Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  He struggles to push away from me, his eyes tortured. “No, no, why would you say that? I told her not to hurt you.” Agitated, he pinches my arm, the flesh becoming pink, then bright red.

  It will turn purple, a bruise, I assume, my teeth gritting down as he twists his nails in my skin. I ignore the pain as I force the cries down my throat.

  Gradually he releases his fingers, the tender skin mottled.

  He tries to soothe it, but I clasp his hand in mine, never missing a beat.

  After my bedtime routine, he wants to spoon me, his weight sinking against mine. I finish reading the book to him, his eyes drooping.

  Now for my plan of action.

  I close the book with a thud, sighing. “It’s too bad.”

  He moans half-asleep. “What?”

  “I’ve read everything on the shelf two and three times. It’d be nice to have more books.”

  “I can find more books,” he says. “Not a problem.”

  “Would it be too much trouble to go to a bookstore?”

  “New books are expensive.”

  “What about the library?” I suggest. “I love the smell of paper.”

  “We aren’t going to the library.”

  “Will you go?”

  “Little girl, you’re starting to annoy me. Stop poking the slumbering bear.” He elbows me in the ribs. “Or you’ll end up as my dinner.” He mimics eating his prey. I’m silent for a moment, unable to keep my mouth shut.

  “What if there’s one in particular I want?”

  “Little girl...” he swats me. “Sleep.”

  But he’s intrigued. Unable to help himself, he chastises me. “You can’t read anything risqué. Age-appropriate only.”

  Nodding, I agree. “I’d like to read you Huckleberry Finn.”

  “Ahh...Mark Twain.” He snuggles in closer. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  But the days pass and he doesn’t mention it again, and neither do I.

  26

  Bristol

  The Mole doesn’t bother with an updated calendar, preferring to make me ‘guess.’ By this point, I assume he’s got my monthly cycle down to a science.

  The pent-up energy, the strain of being in confined quarters for so long makes me feel like I’m losing my mind, stuck as a child that I’m not, the monotony overwhelming at times.

  Besides my family and friends, I miss pizza.

  Television.

  Music.

  Gymnastics.

  Even snow.

  The list goes on and on.

  I sometimes practice the splits and cheerleading moves when I’m ready to lose it. The bed is perfect for backflips and I make up routines to pass the time. If I’m wearing pants, I’ll do handstands against the wall, barely able to hold my bony arms up.

  At first, the idea of The Mole watching me on camera gives me the willies, but then I reach a breaking point.

  Sometimes I pace listlessly, touching the foam walls, turning in circles until I’m dizzy.

  Other times I lay on my back, shutting my eyes to focus on twinkling stars in the sky, our farm the perfect place to look up and find peace in the quiet.

  I picture Blair at school, her sorority car washes and late-night cram sessions for exams.

  Her hair's probably long.

  I wonder if she’s added any more tattoos to her collection. I daydream about what I’d get inked on my skin, now, if only to cover up the scars from the lighter.

  Jealousy hits when I imagine Isaiah. Did he replace me as the second child, the boy they always wanted? Is my father taking him on tractor rides, showing him how to catch fireflies?

  I think of my father’s sermons, my mom sitting on the sofa, knitting something sensible, socks or a new scarf. Even baby clothes.

  Balling my hands into fists, I imagine everyone moving on without me. The anger is so raw sometimes that I have to clench and unclench my knuckles, counting to twenty.

  When I assume we’ve hit September, I’m agitated, a foul mood hangs over me.

  My senior year.

  I would’ve made head cheerleader, been in the running for homecoming queen, and TP’d the town, riding in the back of a flatbed pickup. I draw pictures of what my homecoming dress would look like, a hot pink sequined number trailing over silver high-heels, the one time I could probably convince mom to allow it. Compromising with a cover-up since bare arms aren’t proper.

  The days run into each other.

