When the Fairytale Ends

by Dwan Abrams

  When the young boy returned, she was glad to see him palming a bottled water instead of a cup of water. The last thing she wanted to do was risk her or her child’s health by drinking a foreign country’s unclean water.

  She gladly accepted the bottled water and tried to wash the disgusting taste out of her mouth by downing the entire bottle. While she drank, she noticed that the young guy was watching her with a look of awe. She finished the bottle, and he gladly took it from her and trashed it. Then he sat at the end of the makeshift bed and stared at her.

  “Ya beautiful asleep, but ya even more beautiful awake. Ya from da States, no?”

  There was something melodic about his voice. She nodded, then scrunched her nose. “There’s a really bad smell in here.” She wasn’t just talking about her vomit.

  The young guy laughed. “Me friend. He ’tink really bad, mon. He don’ take no good baths, and he don’ wash under his arms much. T’en he wonder why he no find a woman.”

  Despite her circumstances, Shania found herself laughing with the young guy.

  Then he gestured at her head. “Tat’s a pretty bad knot on ya head.”

  She wanted to touch the spot, but she couldn’t. Her arms were securely tied. It seemed like she was building a good rapport with the young man, and she didn’t want to do anything to ruin her chances at survival. Instinct told her that if she sat around chatting aimlessly with him until Big Stinky came around, she was as good as dead. So carefully choosing her words, she said, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one, miss.”

  “You don’t go to school?”

  He glanced down at the floor for a few seconds, then looked back up at her. “Not ’cause me no want to. Me family no can afford school for me. I a Rasta. Ya don’ know what a Rasta is because you and your husband have money. Ya don’ have ta deal wit’ ma reality.”

  So that’s what this was about. Money. She should’ve known. “What’s your name?”

  He looked at her as though she was crazy and shook his head. “Now how I look, pretty lady, tellin’ you ma name? I no wanna go ta jail. And t’is type of stuff is da stuff ya go to jail for long time.”

  Shania sent a prayer up to God, silently asking Him to place the words she needed to say to influence this young man directly in her mouth. He had goals and he had a heart. She knew if she dug deep enough, there was a chance that she could reach him. The same way God had allowed her to reach Jonathan, she prayed that He allowed her to reach this young man too. Then she took in a deep breath and said, “You are better than this. Do you know that?”

  Again, he looked at her as though she was crazy.

  “When life gives you an opportunity, what do you do?”

  The young boy walked across the room and pulled back the heavy curtain as he glanced out the window. Then he returned his attention to her. “Life gives me no opportunity,” he said, and there was a bitterness to his tone and expression.

  Realizing that at any moment Big Stinky could barge in the room, Shania mustered up all her courage and said, “Life does give opportunities, even to people like you. Think about it this way.” She cleared her throat. “You saw me and my husband, and you figured we had money. So you kidnapped us, thinking that you could ransom us and make some fast money. Wasn’t that an opportunity that you decided to take?”

  Even though he kept his eyes riveted to the floor, she could tell that he was listening to her.

  She shifted in her bed, unable to get comfortable in her restraints. “Don’t you know that God will use your enemies as your footstool? You don’t know me, anymore than I know you, but I know a man around your age who put his life on the line to go back to the hood and save one of his friends. He got shot twice because of it. Do you think he regretted getting caught in the line of fire just to save his friend?” She shook her head. “No. It was something he was willing to do. He took a chance because he saw that chance as his opportunity. So let me ask you something. If the only reason why I’m tied down to this bed is because of money, then untie me and allow me to bless you. Allow me to invest in you so you can go back to your hood and tell other people in your same situation that positive opportunities still exist and miracles still happen.”

  She held her breath, waiting for his response, knowing full well that this might be her only opportunity to save herself, her child, and her husband. The young man walked to the window and looked out the curtain again.

  Finally, he took a deep breath, then held up his shirt, giving her a small glimpse of his washboard abs. He pulled out a rustic knife from his waistband. At the sight of the knife, every molecule of air escaped her lungs, and she struggled to breath. Her eyes seemed glued to the knife as she stared at its bamboo handle and the rustic blade that seemed as though it was hand-molded from sheet metal.

