Cursed

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  Her face is already melting.

  Outside of this nightmare, awake, I can’t escape. In this room, I’m:

  1. Naked.

  2. Empty. And this emptiness reminds me of how I used to feel after drinking too much.

  3. Alone.

  4. Chained to a hook on the wall.

  The growling from my dream now sounds more like a motor, but I can’t see the source.

  What I can see is:

  1. A closed door.

  2. A burlap bag on the cement floor.

  3. A candle-lit table with a glass on top, filled with what looks like red wine.

  4. An axe by my hand.

  The deep rumbling stops, and for some reason I hold my breath.

  Then I:

  1. Grab the axe.

  2. Hack at the chain.

  3. Yank on the chain.

  None of which does any good.

  The door opens.

  “Hiya, Nicky.”

  I expect the creature from my dream, almost.

  Instead, he appears to be:

  1. A white male.

  2. Between the ages of 18 and 32.

  And judging by his accent:

  3. American.

  And judging by his smirk and the fact that he’s wearing my clothes:

  4. An asshole.

  “I hope you like this place,” he says. “Because it’s gonna be your home for the next two years.” After a few moments of silence, he laughs. “No, I couldn’t take care of a human. Too expensive. I’ll let you go soon.”

  Sure, this situation is:

  1. Fucked up.

  But I can’t help thinking it’s also:

  2. An opportunity to stop this guy, somehow.

  I look at the axe, and wish I were Batman.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the bastard says. “If you throw it, I’ll just catch it and throw it at your face.”

  I throw the axe as hard as I can.

  He doesn’t:

  1. Catch it.

  2. Throw it at my face.

  Instead, he dodges the blade, fast and easy.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually throw it, so I wasn’t ready,” he says. “I could’ve caught it though.”

  “Right,” I say, crackle.

  The asshole:

  1. Grins.

  2. Sits down on what looks like air.

  3. Says, “It’s all in the hamstrings. Now, you’re probably wondering why I brought you here tonight.”

  At this point, I’m wondering what I should throw at this guy next, but I don’t tell him that.

  “Forget about stopping me for now,” he says, as if he can read my mind. Maybe he can. “I need you to pay attention. Now, the reason you’re here is because you seem a little confused about the nature of our relationship. And we’re going to clear up that confusion right now.” He yawns. “First of all, you should know that you can’t hide your suffering from me. That’s just…stupid. Even if I couldn’t see or hear your pain, I could still taste it, smell it, feel it in my gut. There’s no point trying to defy me or stop me. I’ll always end up on top.” Then he stands, and steps closer to me. “To instill this truth in you, I decided to kidnap, or dognap I should say, Gordon’s little bitch. She’s in that bag there. Go ahead and check if you want.”

  I:

  1. Don’t want to check at all.

  2. Look inside the bag.

  She’s there. Her eyes are open, and she:

  1. Doesn’t look at me.

  2. Could be dead.

  A bitter rage gushes from my stomach to my head, like acid reflux.

  “I filled her with fear,” the asshole says. “So she won’t be able to move for a while. She’s completely at your mercy.”

  I glare at him.

  “I was going to let you use the axe,” the bastard says. “But since you threw it at me, you lost your axe privileges. Now you have to stomp her to death.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl.

  “No, Nicky. You’re fucked. The dog’s fucked. Not me.”

  “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

  He chuckles. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’re the one who’s going to kill her. Although now that I think about it, stomping her might not be the best idea without any shoes on. Maybe you could strangle her.”

  I yank on the chain again.

  He takes another step forward and says, “Remember the McDonald Triad Gordon told you about? I’m thinking you could try out the whole triangle and let me know how you like it. First you kill her, then you drench her with gasoline and light her on fire. Finally, you piss all over her. That’s not exactly bedwetting, I know, but it’s close enough.” He laughs again.

  I want to:

  1. Break free.

  2. Wrap the chain around his neck like he’s Jabba the Hutt.

  “I’m just kidding,” he says. “You only need to kill her.”

  “I would never hurt Meta,” I say.

  “If you don’t, I’ll make you eat your own foot. No, that’s not my style at all. That’s sick.” He takes another step.

  And I spring forward.

  At the last moment, he backs away and avoids my curled fingers by a few inches.

  “One of my favorite shows is gonna be on soon,” he says. “I don’t have a VCR or TiVo, so let’s hurry this up, OK?”

  I glance over at the wine glass.

  “I wouldn’t throw that,” the asshole says. “You’re gonna need that if you want to get out of here alive. But before we get to that step, you need to kill the fucking dog.”

  I:

  1. Don’t move.

  2. Attack him with my eyes.

  “You’re not helping yourself by resisting me,” he says. “Defiance just makes it that much more satisfying when I get what I want. And I will.”

  I can’t think of anything else to say but, “No.”

  He laughs. “You don’t understand, Nicky. I always get what I want. That’s no exaggeration.”

