant. I half expected the tile to be cold to the touch, but it was the perfect temperature after a warm shower. I dry off with my own towel, after cleaning myself and shaving with my own products, and I smell as I always do after a shower. I feel totally relaxed. I feel at home.
This man really knows me so well. And I don’t even know his name. At least I can get to know him over dinner tonight.
I wrap up my post-shower duties by brushing and blow-drying my hair until it is decently dry, then walk out and let all the steam out of the bathroom. It escapes into the house and pours into the hallway, disappearing as drifts away. I walk back into the kitchen, with only a towel wrapped around my chest.
He sees that I don’t have clean clothes, then excuses himself. “I’m sorry. I totally forgot. Allow me to grab you some clothes from the bedroom.”
He disappears out of the kitchen and returns with some of my own clothes - a yellow long sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans and socks. These are my clothes from my own closet, and he was gracious enough to fetch them for me.
“Please show yourself to the bedroom to get dressed. I’ll have your bowl ready when you come back.” He turned back to the stove as I walk out of the room to change.
I get dressed into the fresh clothes and reemerge from the bedroom, and take a seat at the dinner table. He must not have heard me, because the sound of me sitting down behind him startled him, and he nearly shoved the pot off the stove and onto the ground.
He began to look enraged, but he caught himself and distorted his face back into a cool, calm, and collected expression.
He politely asks, “Will you please come here?” I do as asked and step up toward him, next to the stove. “Move the pot from the burner.”
So I do.
“Now touch it.”
“Touch what?” I only hope he doesn’t mean what I think he does. I stand there and look into his eyes as I await the response, but much to my displeasure, he says exactly what I expected.
“Touch the burner. Do it right now.” His voice grew stern and I felt my eyes well up. I really thought he was past this. I thought he just wanted to be with me. I continue to look at him without moving when he yells.
“Now! Touch it right now! Touch it, God damn it!” Spit flies out of his mouth and lands just under my eye and on my chin.
I burst into tears and touch the red-hot burner. I hold it there for a second, but a second is all I can bare, until my reflexes force me to pull it off.
“I didn’t say stop! Damn it! Touch it! Touch it! Hold it!”
He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, and I’m wailing at the top of mine, tears overtaking both of my cheeks, and dripping onto my shirt and the floor beneath me.
So, I did. But again, it is too hot to handle and I pull it off naturally.
“Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!”
He sees that I can’t keep it held on, so he forces his hand on top of mine and holds it there to his satisfaction, until the smell of burnt flesh fills the area around us. The most excruciating kind of pain whips me to my knee as he let go of my hand. In agony, I hold my wrist in front of my face as I cry. The skin has bubbled from the heat and swelling has begun.
The pain feels like it will never subside, and I roll on the floor as he sits at the table, enjoying his pasta.
This continues for a moment, with pain so intolerable and agonizing, I can’t gather the strength to even bring myself to my knees.
“Get up. You need to eat. I’ll wrap your hand.”
He clanks his fork inside his bowl, which has been totally cleaned of pasta and alfredo sauce. He stands up and walks into the bathroom, returning with gauze wrap, sports tape, and burn cream.
As I continue to bawl on the floor, in equal amounts of emotional pain as physical, he takes my hand and applies a generous amount of burn cream to the heavily blistered hand. Then, despite all of my reflexes to fight the stinging pain of the cream, he manages to wrap it and tape it up. The burn cream stings at first, but after the initial sting, it dulls the hand and soothes the burn.
It’s impossible to clench my fist or in any way move my hand out of the locked position it is in. Well, it’s not impossible; I could do it, but it would cause tremendous, searing pain. And I manage to stop crying, although my body does not stop producing the tears. I cease the sobbing and carrying on, and really become more or less emotionless, but my brain hasn’t told my eyes to quit with the waterworks, and they just keep pouring.
Following his direction, I sit back at the table, and eat. Lefthanded of course, because my dominant hand is now useless. He watches me as I eat my small portion of pasta. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even appear to blink.
As soon as I finish with my bowl, he takes it from me and sets it in the sink, without rinsing it at all. Then he leans up against the counter and folds his arms, just staring at me while I sit at the table. My hand still in pain, I sit and wait. And wait. And wait.
The silence feels like it’ll never break, until finally it does.
“I’m sorry I had to do that. You snuck up behind me. You can’t sneak up behind me like that. It’s the only way I could teach you.”
I want to not look up at him, not accept his apology, not fall for his tricks. But I have to. So I do. I look up at him, his eyes wide and made to appear even larger by his
glasses. We lock eyes and share the moment.
“I’m sorry. I should have warned you I was entering the room,” I say. “Thank you for the clothes. I appreciate that you went through the trouble of getting me my own things. Means a lot.” I wipe a few leftover tears off my cheeks and out from under my eyes.
He looks at me with the most sincerely apologetic eyes and says, “I forgive you.”
I nod at him, acknowledging that I was in the wrong, understanding what I now know not to do.
“Well, dinner is over. Do you think we could watch the TV together?” I try to smile cutely at him, but I fear my face is red and nose is snotty.
“Damn you. God damn you, Zoey.” He grabs me firmly by the arm and lifts me out of my chair, and quickly marches me to the basement door. “How dare you be so presumptuous. I invited you into my home. You are a guest. You cannot dictate the rules.”
He opens the door hard enough for it to swing open and smash into the wall. Then, with both arms, he shoves me down the stairs, into the abyss. I roll, hitting each step on the way down, and am being tormented by the pain in my hand, and now head, and leg, and arm.
For the briefest of seconds, the rolling stopped and I was still, but that was only as I plummeted from the edge back into the dirt pit.
From the top of the stairs, I hear him scream.
“Damn you, Zoey! When will you learn some manners?”
And he slams the door in the same manner that he had on my first day.
ELEVEN
SATURDAY, JANUARY 16TH
“Hey, Gene. Tomorrow’s finally Sunday. Got any big plans for your day off?”
Decay Page 12
