Take Me With You

by Nina G. Jones

  I pull away from her and grab the chair—my chair—and I pick it up and slam it down on the ground.

  She screams and pushes herself further into the corner, leaving a small trail of blood on the floor.

  I do it over and over, growling, screaming, until the chair is just two detached arms in my hands. I throw them to the ground, but I am not sated.

  “You did this!” I scream, pointing down at her.

  “No…no!” she shouts.

  But it doesn't matter. I have to do this. I don't know any other way. She thinks I'm trying to hurt her, but she doesn't understand that this outburst is keeping her safe.

  I grab the record player and throw it against the wall. The plastic, metal, and wood explode violently. I kick the bathroom door open, so that it splinters and rips off the hinges.

  “I'm sorry!” she cries.

  “Shut up!” I shout.

  I spin to face the crib, my pathetic display. A symbol of what a fucking sucker I am. I kick it over and over, the wood splintering and buckling under my feet. I tear up the whole place. This illusion. She doesn't want me. She doesn't want any of this.

  “I didn't do it, Sam! I had a miscarriage. I wanted it too,” she wails.

  But I am blind. Nothing quells the rage. I want blood. Blood for blood. I want to kill. And I can't kill her. I can't.

  I stagger out of the shed, marching back to the main house. I'm all instinct now. No. Instinct is about survival. I am rabid. Feral. I want to make pain.

  I flail the door open to the barn and charge towards Hilda. Any other time, I would've chosen to kill a person over my goats.

  Hilda and Trixie bleat frantically as I drag Hilda to the other end of the barn. Beverly huffs and neighs. The energy in here is frenetic, like they know everything that is to come.

  I tie Hilda's legs up and hang her.

  I hold the knife up to slit her throat, but instead of carving into her, without hesitation, I turn the knife onto myself, placing the blade against one of the many thick scars on my forearm, slicing into it, watching the old wound reopen. Slicing Hilda up won’t bring the resolution I need. Someone has to be the recipient of this wrath, and a goat wouldn’t even be close to worthy. But I am worthy. There is no blood at first, and then it flows at once, a crimson river running down to my wrist, palm, and then onto the floor of the barn. I walk over to the many tools hanging in the barn and find my weathered reflection on a sickle.

  I find the next scar. I press the knife against it and I cut. I do it to feed the beast inside of me.

  I cut into another scar. I feel the sharp edge slice into the sinew. I know it’s painful, but it’s nothing compared to the burning fire inside of me trying to escape through each wound I add to my body. I watch as the color of my skin morphs to scarlet, as the sheen of sweat becomes overpowered by the glistening of blood.

  The animals cry and rustle as they smell the fury ooze out of me. Their cries feed the cycle. I try to make the feelings dissipate through these cuts, but with each new one, I see blood, and I think of it lying on the floor. Of the fantasy she held in her womb, of all the power she has, and I want to hurt her. So I have to do it again.

  There is no relief. I still feel. I still rage. I still hurt.

  When my torso and hands are too soaked with blood to find more scars, when I realize that no amount of cuts will stop my hands from shaking with the urge to hurt, I stop.

  I amble over to Hilda and slice at the rope. She hits the floor on a heap and wriggles on her side until she is back on her feet. She staggers over to Trixie, screeching in terror.

  I allowed myself to believe I could be something else, but this is how it always ends up. With screams. With fear.

  All I want is her. All that can make this pain stop is the source. Like a fog clearing, I remember her. The girl who scrambles me up so that I can't figure out who I am when she's around. She makes me feel like I can reconcile all these mismatched parts of me. I remember her. Coiled on the floor, terrified. The pretty little smiling doll in the white dress soaked in blood, her face marked with terror and sorrow.

  I left her back there.

  Alone.

  Terrorized.

  And I can't remember if I locked the door.

