I shut my eyes. Go to your happy place, I tell myself.
Complying, I let myself wander into my bedroom, imagining the posters on the light yellow walls the color of buttermilk, snuggling with Oggie underneath my flowered daisy comforter.
It’s a childlike memory, but right where I left off at home.
30
Bristol
My hand flies to my face. A tingling sensation starts in my cheekbone and gnaws its way down to my mandible.
I’m still positioned on the bed, my ankles shackled but my arms free.
My mouth aches, swollen and throbbing.
Looking down, I’m still wearing the denim dress from the day before, but half the buttons are missing.
Did I do something when I took the pain pill I wasn’t supposed to? Is that why I’m being restricted to just my hands?
I don’t know how long I lie glued to the spot, changing position to sit up before resignedly flattening on my back.
My mouth tastes like dust, the absence of saliva reminding me how dehydrated I am.
I’m in a weird place – too weak to scream, too tired to cry.
Thinking of my list, I go over what I would add in my mind.
I wish I could have ice cream right now, chocolate chip cookie dough. Or maybe cookies n’ cream.
My stomach grumbles, but the meds have worn off. The pain increases, a fiery sensation radiating down the left side of my face.
I’m half-asleep when I hear metal clicking later, the scraping sound as it shuts. Keeping my eyes closed, the mattress creaks as he sits down beside me. Flicking my wrist, he speaks. “Do you know why you’re in this position?”
I don’t have to open mine to know his eyes stare at me intensely.
Too weak to respond, I point to my cheek. “Help,” I moan.
“That doesn’t work today,” he sneers. “Do you have something you’re hiding from me?
My mind races to the hidden corners I’ve been refusing to confront, compartmentalizing what I can’t control, as if it will just go away on its own, like a bruise.
Except a swollen belly doesn’t go away, it becomes more obvious as time drags on.
My eyes dart to the wall of supplies. Did The Mole notice my period hasn’t come, that the diapers are still stocked on the shelf?
I avoid his question.
“Can I have some water?” I whisper.
“No, you absolutely cannot have some water.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Do you know what you did?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen... I cry out. “It was an accident.”
“Look at me.” He punches my arm until his face comes into focus. There’s a look of pure hate, glinting from his ominous stare.
“This is no accident.” He’s enraged, a vein pops in his forehead, even the mole seems to darken in color as his fury builds. “You tried to get us caught.”
His open palm lands a smack across my hurt cheek. “I read through all of the library books, all of them. I saw your nice inscription.”
Twisting, I try and cover my face against his blows, a crack against my temple as he aims his next shot there.
“I should’ve left it, added my own note that said ‘now dead.’” He grabs a fistful of hair and yanks, my skull prickling at the rough movement.
“Lucky for you, I ripped the page out and returned all five books.” He grabs my shoulders, shoving me violently into the headboard. “You just passed the threshold between good and naughty. Do you know what happens to naughty girls?”
One of my eyelids starts to swell.
I blink, his face inches from mine.
He’s about to strike me again, this time aiming with an open fist for my stomach, when I raise my hands in front of me as a shield.
“Stop! I’m pregnant,” I shriek, my voice giving life to what has become my biggest fear.
I just haven’t wanted to vocalize it.
Giving birth here, in this room, with him by my side, causes heart palpitations. If he isn’t scared of performing surgery on a tooth, I can only imagine what would happen with childbirth. He’d want me to grin and bear it, probably forcing me to drink a bottle of tequila as my epidural.
The Mole recoils, whipping his head back, surprised, as if I returned a left hook to his face. “What?”
The word strangles to come out again. “I’m pregnant.”
His eyes simmer. “I don’t understand...”
“What did you think would happen?” I tremble. “We’ve never used protection.”
He stares at me in disbelief, as if I’m speaking to him in tongues.
“This…this can’t be happening, not again.” He buries his face in his hands. “No…not again.” He sinks off the bed onto the floor, sliding down with an audible sigh. “You’re too young.”
“Maybe you can take me to the doctor, we can ask how to prevent this from happening next time,” I suggest. “Then we won’t have to worry.”
My attempt at coddling him doesn’t work. “There won’t be a next time.” There is finality in his voice.
I shudder, deep down I know what he means. I’ve outlived my welcome.
Reaching down to stroke his arm, I keep rubbing the same spot, terrified of his silence as he sits huddled on the floor.
If I can convince him to take me to a clinic, I might have a chance to escape.
He doesn’t respond, his arm flinching as I try to soothe him.
“We just have to be more careful.” I put my other hand to my stomach. “I’m scared about dying in this room without a doctor...that’s all. I don’t want to leave you.”
The Mole examines my belly with his eyes, confused, the outline of my hip bones and ribs defined from malnourishment. I’m amazed I can support the weight of another human being in this shape. Must be why it took so long for my body to take to a child, that and the stress.
“I don’t believe you.” He taps his nose three times.
“What?” I’m incredulous. “What don’t you believe?”
