“I got you, baby girl.” She gives me a smile. “I’m going to protect you from the crazies, okay? I’ll be out here all night. Just don’t ask for no fairytale story.”
Goodman walks me in so he can do a sweep of the room, checking the balcony and the bathroom, looking under the bed and in the closet. He doesn’t know this, maybe he suspects it, but I’m relieved at his thoroughness. I notice a bag in his hand, my clothes removed from where they were hanging in the shower.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He turns on the bedside lamp. “Get some rest. If you need anything, ask Officer Chapman.”
I nod, shifting my weight to my other foot.
“You’re brave,” he says, seeing the uneasy look on my face. “You did the right thing confiding in us.” He pats my shoulder, turning the knob behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
I hear murmurs as he consults with Moira. Typically, I would listen, pressing my ear against the door. Tonight, I do the opposite, hiding under the covers instead.
In spite of my fatigue, the events of the night, I can’t sleep, turning over restlessly as I imagine Bristol, tossing in the open water, bait for a shark in the night.
Then I see her being held down, thin wrists flailing as Will uses his weight against her.
Howling, I sit up so suddenly that the room spins. My body’s drenched in sweat, the covers soaked. I think I’m still screaming, but it’s the shrill sound of the phone.
“Bristol.” I reach a hand to my chest, my heart beating. I grab the receiver, breathless. “Hello?”
“Blair?” It’s my mother. She sounds distant.
I play with the phone cord, twisting it, watching it meld into shapes as I wait to hear what she has to say.
“How could you?” Her speech is slurred.
“Mother?” I rub my eyes, confused.
Her voice breaks, I hear the tears. “Blair, did you ask for forgiveness?”
“What?”
“Forgiveness from God for being sinful.”
“Mother, what’re you talking about?”
“The officers told us what happened…were you being lustful?”
“Mother, you’re scaring me.”
I hear a rustle, a murmur, then my father’s voice. “Blair, honey, are you okay?”
“No.” I whisper, gripping the receiver. “No, I’m not.”
“We’re on our way – we’re at the airport now.”
“What is she talking about?”
“Don’t listen to her, she’s struggling, incoherent.” His voice sounds uneven, like he’s as lost as I feel. “She took something to calm down. It’s making her loopy. We’ll see you in the morning. We’re coming straight to the hotel.”
I start to hang up when I hear him say, “Blair?”
“Yeah?”
“Blair, are you feeling okay? Like physically?” He’s struggling to form words. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No, Daddy.” I grip the damp covers, clenching and unclenching my fist.
I can’t say anything else. My brain can’t process anything else right now.
Moira knocks on the door, asking if I’m okay. I lie, lying back down, jittery and agitated. I turn the television on, then off, then on, then mute the sound, the screen flashing as I try and sleep.
Nightmares plague me, one after the other, Bristol on the dance floor with Will, her back to me, but when she stops dancing and turns around, her face no longer looks carefree and happy, it screams in terror, her eyes alarmed.
“Help me,” she yells. “Somebody please help me.”
When I try and reach her, people keep getting in the way, separating us, my hand reaching out and grasping at air. I’m frustrated, calling her name, loud and shrill.
Finally the crowd parts, but there’s no sign of her.
She’s disappeared into the night.
18
Bristol
When I come to, I’m startled by movement. A jerk of my head and my eyes flicker open. The children’s clothes I woke up in earlier have been removed.
I’m now naked and cradled in his arms. Trembling, I remember why I’m stripped bare. My attempts to push away from him are futile. Terror-stricken, my eyes widen in horror as he holds me tight to his chest.
“You’re okay,” he soothes. “I’m just taking you to have a bath.” He softly kisses my forehead. “Let me help you up.”
A large metal drum is now perched in the corner of the room. He must have moved it in when I was out cold.
“Bath time in morning,” I mumble.