  I stare at my home in disbelief. It's in pieces all around me. Like a small tornado ripped through and somehow left me unharmed. I didn't know what to expect when he came through that door. He had been different since he found out I was pregnant. That baby was my lifeline, I knew that. But I had begun to think it was more than that, that he and I were finding our own way. I've been the good girl, reaching deep inside of him to find humanity. I thought I had, and then when I did, I started to lose myself. What part was survival and what part was me falling for my captor? I couldn't tell the difference any longer. Not when I looked into those eyes, the color of the ocean and gold flecked shells along the shore. Not with that body, lean and tanned, resting naked beside me on my bed. Not when he brought me a new record, or swam with me in the cold lake. Or when he lay beside me as I read aloud. And especially not when he shyly brought the crib he built, a gesture so thoughtful, it’s one most normal people wouldn’t extend.

  I had forgotten who he was. But as I sit here, still soaked in the remnants of our child, I remember. I saw the rage. I saw glimpses of the beast who starved me and locked me in a basement.

  Yet, when the door creaks open on its own, when I realize that in his fury, he marched out without locking the door behind him, I don't run. I wait. There has to be more to this. There has to be a catch. It bobs back and forth in the gentle breeze for a while, and I realize he's not coming back. Not right away. This is my chance to run. To reset things. I've lost the baby. I can leave it all behind now. Slowly, I come to my feet, wincing from the occasional cramp. Thankfully, the bleeding seems to have stopped on its own and I am not hemorrhaging. If I was, I probably wouldn't make it through the night without serious medical attention. As I approach the door, I try to remember the steps I counted every time he took me to the water. He changed the route so many times, but I think I can do this.

  I grab my shoes and slide them on, peeking out before I make a run for it. I pause at the door, recalling the last time I ran. The fear and pain as he chased me through the woods. I screamed. I begged for mercy. That person seems so distant from the man I spent the recent months with. I fight that twinge of pity for him. I try not to replay the look in his eyes when he realized we had lost the baby, shiny with tears he didn't want to shed. He wanted that child. It was my lifeline, but it was his too.

  I brush away the thought and take a deep breath before taking off. The adrenaline pumps my heart so fast I can hear it thudding in my ears. I've been good, and I have been rewarded. He hasn't had to punish me in so long. But this—running off while he's having a fit—I might not survive what he'd have in store for me.

  Despite all the planning and counting steps, with the panic and in this black night, I am lost. But I keep running, hoping I'll see something, anything to help me regain my bearings. I push through branches, twigs, and cobwebs, fear numbing the pain, until I come across something I have only seen once before and only during the daylight hours.

  It's so haunting at night, it stops me in my tracks. The abandoned obstacle course, or “playground,” as he told me. It's crawling with vines and overgrowth like jungle ruins. I remember the look on his face when I asked him about it. He was hiding something painful. This place feels hollow, void of happiness. Suddenly it becomes clear to me that if this was part of his childhood, then his was not a source of joy.

  But as haunting as the tall, rotted structures are around me, this is a gift. I know where I am. It's still fresh in my mind from earlier today. I listen for sounds of him. Even though I know he can be deadly silent, I am reassured when I hear nothing. So I catch my breath and I make the final run for the lake. My refuge. My sanity. The place that I have convinced myself divides me from the rest of the world.

  It takes longer
than I expect to get there, but I waste no time trudging into the water, the skirt of my white dress dragging along the onyx glassy surface. Once I am waist-deep, I submerge myself and begin to swim into the black abyss. I know exactly how long it will take me to cross. I've studied it so much during our time out here. So just like the first time he let me swim out here, I go under, swimming until my lungs can't hold in another second, and rise.

  Don't look back. He is my Sodom and Gomorrah. He is my sin. He is my darkest desire. The temptation is strong to mull over what I am leaving behind. A life where I am coveted. I am his world. He takes care of me. He pleasures me. I am his treasure. No one out there would ever take the risks he's taken to have me. He could have hit me tonight, but he didn't. He spared the rod. He's changing. I've changed him.

  Keep swimming.