He stands, leaning over the bed, the lingering smell of fresh mint gum on his breath. “You aren’t pregnant.” He holds my arms stiffly at my sides. “Don’t ever say that again.”
I swallow my rebuttal, afraid I’ll end up in the box or slammed up against a wall. A child’s growing in me, another life to consider, even if we don’t make it outside of the room. I have to at least try for their sake.
“Do you understand?” He pushes his elbow sharply into my stomach.
Terrified, I reply. “Yes sir.”
“There will be no more talk of babies,” he reprimands. “This isn’t appropriate conversation for us to be having, little girl.”
“Will you hold me?” I croak out.
He wordlessly unshackles my ankles before he lays down next to me on the bed.
Nuzzling under his arm, I hide my face in his long-sleeve shirt. He smells like aftershave and dandruff shampoo.
“Will you tell me your last memory of Marian?” I ask quietly.
“That would mean she’s dead.” His voice falters. “I couldn’t save her from Mother.”
“Did you help your mother…kill her?” I can barely get the words out.
Shaking me like a rag doll, he’s furious. “Of course not. I didn’t want to help.”
“Was it an accident?”
“It wasn’t my fault, I told Marian it was wrong.”
“What was wrong?”
“That she would find out.”
“Your mother?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He lifts his head. “She’s not a threat anymore. She can’t hurt me or you.”
“How long ago did Marian pass?”
“A long time ago.”
“Do you miss her?”
He gives me a shaky smile. “No, that’s why I have you.” Tweaking my nose, he lifts his arms, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder. Now I smell peppermint and gasoline.
“I’m not going to let you die in a closet or the room,�
� he groans in my ear. “Even though you’re acting just like her. She tried to tell me the same thing. She told me she was getting fat in the belly, that something was wrong.”
Dumbstruck, I swallow hard.
“How was it your fault that your mother found out?”
“Because I told Mother. I didn’t understand what was going on, and Mother kept asking why she was gaining weight. I didn’t know it would happen.” He snaps his fingers. “Poof, just like that, she’s pregnant.”
I’m quiet for a moment. “What did you think happened?”
“That she was with another boy.” He shoves his hand in mine. “I didn’t believe her when she said she wasn’t. I couldn’t control the jealousy, the rage I felt.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was such a flirt at school, disappearing on the playground, chasing boys to make me upset. She would act like I was invisible at school or call me names. I hated it.”
He sucks in a breath. “I hated her.”
Furiously he shakes his head. “Mother didn’t believe her.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were just kids.”
“But you shared a bed.”
“Yeah, but we were twins.”
“What happened?”
“She locked her in the closet, called her a lying tramp, and withheld food from her.” His eyes fill with tears. “I brought her scraps, leftovers from the dog.”
“And?”
“Mother found out and padlocked the closet.”
“The same way you lock me in here?” I try and draw a correlation for him, make him see my point. If he understands, he feigns ignorance.
“Eventually she stopped breathing.”
“How did you know if you couldn’t get to her?”
“The smell.” He taps his nose. This time only once instead of three times. “It seeped out and poisoned the whole house. Mother wanted me to bleach everything.”
“Is that how you covered up her death?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then did you move Marian?”
“Mother asked me to set the house on fire.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t do it.” He shakes his head sadly. “She belonged to me. I wasn’t going to hurt her any more than I already had.”
“Already had?”
His eyes show a human side, compassion, rare form for The Mole.
“By leaving her to die, all alone, while we went on without her.”
31
Bristol
The mounting evidence of pregnancy can’t be ignored. As much as I struggle with my changing body, my breasts becoming swollen and tender, my hormones causing acne, I can’t disregard the life growing inside of me like I could before.
My belly protrudes out as the months pass which is crazy to me, because the rest of my body’s skeletal. It doesn’t get very big, just a little bump. I don’t even need larger clothes.
Still, The Mole’s disgusted by these obvious changes.
His punishments are silent now.
Withholding food and going weeks without visiting, leaving me to fend for myself and the unborn baby. I wouldn’t mind his absence, except I’m worried about the lack of nutrients I’m feeding my body.
The positive means he doesn’t bother punishing me for my infractions.
I’m also responsible for picking out my own clothes. Luckily, a majority of the items are shift or A-line dresses, the material hugs my belly instead of swallowing my skinny frame.
Much to my relief, he doesn’t bathe or violate me, choosing to keep his distance.
But after he sees me on camera giving myself a sponge bath and rinsing clothes in the tub using hand soap, he shuts the water off.
I keep track of my pregnancy by using a color-coded system and a coloring book.
When I’m six months along, I wear a nightgown, watching as he wordlessly drops off bare essentials – apples, rotten vegetables, old, stale bread.
“Can we talk?” I ask softly.
He gives me an overeager smile. “What’s wrong?”
Uh-oh, no little girl follows his response.
“Can I get some reading material about pregnancy?” I ask, “It’d be nice to know what to expect.”
He glares at me. “No.”
Biting my lip, I change tactics. “I miss you...” I pretend. “Will you come lie down with me?”