“Usually is. Except when we have this problem.” He pushes a hand between my legs. “We have to clean you out. It was wrong what you made me do. We can’t let that happen again. It’s wrong.”
What I made him do?
He instructs me to wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist so he can carry me to the makeshift tub.
“You’re bleeding.” He pulls his hand away from my inner thigh, disgusted.
Sure enough, there’s a dark red stain on his jeans.
I shut my eyes, willing the tears to come later, or away from his watchful eyes. I don’t want to anger him, I just want him to leave.
“Can I bathe alone?”
“Never.” He’s matter-of-fact. “I don’t want you to drown. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“But I’m seventeen,” I murmur.
“What did you say?” He abruptly stops, shaking me in his arms like a rag doll.
“Twelve, I’m twelve.”
“That’s better.” I go limp in his arms.
There’s a spigot with a hose that’s filling up the tub. I shiver, wondering how cold the temperature is. I want burning hot water to take away the feel of him pushing inside me.
Shuddering, he sets me down. I curl up in a fetal position, wrapping my arms around my legs. Rocking back and forth, I taste the salty tears as I cry out for my parents.
“You know the rules.” He shoves me on the back, his hand jabbing into my spine. “Stop. I’m not going to remind you again. No wailing.”
Taking a deep breath, I will myself to calm down, counting numbers in my head.
“Come sit by the tub while it fills up,” he commands.
I obey him, sinking down onto my knees. “Will the water be warm?” I whisper.
“Raise your hand.” He motions.
I repeat my question.
“Yes, it’s a self-heating tub. See the coils underneath?” He smiles at me, with the ugly tooth and even uglier mole. “I built it.”
I decide then and there I’m going to call him the Mole.
He busies himself with setting toiletries by the red pail, humming as he unpacks a cardboard box.
It’s then I notice the titles of the books on the shelf. They’re all classics like The Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie, Lois Lowry, Judy Blume.
“Is there anything you need to see to read, like glasses?” He notices my eyes trained on the built-in unit.
“No,” I answer.
“Good, because tonight I want you to read to me in the tub. Your choice on the book.”
You have to be freakin’ kidding me. I cringe. He rapes me then wants story time?
“I brought you floss, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I need you to take good care of your body so we don’t need to go to the doctor.” He points to the pail. “I told you about your toilet. I’ll be in charge of emptying it for now."
Wait, would he take me to a clinic if I got sick…
“Because there’s no doctor visits. If you get sick, you’re out of luck. I’ll let you die.” He says it jokingly, but there’s a blatant seriousness to his statement.
“What if I get pregnant?”
He looks horrified, like I just told him he has two weeks to live. “You can’t get pregnant, you’re too young.” His voice goes into a high-pitched sing-song as he chuckles. “You’re silly, little girl.”
I clench my hands beneath my
bare legs. The Mole is not only a sociopath, he’s delusional. I might have lied and told my sister I had sex, but it was only to seem like I’m mature. She’s older and experiences everything first – drinking, college, tattoos.
I wince, but his violation is not consensual, I remind myself, and his attitude towards unprotected sex are at odds with everything I’ve learned about unplanned pregnancies. I know where babies come from. My parents weren’t dense enough to tell me they came from a stork or baby Jesus just dropped them on their front porch. That’s why they preach abstinence.
“Come pick a book.” He turns to the hose, shutting off the spigot. “And get in the water before it gets cold.” I stand up, pain shooting from my pelvic region. My hand instinctively reaches to cover my privates. I tip-toe over to the shelf, my head swiveling to keep an eye on him.
He starts to undress and I hear the clasp of his belt buckle come undone for the second time, my insides twisting. I vomit, liquid OJ is all that’s coating my stomach. Sinking to my knees, I heave, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tears burning my eyes. What if he tries something in the tub?
He turns his back on me in disgust, muttering, “Does my little girl need me to take her temperature?”
Appalled, I stagger up to the shelf. I don’t want to think about where he would put a thermometer in me. My breathing speeds up and I have to lean against the shelf to steady myself.