  I lose track, my life structured and routine-oriented, until The Mole disappears and leaves me wondering if he’s even alive or coming back. He seems to know just when to pop up, when I’m so starved I can no longer sleep, the gnawing stomachache the only constant.

  Another birthday, another Christmas, another New Year.

  I’m tired of stale lunches and The Mole’s humming and the four walls that’re my obstacle against freedom.

  At times when it becomes unbearable, I want to die, praying for God to just call me to Him in my sleep.

  The summer creeps up, I try not to think about the fact I should be preparing for college, for the start of my adulthood.

  August comes.

  My fellow classmates are leaving for their chosen universities or to start new jobs, their cars packed to the brim, parents in panic mode that they’ve forgotten to bring a winter jacket or fill their car up with gas, preferring to leave the tank half-empty.

  Blair’s done with college now. A graduate of Creighton, off to start her life and a new career, probably L.A. or San Diego. I bet she’s got a glamorous title and has a sweet pad near the beach or maybe Hollywood. I’m envious as I think of her leaving our small town behind, making her dreams come true.

  The Mole visits, noticing my flippant responses and listless eyes. I don't even care if he withholds food or makes me do extra chores. I might as well be dead.

  The only thing he instructs of me is to take my bucket to the bathroom next door. At the beginning he would empty it, but now he watches me from the hallway. I’m only allowed to go to the right, the corridor pitch-black.

  I dump the pail in the rusted-out toilet, flushing it. The bathroom is really just that – a toilet that has no seat, a tiny pedestal sink, and cleaning supplies. The floor’s concrete and bare. Every time I’m allowed in there, I scan the room for any sign of where I’m at, makeshift weapons, or ways to escape, but it’s windowless and cramped.

  The Mole blocks my path, standing between the hall and my room, squinting his eyes at me, arms crossed.

  After I walk back into my prison, he turns the key and leaves without a sound.

  This time, he doesn’t come back for a couple weeks. He left dry ramen, cans of tuna fish, and old fruit, the bananas rotting with black spots.

  When I’ve eaten it all, I’m prepared to starve to death, getting my half-hearted wish. When he returns, it’s as if twenty-two days hadn’t passed.

  My eyes are continually tired, eyesore inevitable. Having nothing to do but read, color, and piece together puzzles is wearing on them.

  I have to find a new task.

  Laying on the floor, pretending to daydream or sleep, my eyes search for seams or loose ends that I can pick at in the carpeting. I manage to lift off a corner and notice thick padding underneath.

  It becomes my hobby, trying to figure out a way to get to the underneath, which is likely concrete. You hear of people digging tunnels and escaping from prisons to other countries, from captors...

  It’s impossible, but I have to have a goal.

  Or else I’ll lose the ability to live.

  One day when he comes in from the outside, he’s dressed up in a suit and tie, hair slicked back, a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn from the jumpsuits and coveralls I’m used to seeing.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask, after raising my hand to be called on.

  He seems preoccupied, adjusting his navy and yellow striped tie.

  “It’s a special day.” Noticing my yellow shift, this one covered with embroi
dered flowers, he squeezes my chin gently.

  “We’re celebrating.”

  I’m confused.

  It’s not my birthday.

  Not the day I disappeared.

  Not the birthday of anyone I know.

  Is it a holiday that I don’t celebrate? Passover? Rosh Hashanah?

  “It’s her birthday.” He smiles at me, the yellow tooth greeting me.

  “Who?”

  “Jean.”

  Puzzled, I lick my lips. What does this mean for me? Is Jean a missing girl that made a bad decision and wound up tied to a bedpost?

  “You’re dressed appropriately.” He’s thrilled by this. “We’re going to take flowers to the cemetery and put them on her grave.”

  I manage a nod.

  So she’s now a dead girl that was once tied to a bedpost. I press the unease down and focus on the positive. This excursion means fresh air and hopefully sunshine.

  Maybe an escape route. Today could be my lucky day.