  With the knife clutched in his hand at his side, he walked over to the bed she was tied to and slowly raised the knife above his head. “I didn’t wan’ ta do dis,” he said and worked his jaw while he worked the knife in his hands, “but I gotta.”

  Her heart sounded like an African drum as she stared into his big brown eyes and waited for the blow that would end her life. Just as the blade swung down from above his head, she squeezed her eyes closed and prayed that he would hit her heart and death would follow swiftly.

  In the darkness, Greg lay shackled to the bed, wondering how in the world was he going to get out of this mess. Since he had no concept of time, he had no idea how long the woman had been gone, and even less of an idea of when she would return. He knew that at any given moment, the door could fly open and that crazy woman could come in and end his life.

  As he continued to repeat the Twenty-third Psalm, a calming peace came over him, and he recalled the Bible verse that Jesus had told his disciples before he went to take up the cross. My peace I give unto you. It sounded ludicrous to be shackled and tied to a bed in the pitch-black darkness, unsure of whether he’d live or die, unsure of whether his wife and child were alive or not, and to still have a peace that surpassed all understanding.

  As though Mother Washington herself had descended into the room, he felt her presence surrounding him. The words that she had spoken to him in her hospital bed came to him loud, clear, and crisp: “No matter the situation, God’s always gonna make a way for you to escape.”

  Somehow, despite it all, he believed it.

  With eyes of faith, he looked past the desolateness that his current situation offered and leaned on his unshakable faith that if God brought him to this, the Lord would bring him through this. He also knew that faith without action was dead. If he sat here and waited for faith to save him without lifting a single finger to bring about that salvation, he was just as good as dead. He racked his brain, trying to figure out something he could do to show God that he hadn’t given up on the situation.

  Once again, he tried to wiggle his feet out of their shackles, but that plan wasn’t working. He wanted to try to wiggle his wrists free, but the last time he had tried to get his hands free, he had pulled and tugged until his wrists were raw and blood had oozed down his inner forearms. At that thought . . . he suddenly had an idea. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he began twisting his wrists in the shackles, scratching off even more flesh from his wrists. The old wounds reopened and the blood started flowing again. Greg strained to twist his arms in such a direction that the blood would flow toward his palms rather than toward his elbows.

  Because of the awkward position he was reclined in, his back muscles spasmed, and his neck ached something awful, but he knew he couldn’t quit. His life, and possibly Shania’s and their unborn child’s life, relied on whether he made it out of this or not. Perspiration dripped from his forehead and rolled into his mouth, stung his eyes and stung the fresh wounds that he’d created, but it didn’t deter him.

  Slowly but surely, gravity began to push the blood flowing down his arms in the other direction painstakingly slowly. Once the blood reached the bottom portion of his palms, he f
olded his long fingers forward until his fingertips felt the cool wetness of his blood. He tried to twist the blood all around the shackles, using it as lubrication; then he folded his hand in half lengthwise and tried to slip his hand out of the cuffs. It took a few attempts, and the muscles in his upper back and neck felt like they were on fire, but he continued to strain and twist until one hand finally popped free from the shackles. Even though it felt like he had broken his thumb and pinkie finger, he’d never felt so good before in his life. One limb down, three to go.

  With one free hand, it was easier to slip his other hand free. Once both hands were free, he removed his blindfold before flexing his aching hands, wondering if he’d have to suffer from arthritis and carpal tunnel for the rest of his life. But yet and still, he thanked God that he was making progress.

  Unsure of how much longer he had until the crazy woman returned, he forced his sore hands to cooperate, and then began trying to undo the knotted rope around his knees. He had no idea who had tied this rope, but whoever had tied it knew exactly what he or she was doing. Greg dug and clawed at the rope, but without any fingernails, he couldn’t make any progress.