His eyes drift to my belly, and he looks at me like you would a bug you wanted to squash. I feel a kick to my gut, I know it’s more than just the baby.
Turning away, he busies himself with restocking toilet paper and baby wipes.
“Can we go to the doctor for a check-up?” I follow him across the room. “I think you’ll be excited if we see an ultrasound. It’ll feel more real.”
“Real? You want real?” His head bobs around. Squeezing my neck, he pushes me backwards toward the bed. Tears burn my eyes as I stare at the hatred in his dark blue eyes. “Is this real enough for you?”
I sink onto the sheets.
“What else?” He drops his hand from my throat. Noticing the gold chain, his eyes narrow. I’ve gone this long without losing it to him.
“Nothing.” I whisper.
“It’s about time we got rid of this.” He yanks the ‘B’ necklace off in one fell swoop.
My hand flies to my throat, the sobs coming in waves.
“What?” He shrugs. “I need a present to remember you by.”
Scooting back towards the headboard, I’m out of breath, my belly heaving.
His voice becomes soothing, a hand reaching to rub my stomach. It’s all I can do not to puke, bile rising as he touches me. “I have a surprise for you,” he says. “Someone I want you to meet.”
Baffled, I look at him in amazement.
“I know you’ll be thrilled.” He licks his lips. “A quick change from my original plan.” For a moment, I’m hopeful, wondering if it’s anyone that would help me.
“A friend of yours?” I ask. “Someone you work with?”
“No.” He stares ashamedly at my enlarged breasts, the nipples peeking out of the thin material of the gown.
What if…oh no. It can’t be. “Please tell me it’s not another girl?” I plead.
He shrugs, noncommittal. “How long until the baby?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. I’ve been keeping tabs, but I don’t want to give him a due date that could signal my own expiration date.
Standing, he leaves, another week of uninterrupted solitude, a jug of water and a couple saltines my only sustenance.
When he finally reappears, I’m so starved with hunger, I’m bedridden, gnawing at my fingernails, watching the small rivulets of blood seeping in my cuticles.
At first I think my eyes are playing tricks, like what happens when you hear about people stuck in the desert with no water, how they hallucinate and imagine cacti are talking to them.
Blinking, I open and close my lids a few times, a bulky item nestled in his arms.
I want to pretend it’s a garbage bag with food and toiletries, but the object has long blonde hair.
Please no, I pray. Maybe she’s just a doll to replace the old ratty teddy.
Except as The Mole moves closer, he pushes tangled hair from her face, her life-size body slack as he sets her on the floor of the room.
Another girl to replace the dead ghost of Marian.
And eventually, me.
She can’t be more than a teen, the age I was when I was captured. She’s unconscious, mouth duct-taped and eyes closed. A skimpy black dress hangs off her shoulders, feet bare. A silver toe ring and lavender nail polish stand out against her bronzed skin.
Purple eyeshadows smeared down her cheek. There’s a tiny messenger bag hanging over her body, the chain wrapped around her stomach.
After he straightens from setting her on the floor, he brushes his hands together like he’s completed an arduous task.
“Bristol, meet Bridget.” He m
akes the introductions, glancing between a comatose girl and a starved one.
“I must have a thing for B names.” He’s giddy, smoothing her strawberry blonde hair down, “and blondes.”
She could be my twin, now that I’ve been here almost a decade, a reminder of my life outside of the room.
“Is she the new Marian?” I ask, my hands shaking as I try and sit on them so he doesn’t notice. I’m sure there’s not a good answer either way.
“New Marian?” He’s upset at this comparison. “No one compares to Marian, certainly not you, and not her.”
“I just mean is she coming to replace me?” I back down, too exhausted and swollen, my hands settling on my enlarged stomach.
“You could say that,” he agrees. “You’re of no use to me anymore.”
I tilt my head. “How come?”
He ignores my question.
“It’s lunchtime. I brought you a sandwich. Thought you’d be hungry...” Reaching into his duffel bag, one of her red heels proceeds to fall out. He tosses my lunch on the table along with a bottle of water.
“Go sit over there,” he instructs.
“I can’t fit in the chair.”
“Then sit on the floor.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not my fault you got fat.”
Before I can stop myself, I spit out, “I’m not fat, I’m pregnant.”
His tan face goes white. “What did you just say to me?” Venom laces his words. “Are you telling me I’m wrong, that you’re not obese?”
I look away, withdrawing my statement. “No.”
“Sit on the floor and eat your food.” He’s stern, attention waning. He goes back to Bridget, his hands starting to undress her.
A vibrating sound causes him to pause, confusion knitting his brow. He pats his pocket and then fumbles in her bag for the source. Pulling out a cell phone, I’m tempted to throw a chair at him and use it to call the police.
It’s so close, I tell myself. So close, your freedom, take it.
“Dammit, I forgot to leave this,” he mutters, throwing his hands up. He’s flipping out, ranting about location services, and immediately presses a button to turn it off.
Into the Night Page 22