“No.” I groan. “I’m fine. Just dehydrated.”
“You can clean it up after I’m gone.” He shakes his head. “Pick out a book and then brush your teeth,” he demands. “Hurry up.”
I grab a book off the shelf, not even bothering to read the title. Grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste he brought, I gag on the cinnamon taste. Brushing my teeth, I pause, waiting until he sinks into the tub to creep back over. It almost overflows as his hairy body disappears into the water. He’s not fat, but not skinny, just a tad on the pudgy side, average, I’d say, but still tall.
Slowly stepping around the tub, he reaches a hand out, twisting his fingers around my wrist. “Don’t forget the washcloth.” A ratty striped washcloth is between two towels. All look like they’ve reached their thread count expiration date. We donate nicer ones to the shelters, new ones, I think.
I pick it up, trying to take my time to avoid sitting in the makeshift bathtub with him. Maybe he’ll get cold and quickly retreat. “Get in.” He motions to me. “Careful when you step inside. I don’t want you sloshing water everywhere.”
Slowly I hand him the secondhand book and the washcloth, gingerly lifting my leg, not wanting to raise it more than I have to. Noticing the dried blood on my inner thigh, I start to quickly lower myself until I’m seated in front of him. He tries to push me down and forward, and I have to sink until I can clasp the edges of the metal. Gritting my teeth, the lukewarm water hits my sensitive spots, sore and bruised
I wish it were hotter, scalding enough to burn him off of me.
The Mole wraps his arms around me, pulling me back towards his chest.
My body shivers, his touch unwanted and repulsive.
He doesn’t notice or care, humming another annoying tune. “Ready to read to me?” He nudges it in my hand along with the washcloth. “Dry your hands before turning the pages, we don’t want the book to get wet,” he instructs. I have to bite my lip to keep from pointing out that the pages are already waterlogged by their streaked print.
I wipe my hands, hand him the cloth, and stare at a cover of two boys, The Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. Turning the page, I clear my throat, attempting to read. My voice is shaky at first, my position against his naked body awkward, hunched over as much as I can in a makeshift bathtub with a deranged stranger.
First The Mole makes a couple of comments, but as I read he stays surprisingly quiet, his head leaned back against the drum. The first twenty pages I breeze through until my stomach cramps and my left foot falls asleep.
Then I stop, looking over my shoulder at his drooping eyelids.
At first I think he’s asleep, there’s no movement, just his heavy breathing over my shoulder. I try and scoot forward in the water, but he breaks the silence, tightening his grip around my waist.
“Did you know I saved you?” He sits up, adjusting me in front of him.
I freeze, his flaccid penis against my buttocks.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
He brings the washcloth up to my skin. Goosebumps race down my flesh, a combination of his undesirable touch and tepid water. Starting to wash my back in a circular motion, he ignores my question for a minute. It’s a test, he wants me to pry, get pushy so he has a reason to punish me.
I stare straight ahead, focusing on the metal door that’s a fortress against my freedom.
“Aren’t you curious?” he asks, his fingers tracing the back of my neck. He changes the subject. “What’s this necklace?” He pulls the thin chain around, examining the diamond-encrusted ‘B’. “Very pretty,” he murmurs. “This from a boyfriend?”
Biting my lip in agony, I’m mute for a moment as I consider how to respond. It’s all I have left of home, of my father. I don’t want to tell him it only leaves my neck to shower or swim. If he knows it’s priceless, he’ll take it away from me.
“It looks expensive. You shouldn’t wear it in the tub,” he chides. “Let me remove it for you.”
Reaching a hand up, I cringe, grasping his fingers. “Let’s not tonight. I’m more curious to hear how you saved me. I love heroes and white knights in shining armor.” I attempt a half-hearted giggle. “Just like the fairy tales I love.”
I freeze, waiting to see if he’s bursting with anger or beaming with pride.