  The further I go, the stronger his pull is. But this is my only chance. People like him never truly change. He is broken. But so am I. Maybe not like him, but our broken pieces fit together to make a mosaic of swims in the lake, late nights listening to music, the serene look on his face--both perfect and damaged--as I read to him, orgasms upon orgasms, that swirl of filth and arousal I feel when he takes charge of my body, silence that speaks louder than any words any one else has ever spoken to me. And the scars all over him. Different kinds. Some thick and long. Others short, like choppy brushstrokes on a painting. They cover part of him, like a painting of his story. A darkness he can't hide, no matter how hard he tries to silence himself. He was hurt. And I'd be hurting him again. I'd be sending him to jail. I help people. I take care of them. Even Johnny didn't need me as desperately as Sam does.

  But I can't go back.

  I know who he is. What he's done. What would that make me?

  I come up for air and find myself at the center point of the lake. The spot I wished I could stay forever. Where I could keep the best parts of myself from both worlds. And I could keep the best parts of him.

  I study the side of the lake I have yearned to reach since my first swim. I can't go back out to that world. I'm not her anymore. I just have her name, her skin, her eyes, her hair. But my soul? It's been completely altered. He's stained its purity with his darkness.

  I turn towards the shore from which I came, part of me hoping he'll be there to force me back, but it's still and quiet. I look towards the other side that holds my freedom and I feel nothing. I stop treading water, and it feels so easy to let go. To let my body sink into the void. To watch the silver circle of the moon shrink as I descend into darkness. I don't feel so heavy anymore. I can just let everyone move on. I can stay here between both worlds forever.

  As I go under the blackness engulfs me. This is freedom. No one can have me, but myself. I close my eyes, and take a breath. Instead of serenity, the water in my lungs shocks me. My eyes open wide and I jerk, awoken from this trance of helplessness. Down here, between two worlds, at its deepest point, it becomes clear. I don't want freedom if it means the life I had before all this. I can't imagine a life where Sam doesn't exist. This is the greatest test. The key to my new freedom. To show him I had the choice, and I chose him.

  I push off the silty bottom and swim up as fast as I can before I lose consciousness. When I rise to the surface, I gasp and spit up water. The hollow sounds of my wheezing and gasping overpower the night sounds of the woods. I swim to shore, cough and vomit the water I inhaled, and collapse on the damp pebbles, rolling onto my back as I catch my breath.

  He must be looking for me. I have to go to him before he comes to me. He needs to understand this is all my choice. I wobble up to my feet, fueled with the need to find Sam before he finds me. I run, this time having better bearings and a clarity of mind I didn't have when I was trying to find the lake. It takes me a quarter of the time to find my way back to the cabin. The door is still open. I glance in from a few feet away, still not able to bring myself to look directly at the event that upended everything. I could wait here. I could sit out front until he comes back. But I can't wait. I can't just sit here passively. This is a choice. From the very start, he's given me choices. Or the illusion of choices. But this time, it's all mine. I laid the options, and alone in the depths of the darkest waters, I made the decision to come back. I won't sit here and wait for him to come to me.

  I have made the decision. And I have my demands.

  I run in the direction where I know the barn was. I'm not sure how to get there, but I come upon what seems to be a worn path, probably cleared for his convenience for the daily trips to my cabin. I race down it, breathless, frantic.

  He was terrifying when he last saw me. But I'm not scared anymore. I've run out of fear. I know he needs me, maybe even more than I need him.

  I laugh in hysterical relief as I see a pale amber slits glowing in the distance. As I get closer, I see the outline of the barn in the darkness. I don't know what I'll find when I get there. Or if he's even there. But I sprint towards it, my dress wet and clinging to my body, my hair damp and sticking to my face and shoulders.

  I almost call out his name, but I realize I know nothing about his life. I assume he is alone out here. That he has no close neighbors. But for all I know I could open that door and find a group of people in the barn. I don't have time to contemplate much further as the door bursts open, and out storms Sam.