  “I don’t care. I’d rather die than hurt Meta.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not one of your options. Either you do what I say, or I’m gonna do something a lot worse. Worse than a dead dog or even a melting face. It’s pretty much the worst thing I can think of, and I’ve had a long time to think.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Really? So you don’t mind if I do this worst thing to someone you know?”

  I imagine this bastard:

  1. Placing his hand on Sol’s sweating forehead.

  2. Forcing the most intense pain possible inside Sol’s body, as he shakes all over.

  Then I imagine myself:

  1. Wrapping my hands around Meta’s soft throat.

  2. Squeezing as hard as I can, as she gazes in my eyes.

  I can almost hear:

  1. My dad screaming.

  2. Meta whimpering.

  I turn around to hide my tears.

  “You know, you were wrong about me,” the asshole says. “I don’t always need to witness your suffering to enjoy myself. Sometimes just knowing what you’re going through is enough to make me warm and fuzzy.”

  I face him again and say, “If that’s true, why don’t you leave and let me suffer alone?”

  “No, you don’t know all the rules yet. Plus, you might need someone to help you get through this. Killing a beloved pet isn’t easy, I know. But honestly, you should be thankful I didn’t decide to bring Svetlana in that bag.”

  “Stay away from her.”

  He flicks his hand at me. “I know, I know. You’re not ready for someone like her yet. We’ll focus on the dog for now.”

  I:

  1. Rush to the table.

  2. Grab the glass.

  3. Don’t care if he dodges it.

  Right now I just want to break something like a child.

  “Hold on,” the fucking bastard says. “That’s your ticket out of here. I already told you that.”

  Maybe if I throw th
e glass near his feet, he’ll end up stepping on the shards.

  “Drink the wine,” he says. “And I’ll set you free. I’ll even take the fear out of the dog. Then, for the rest of the night, I’ll let you attack me with everything you’ve got. I promise I won’t fight back either.”

  “There’s no way I’m gonna trust you,” I say.

  “I understand your feelings, but what else are you gonna do? If you don’t drink the wine, I’ll leave you and the dog down here to die of thirst. Although Meta will probably have a heart attack before it ever comes to that. I know you’re scared, but you couldn’t imagine what she’s feeling right now. I’m sure she’d ask you to kill her if she could.”

  “The fuck she would.”

  “I’m not trying to insinuate anything negative about her character, Nicky. I’m saying any living thing, myself included, would rather die than feel what she’s feeling. Fear can be worse than pain sometimes.”

  I stare at the:

  1. Burlap bag.

  2. Wine glass.

  “You want to stop Meta’s suffering,” he says. “So why are you hesitating?”

  “I don’t want to die,” I say, more to myself.

  “The wine won’t kill you,” he says. “Part of you must know how much I value your life. I wouldn’t have put so much energy into you otherwise.”

  I eye the bastard again. “If that’s true, then you won’t let me die of thirst, even if I don’t drink this. Give me my clothes and let us go.”

  “First of all, these aren’t your clothes. I made these myself, so that they’d look like your clothes. Your clothes are actually back in your apartment. Second, I do value your life, but only as long as you’re living on my terms. So I’m giving you an opportunity to survive. If you’d rather die than drink my wine, it sounds like you’re the one who’s not cherishing the gift of life.”

  I:

  1. Look into the glass.

  2. Haven’t let alcohol inside me for years.

  But I:

  3. Can’t think of any alternatives.

  4. Want free of this chain, now.

  The asshole grins.

  Suddenly, all my doubts scream inside me again, and I know I:

  1. Shouldn’t trust this monster.

  2. Have to find another way.

  But I already drank the wine.

  And I don’t attempt to:

  1. Rescue Meta.

  2. Fight the psychopath.

  3. Bring him down.

  Because it’s much too late for any of that.

  I’m already collapsing.

  Awake, I find myself:

  1. In my room.

  2. Sweating.

  3. Wearing the same clothes I fell asleep in last night.

  I scramble out the door.

  In the living room, Meta’s resting on her favorite chair.

  Alive.

  “Are you alright?” I say.

  She hops off the chair and licks my feet.

  I:

  1. Kneel down in front of her.

  2. Wrap my arms around her.

  And as everything that happened to me last night swirls inside me, I:

  3. Cry into her fur.

  She doesn’t move away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning I’m:

  1. Not only sorry about her suffering.

  2. Apologizing for thinking about choking her.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Morning,” Gordon says, behind me. “Well, afternoon.”

  I turn around. “Are you alright?

  “For the most part.” He heads for the couch.

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  “Just woke up with a fuck of a headache.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No,” I almost say. But the thought of lying makes me sick to my stomach. So instead, I say, “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah, but if I told you what happened, you’d say I’m crazy or that I was dreaming.” My voice cracks. “I can’t deal with that right now. I gotta go. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then I go to my room, because the psychopath threatened to do something worse than horrible to someone I know, if I didn’t kill Meta.