He’s neutral, pulling his fingers out of my grip. “Okay, but just for tonight. Next time, don’t argue. Just do what I say.”
Shaking my head, I stare again at the panels on the wall. Why are they covered in foam?
He resumes washing my shoulders and back. “You really want to know?”
“Of course.” I feign interest.
“The guy you were with, what’s his name?”
“When?”
“Don’t be stupid.” He tugs my hair. “At the bar.”
“Will.”
“I was watching you.” Clearly, if he knew I was at a bar with a guy. I don’t point out the obvious. My eyes drift to the corner, focusing on a flashing light.
It’s a camera.
Licking my lips, I wait for him to continue. “You came in and were perfectly fine, but when you went to the bathroom, I saw him slip something in your drink. Both you and the other girl.”
“Blair,” I moan. “My sister.”
“She’s probably worried about you.”
I shake my head. “Can I call her? Let her know I’m safe?”
His hand pauses on the dimples in my lower back, and I’m worried I’ve offended him. “That feels really good,” I murmur.
“Does it?” He sounds surprised. “I used to wash her. She liked it except when I went too low.” He gives a strangled laugh, reaching forward, using the washcloth to reach in between my legs. They’re closed tight, but he forces them open. “Stop, little girl. I have to make sure we get all of me out of you.” He repeats again, “It’s just not right what we did, we can’t do it again. She would be so mad.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re safe now. With me. As long as we can wash away your impurities.” A hum comes out as he keeps the washcloth between my legs, forcing the coarse cloth up my vagina, irritating my already sore spots. It’s like a Brillo pad’s being scrubbed on my insides.
“Ow…” I scoot forward. “Stop. Please stop.”
He keeps humming, I think he doesn’t hear me at first, his voice like a trance, the motion the same as he ignores my request.
I try to stand, hoisting myself up, anything to stop the uncomfortable feeling.
“What’re you doing?” he remar
ks, snapping out of his thoughts.
Changing tactics, since he seems to like giving me pain, I respond. “I’m cold. You were right, it’s been a long day.”
“Oh...yes it has.” He considers this. “Yes. Please stand up.”
My teeth chatter as I slowly rise, water dripping down my legs. I’m miserable, hot tears burning my eyelids. I bite my lip to keep from having a full-on sob session. I don’t want to feel the wrath of his anger, my body broken in one day.
He stands behind me, then steps out. “I’ll dry you off and then you can do me.” Taking the worn towel, his touch is the opposite of the harsh washing he just gave me, now it’s light and gentle. “I’ve got a robe for you. It was hers.”
Of course it was, I think dryly.
Except this might be the only item not from another time period.
It’s a typical robe, fuzzy and pink. A butterfly on the pocket. It smells cheap, but doesn’t have the mothball scent of the shift from earlier.
“Thank you,” I say, covering my body as quickly as humanly possible. I wrap the belt around me, securely closing any gaps.
“I have a nightgown for you that I expect to see you in in the morning.” He purses his lips. “You aren’t allowed to sleep in anything else. Do you understand?”
He forces me to look at him and say ‘yes’ out loud.
“Good girl. Now my turn.”
Tentatively, I take the towel and start drying him off. I go as lightly and quickly as I can, his eyes half-open. His body’s supple, the arms, legs, and chest covered with golden tendrils, like a porn star from a Playgirl a friend from school’s mom had shoved under her bed. My girlfriends and I snuck it into her room and looked through it, curious about the big bushes that men and women seemed to have back then. He seems to be stuck in another time all together.
I can’t bring myself to touch his penis, even with a towel covering my hand.
“You forgot an area.” He opens his eyes, attentive, waiting to see how I’ll respond.
Playing dumb, I ask him what he means.
He points down. “Make sure it’s dried good. It needs to be clean and dry.”
I want to close my eyes and imagine I’m somewhere else, but he’s watching me with a twisted smile on his face.
Into the Night Page 13