  He twisted his body and leaned over the side of the bed, feeling on the floor for any object that might help him saw through the rope. His fingers felt nothing on the floor but the vomit he had chucked earlier.

  “My Father who art in heaven,” Greg said into the darkness, and was surprised to notice that the swelling in his tongue had gone down tremendously, “I know that you didn’t bring me this far to leave me now. I’ve done all I can do. Now I need you to step in and show yourself strong.”

  Greg heard the locks at the door being undone, and his heart went into overdrive. A cold chill rolled over his entire body and his teeth chattered. The fight-or-flight survival response kicked in, making all of his senses acute. The locks clicking open sounded as loud as gunshots.

  His vision suddenly sharpened, and even though the room was black, he could make out the shape of a dresser, a TV, and a lamp stand. The blood that had poured from his wrists smelled overwhelmingly strong and coppery.

  When the last lock slid open and the doorknob turned, Greg almost peed on himself. He laid back on the bed and put his arms out to either side of him. As long as she kept the lights off, she couldn’t really tell that he had slipped out of the handcuffs.

  As soon as he thought that thought, the light flipped on and Greg squeezed his eyes shut because the sudden brightness of the light was painful to his eyes.

  “Greg.”

  When he heard Shania whisper his name, he knew that God was playing a cruel trick on him. Her voice sounded so real, so close. He could even smell the scent of her skin—the citrusy shampoo she’d used to wash her hair before they left the house.

  “Greg.”

  This time he popped his eyes open and stared, and indeed, it was his wife. Relief at seeing her alive and well nearly suffocated him. He wanted to grab her and kiss her and hold her. He wanted to lose himself in her arms and be transported out of this nightmare. But when he saw that ugly bump protruding out the back of her head, rage seeped through his veins.

  “You’re hurt,” he said. “Who did this to you?”

  “We don’t have time,” she said, rushing to the bed and using some weird-looking knife to cut the rope loose from around his knees. “I’ll explain it all later, but for now, we just have to get out of here before she comes back.” He watched her grit her teeth as she sawed through the rope and hoped she didn’t accidentally cut his legs.

  “Before who comes back?” he asked as the rope gave way and he was finally able to pull his knees apart.

  “The key, Ahdale,” she whispered, her hands tugging at his shackles. She turned her head and looked back at the open door. “Ahdale, I need the key!”

  “Ahdale? Who is Ahdale? Who are you talking to?”

  Before she could answer him, a dark-skinned man stuck his head in the door and whispered in a thick Jamaican accent, “Here she come! Hide! Help will come. I promise you!” Then the man pulled the door closed and Greg nearly cried when he heard the locks clicking in place yet again.

  Shania sprinted across the room, hit the lights, returning them back to darkness. Next the closet door squeaked open and closed. Seconds after Shania hid in the closet, Greg listened to the locks on the door clicking open yet again. His mind couldn’t quite grasp everything that was happening. Somehow, he felt like he had just been tossed into a tsunami, the tsunami blew him into a hurricane, and then the hurricane sucked him into a tornado. He just wanted this madness to end.

  The light flickered on again. Greg squeezed his eyes against the pain that the bright light caused.

  “Well, well, well. Someone’s been mighty busy since I’ve been gone,” the woman said, and Greg’s heart rattled in his chest as he tilted his head up and looked at his captor. His eyes almost crossed up when he saw those big brown eyes and that jet-black hair and what should’ve been a demure, soft smile.

  “Kaiya?”

  “Who were you expecting?” she asked. “Kristen?”

  “I—I . . .” Greg stared at her, completely at a loss of words. He felt like he’d been hit by a train, then flattened with a steamroller. “But you’re a sweet girl. . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, and walked into the room, slamming and locking all three dead bolts. She removed a gun from the back of her waistband and scratched her head with the barrel. He figured this must be the same gun that she’d jammed into his mouth earlier.