  In other words, someone on my speed dial might already be:

  1. Violated.

  2. Broken.

  3. Gone.

  So I call:

  1. Karl.

  “Are you alright?” I say, and I feel guilty because part of me’s hoping he’s the one the psychopath chose.

  “Like you even give a shit,” Karl says.

  “I do.”

  “Right.”

  “Why else would I be calling you?”

  “Man, because you love fucking with people’s lives. You always have. You’ve never given a shit about anyone.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Why’d you tell me you fucked Heather then?”

  “I never slept with Heather.”

  “I know you didn’t. I’m just saying you like ruining my life.”

  “I’ve never ruined your life.”

  “I was a good kid before I met you, man. I’d never even sipped a beer. Or did you forget that?”

  “I never forced you to drink with me.”

  “Maybe you didn’t put a gun to my head. But if me and you never met back then, things would be better for me. Heather would still be here right now. So fuck you, Nick. I’m not gonna let you kick me while I’m down anymore.”

  I take a deep breath, and decide to lie, no matter how it makes me feel. “I had a nightmare last night, where something terrible happened to you. It felt so real, I just want to make sure you’re OK.”

  Karl’s silent for a while. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’ve always been a good friend.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  He laughs. “You’re right.”

  “I know I’ve said this to you before, but I’m sorry about how I treated you when we were roommates.”

  “When did you ever apologize to me before?”

  “Years ago.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I said it again then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re alright?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing a good fuck couldn’t fix, right?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  2. Nadia.

  “Are you alright?” I say.

  “Of course not,” Nadia says.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Nicky. Greg told me that he called you. You know what you did.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Maybe you can’t remember because you were too drunk. But it doesn’t matter. I remember. I’ll always remember what you said.”

  “Nadia, I’m calling because I had a nightmare last night. About you and Greg and Svetlana. I just want to make sure—”

  “I can’t talk with you when you’re like this, Nicky. When I do, I feel so angry. I feel…hatred.”

  Her words sink deep inside me. I feel dizzy.

  “But, I mean…I don’t really hate you,” she says. “I hate the enemy inside you.”

  I don’t tell her, “The only enemy in here is me.”

  Instead, I stare at my mole.

  She says, “As much as I want to save you, I can’t. I can’t treat you with the love that you deserve. You need God for that. Without God, you’ll always fail everyone. Me, you, everyone.”

  “I wasn’t the one who called you.”

  “I…can’t be your sister anymore,” she says. “I mean…I’ll always be your sister by blood. But until you become a better man, I can’t be anything more than that.”

  Tears trickle down my face, and I can’t think of anything else to say but, “Nadia.”

  “It’s for the best, Nicky.”
She sounds like she’s crying too. “Goodbye.”

  “Nadia.”

  She hangs up.

  3. Sol.

  “Are you alright?” I say, and I hold my breath.

  “I’m worried about you, Nicholas. Brienda and I are both very worried. I hope you’ve called to tell me that you’re getting help for yourself.”

  “I haven’t started drinking again, Sol.”

  “If that’s true, then you left that terrible message our machine without any alcohol in your body. That’s almost worse. No matter what’s happening with you, son, you need help.”

  “I know this sounds crazy, but I wasn’t the one who left the message. It was someone else.”

  “I know it must feel that way.”

  “I’m telling the truth, Dad.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “You can.”

  “I love you, son, and I’ll always be here for you. But I need you to be honest with me. You can tell me what’s really bothering you. You don’t have to make up problems.”

  “This is real.”

  Sol doesn’t speak for a few heartbeats. “Is this about your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Are you having nightmares again?”

  “Not about her.”

  “Maybe we could talk about our memories of her. Brienda thinks that might help.”

  “I need to go, Dad. I have an appointment.”

  “OK. I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  “Do you need me to come over?”

  “No, Dad. I’m fine.”

  4. Cicely.

  I know it can’t be her. She’s too strong. She’s Cicely.

  Still, I cringe after every ring, and my imagination swells with horror.

  I see her chained to a wall.

  Then she’s trapped in the burlap sack.

  She’s screaming, thrashing, begging.

  By the time the answering machine picks up, I’m shaking.

  “Cicely?” I say. “Are you there?” Then I realize I need to wait until after the beep, so I do. “Are you there, Cicely? It’s me. It’s Nicholas. I need you. I need to talk to you. Are you home?”

  “Hi hon,” Cicely says.

  I grin, and feel guilty, because someone I know could be suffering. “Are you alright?”

  “Well, I was ambushed this morning—”

  “What happened?”

  “I was ambushed by a horde of robotic radishes. I managed to scramble their circuits by using my refrigerator magnets like ninja stars, but I’m still not positive who sent them after me. I’m thinking it was either Robby the Robot or Carmen Sandiego, although I’ve heard rumors that Carmen converted to Luddism after a recent run-in with the Brave Little Toaster’s evil twin. So she might not associate with those of the robotic persuasion anymore. Plus, she hates radishes. Or is it parsnips? Anyway, besides all of that, I’m peachy. I even smell like peaches, thanks to my new soap.”