  The Mole hands me a bouquet of white lilies and purple gardenias.

  He’s impatient, grabbing my hand, talking a mile a minute.

  I wait for him to blindfold me, which he does, but when he picks me up in his arms, I expect we’ll go for a ride in a vehicle.

  Instead, he shoves open a door, the whoosh of the steel closing rushes past my ear, brushing my cheek.

  Abruptly he sets me down.

  I hear him grappling with the flowers, the blossoms caressing my skin.

  Pausing, I move my head to speak to him, even though I can’t see. “Aren’t we going somewhere?” Now I’m scared, maybe this is one of his tricks.

  “It’s a walk, silly. Hold my hand,” he rebukes.

  A light breeze rustles my ponytail. I breathe in the outside air, calming myself with each inhale, my diaphragm rising and falling, holding his hand as if it’s my lifeline.

  And by this point, I know he is. He can kill me, he can save me.

  He plays God.

  Smelling fresh-cut grass, the earthen stench of dirt, and the scent of perennials, I shyly raise my hand.

  “Yes, little girl?”

  “Did Jean like these flowers?”

  “Yes. These are her favorite flowers and colors.”

  “Is this a happy celebration?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sir?” He loves when I’m submissive.

  “Yes, little girl?”

  “How old was she when she...when she passed?

  “Old. Fifty-Eight.”

  “Oh,” I say, “so not a child.”

  “Nope.” He tugs my wrist. “And not an accident either.”

  “Was it a tragedy?”

  “Aren’t all deaths a tragedy in their own way?” he muses.

  I consider this. “I guess so.”

  He’s quiet. I hear his footsteps on the hard surface, cement, I presume.

  “Was she one of your girls?”

  “Enough questions for today.” He’s staunch. “Let’s enjoy our walk.”

  We stroll in silence, birds chirping, my ears on high alert. I wish I could see something other than the four foam walls that house me. My eyes long for color, vividness.

  Something new.

  He hears my cries of desperation, even in my head. “Would you like the bandana off?”

  “Yes please.” I don’t want to act excited or he’ll change his mind.

  “You’ve been a good girl lately.” He claps his hands. “This is a privilege, remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He removes the cloth. My eyes hurt for a minute, the room dim and windowless, light a rarity.

  I blink a few times, my eyes adjusting to the sun, the sky, and the pine trees that look out of place here. I sigh, running my hands over my face, my skin luminescent, all traces of color barely visible except for the marks he’s inflicted.

  A small hill dips where we walk, the grass overgrown. There’s a pond but no ducks, only junk cars – no people, and nothing but trees and lawn decorations made out of old car parts – rusted radiators, fuel pumps, and tires filled with dirt and shrubs.

  It’s a personal cemetery.

  My heart drops. Will I be buried here one day?

  He gives me a sideways glance, reading my mind. “Not today.”

  I nod, unable to speak, lost in thought.

  Pointing to a makeshift grave that’s nothing but a wooden cross with faded lettering, the name says Jean, beloved mother and friend, October 7th, 1939 - September 30th, 1997.

  She’s been dead a couple years.

  He motions for me to kneel beside him. “Is she related to you?” I whisper.

  Setting the white lilies and the purple gardenias at the foot of the marker, he nods. “My mother.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I bow my head, mimicking his motions, pretending to pray for her soul.

  And for her son, because he’s going to hell.

  “She was my best friend,” he murmurs. “But she had an evil side.”

  Shocked, I stare at the latest burn marks on my hands, this time running the length of my index finger.

  “What do you mean?” I don’t expect him to answer.

  “She hurt me.” He scowls. “She hurt her.”

  I bite my tongue, tracing the scabs that will become jagged scars. He threads his fingers through mine, his voice shrill. “So she had to go.” He’s certain of this, shaking his head up and down. “It was time. We all have a time and a season.”

  He shrugs. “Soon you’ll have a time.” He says this so matter-of-fact, my hand goes limp in his palm.