  Heaving. Sweaty. His shirtless body, clad in a pair of torn jeans, glimmering with blood. His golden brown hair is slicked back with haphazard strokes of red. His clear eyes glow against the dark night and the crimson streaks masking his face.

  He is a monster. And I have run right back into his clutches.

  The last thing I expect to see when I frantically push the barn door open, is Vesper. I was ready to hunt her. To tear every last fucking tree down if I had to. I was going to go after her. And yet, here she is.

  Vesp comes to a sharp halt when I lock eyes with her. She freezes as her gaze travels quickly over me and back to meet my glare. I'm so fucking wound up, it almost hurts. Every muscle in my body is knotted. My heart is on overdrive. My mind is filled with racing thoughts, still wanting to hunt the woman who has tracked me.

  She's panting too. She's been running. Her hair is dripping wet. Her white gown is soaked through, so that I can see her tightened nipples pressing against the fabric. Streaks of mud stain her skin and gown. The blood. The deep red stain of loss, it's still there, slightly diluted by her excursion into the water.

  The water.

  She tried to leave. But she's here now. And I don't fucking understand.

  “What have you done?” she asks, her voice wrapped with horror.

  I look down at myself, at my blood coating my skin. I feel the burn of the cuts like little lashings all over my side. What she sees is who I am. I shake my head faintly at her question still holding every muscle taut as if she's holding a gun to my head and might shoot at any moment.

  “That wasn’t a person?”

  I shake my head.

  She nods, glancing over to the barn.

  “Was it one of the animals?”

  I shake my head again.

  “Is that blood…yours?”

  I nod, just barely. I’m not even sure if she can see it. I raise my arm and glance down, the layer of blood on my arm thick and gleaming like the shell of a candy apple.

  She looks back at me, raising her palms just a little bit, smoothly, as if I'm the one with the barrel to her head.

  “I'm here,” she utters, her voice quivering and weak. “I'm here, Sam,” she says more assuredly.

  But her words don't mean shit. Words have done nothing but betray me my entire life.

  “I tried to leave. I did. But I came back. Because I made a choice. I…” she drops her head down, and stifles a sob. “I don't know why. But I didn't hurt the baby. I liked spending that time with you in the cabin. You don't have to force it. I'm here. I'm here. We can keep doing what we were doing. None of it has to stop. But if you want this. If you want a life where you don't have to look ove
r your shoulder, wondering if I'll run, then you can't take me back to the way it was. I just want it to stay the way it's been.”

  Every thought is telling me that this is somehow still a lie. That every nice gesture, every smile is just a way to deceive me. Who would want me? A demon, covered in scars, struggling over every other utterance. I crave things that aren't normal. I know this. My mother knew this. It's why she kept me out here. She was protecting me from myself.

  But Vesp is here. I didn't run her down. She came to me. Do I reward or punish? Sometimes things aren't so clear. Maybe she gets that.

  So I have to do both.

  This was a mistake. Coming back here. Thinking I changed him.

  It's like he's under a spell, and I'm trying to speak to that tiny piece of him that can still hear me. Trying to coax him back to reality. He's holding a knife. I didn't even see it at first through the mix of light and shadows hitting his body.

  No one will ever know what became of me.

  They'll never know my story.

  And even if they found me some day, would they know I came back? That I had a chance to survive and I ran right back into his path?

  I run out of words. Words I'm not even sure are reaching him. I used them early on to pry out his humanity. But the person in front of me is dazed. Savage. Beyond language.

  He stares at me for a while. I dart my eyes up at the moon and hope that if I have to go, I'll see my grandmother. Then maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.

  He lingers. Stretching the moment out, his chin tucked down as he burns me with his intense eyes, glowing in the night like a mountain lion’s. I wish I knew his secrets before leaving this earth. It doesn't seem fair that I don't get to learn them.

  “Please…” I stammer. It's arbitrary. I don't think it'll help me, but I say it anyway.