  “All my life, I’ve been sweet little Kaiya,” she said. “So quiet, so submissive, take whatever punches life hands me and then I’m supposed to just go with the flow. But you know what?” She grinned at him. “I’m tired of it, Greg. I’m tired of taking the punches. I’m ready to throw a few myself.” She giggled, then sat on the edge of the bed and let her eyes stare at his crotch. “Kristen told me to just let it go, but I didn’t want to. I’m tired of letting stuff go.” She paused. “You’re much bigger than your friend in the size department.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like I got to sample it or anything. He was just too darn holy for me. ‘Let’s wait until we get married,’” she mocked Franklin. “‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re my gift straight from heaven.’ And yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah.”

  Even in his current predicament, his heart went out to Franklin. Franklin had sincerely cared about this girl, was seriously considering marrying her—but thank God her true side had been exposed before his friend made the biggest mistake of his life.

  Greg wanted to glance at the closet to make sure Shania was okay, but he feared that looking in that direction might give away her hiding place. So he forced himself to keep his eyes solely on Kaiya.

  “I didn’t want to take it to this extent,” she told him and leaned against the bedpost. “You’re probably wondering how I knew where you were. Well, you mentioned at the hospital and again at the lawyer’s office that you were going to Ocho Rios. I just mentioned to Franklin that I might want us to take a trip there and asked him where you were staying. Simple as that.” She smirked. “All I wanted was my cut of the money, Greg, and you took it from me. You took it from us. We deserved that money. Do you realize what we’ve been through?”

  Greg didn’t want to have a conversation with her, but the longer he kept her talking, the longer he kept himself alive. The young boy had said help was on the way. He had to believe it; that was his only hope.

  “No, I don’t know what all you’ve been through. Tell me so I can understand, Kaiya.”

  “You heard rumors. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear the rumors.”

  Greg nodded repeatedly. “I’ve heard quite a few rumors. But you can’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Well, believe this,” Kaiya snapped and stared at the gun, passing it from one hand to the next. “Mama wasn’t the precious little saint that she tried to make herself out to be. Did she ever tell yo
u why me and Kristen never came over to visit her?”

  Greg shook his head.

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t tell you—or anybody for that matter,” Kaiya said, and her words dripped venom. “Because she was ashamed of what she allowed to happen to us.” Kaiya walked across the room and leaned against the dresser, which was situated adjacent to the closet. “Her husband, our uncle, Henry—he raped Kristen, Greg. Repeatedly. From the time she took us in. He started with Kristen, and when he tried to move on to me, Kristen protected me. She wouldn’t let him touch me, so he raped her from the time she was a little girl until she became a teenager and finally went away to college. I lived in constant fear. That’s why I became so shy. There were also other little girls at the church who claimed he would offer them money if they’d let him touch them.”

  Greg wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or not. He realized that the more she talked, the more she moved around the room and the more distracted she became. If she could get close enough to him, there was a possibility that he could snatch the gun out of her hand and become in control of the situation.

  So, to keep her talking, he said, “Did y’all ever tell Mother Washington about the rape?”

  “Did we?” She guffawed and made her eyes huge. “Kristen told her numerous times about what her husband was doing to her, but she just thought Kristen was hot in the pants. Plus, Mama was old school. She didn’t believe in divorce.” Anger and hate danced in her eyes. “See, Uncle Henry was a deacon at the church, and Mama didn’t want to believe that her husband, a deacon, our very own uncle, would be sick enough to molest his own niece, or offer money to those fast-tailed girls at the church.”

  Lost in thought, Kaiya sat the gun on the dresser and turned her back to Greg. He wished to God there was a way he could tell Shania to come out the closet and grab the gun before Kaiya could turn around.

  “When Uncle Henry was dying, the church didn’t want to help Mama, because they knew Uncle Henry had been messing with a lot of little girls in that church. The pastor and church staff just covered it up. The members there felt like he was getting just what he deserved, to die such a slow and painful death. It was only then that Mama finally believed that what Kristen had been telling her for all those many years might have actually been true.” She turned and looked at Greg, tears shining at the forefront of her flashing eyes. “You think she ever apologized to us?”