  Focus, I tell myself, focus on him.

  “Did she kill your sister?” I barely breathe, a blade of grass tickling my bare knee.

  “Yes.” He squeezes my fingers painfully. “So I had to take matters into my own hands.” He’s quick to add, “but I didn’t mean for it to go that far. She was all I had.”

  “What happened to Marian?”

  “She died.” He yanks on his tie. “So Mother paid the price and joined her in heaven.”

  “How did Marian… ?” I stutter. “How did she um, pass away?”

  “Mother locked her in a closet and she never came out.” Sadness pains his eyes.

  “How come?”

  “Because she didn’t like that we were close, that I wasn't Mommy’s little boy anymore. That Marian and I had a bond, she was my other half.”

  Marian.

  His twin.

  “She couldn’t let us be.”

  “Why would she hurt your twin and not you?”

  “Because I was her favorite. Both of their favorites. She was jealous of my sister.”

  Jesus. This is deep. Imagine if my mom was this psychotic about Blair and I. She might be more critical of her, but crap, this is heavy.

  “She made me help.” A fat tear rolls down his ruddy cheeks.

  I’m silent. His range of emotions tire me out, the constant change a testament to his deep-seated issues.

  Patting his shoulder awkwardly, I soothe him by whispering kind words and condolences.

  He seems to appreciate the gesture, his body relaxing against mine.

  I hold his hand, mine pale and marked, his tan with flaxen hair.

  We sit like this, the questions piling up, but I’m too scared to ask, another swing to his mood and I’ll be in a shallow grave myself.

  “She said it was wrong,” he moans.

  “Who?”

  “That we were too close.” He bows his head. “Mommy didn’t like it.”

  “What didn’t she like?”

  “That we would lay in bed together.”

  “Did you share a room?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are sorrowful. “We shared everything. She was my best friend.”

  “How old?”

  “Twelve.” He sags against me, burying his face in my shoulder, the mole out of sight.

  I’m aghast, my face turning ashen, his admission closing the gap in a story I’ve l
ong wondered about-his obsession with the age of twelve and another decade.

  When he leaves the room, he’s in present time, but when he comes in, he leaves it behind for the past.

  I’m her.

  And he will keep killing young girls until he’s caught or murdered.

  Because we all age, even in a room of your own making.

  This realization stuns me.

  I close my eyes, pretending to listen to his desperate attempts at emotional maturity, but I’m shriveling up inside.

  Why doesn’t anyone care that I’m still missing?

  He blubbers for a few more minutes, his snot running down my cheek.

  I say nothing.

  His touch can’t hurt me anymore, the wounds inside a cesspool of self-loathing that even I can't reach.

  When he stands, his tribute to his dead mother over, he leads us in a hymn. Instead of singing, he hums. I silently mouth the words, his fickle tendencies at the forefront of my mind.

  I notice a grass stain on the knee of his pants but I say nothing, his mood tenuous. I can see the wheels turning in his brain, and that means I will be on the receiving end of his tyranny.

  As we walk back, I get maybe five hundred feet before he covers my eyes, wrapping the bandana around.

  It’s tight, too tight, and he moves his hands to my neck, squeezing.

  I cough, air filling my lungs, his anger now directed at me.

  The tension cuts the air as we walk, his steps hurried and uneven, mine laced with trepidation. I’m running out of time.

  When he closes me back in the room, I lay down on the floor, balling myself up, the fear and uncertainty eating my insides.

  There has to be a way out. Alive.

  27

  Blair

  When I turn twenty-two, I head back to Hawaii, drugged up on benzos to get me through the plane ride, my body’s chain reaction a wave of panic attacks at the idea of going back to the island.

  Not only that, but flying over open water causes my heart rate to increase and my palms to sweat profusely.

  It’s like anticipating a plane crash you know is coming.

  You don’t want to go, but you have no control over the outcome or the emotions you feel.