by Mia Zabrisky
Enough already. He’d done his duty. He’d saved enough tortured souls. Please stop. No more. He paced back and forth in the living room, burning off excess energy, while the silence stretched from room to room.
Dignity, Vermont
The man was cruel. Bella couldn’t tolerate his cruelty anymore. She sat huddled in her cold basement dungeon-like room, while he walked around upstairs, free as a bird, pacing the floor above her, the rotten floorboards creaking. She heard him shift and turn swiftly and approach the basement door. He unlocked the door with his key, and her heart seized. The rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open, and she shrank back into her corner. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, and she tried not to be too afraid. The old wooden treads began to pop and crack as he descended. His gait had a strange bounce in it, stiff and cocky. Bella winced as the pain spanned her shoulders and traveled through her wings. They were caught hopelessly in the old twine he’d wrapped around them, again and again. Over time, these bonds had warped her feathers and deformed her wing bones.
Like a slow fog he rolled down the stairs. She heard him pause to rifle through the outer room. The faucet in the bathroom drip-dripped. Now he quickened his pace, using lighter footsteps to trip down the three cement steps. He unlocked her door, and she wasn’t surprised by his appearance. He had a pinched look in his ill-fitting shirt. He had a masculine chest and sagging shoulders, a flat face, a broken nose, and cauliflower ears. He was a monster. He carried a length of rope.
“Ready?” he said.
She stared at him from her dark corner. This was as far away as she could get from him, scooting backward into the dark, her wings pressed against the dank stones. She glared at him. She hated him.
“Go on, put your boots on,” he told her in a soft rasp. “It’s cold out there.”
She obeyed. She knew what would happen if she didn’t. She put on her boots, which were caked with dried mud, and then he moved toward her quickly and fiercely, as if he were afraid of her. As if she, Bella, was some sort of wild animal who could slash him in two with a single blow.
He tied her hands together with one end of the coiled rope, her scarred, pale hands, and then he grabbed her by the tangled wings and led her up the stairs and out the back door.
For a moment, she felt hope. It was cruel, this hopeful feeling. It happened every time they went outside and she was allowed to inhale the cold crisp air. It was winter. Glorious December. On the far hillsides were leafless winter-gray trees. Icicles dangled from the roofs—they reminded her of jewels. Dying sunlight glimmered on patches of snow. Everything was stunningly beautiful.
They did a slow death march across the property toward the barn. Her boots sank into the snow, and it was a glorious feeling. She inhaled the cold crisp air and listened to the crows and tried to catch a glimpse of the distant mountains.
He escorted her into the barn, where he tied one end of the rope around her feet, and secured the other end to the harvester. He took out a knife and tugged at the twine that bound her broad wings together, and he cut through enough of it so that her wings flapped open. Then he stepped back. “Okay,” he said. “Go.”
She waited.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Her wings were sore and bleeding. They felt weak and they ached. It had been almost two weeks since he’d let her into the barn, and she wasn’t used to this feeling of freedom. It scared her. She had to get used to it again. She fluffed and fluttered her wings.
“Fly,” he commanded.
She obeyed.
She closed her eyes and imagined she was escaping from this place.
Suddenly her wings rose and gained strength and flapped open, and she pumped them hard, flying away from him. As she lifted into the air, joy filled her heart.
She flew into the rafters, as far as she could before the rope around her ankles pulled taut and she was flung back down to earth. A rude awakening. She landed on a bed of ancient hay and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard. She glanced to her left. Hidden in that corner of the barn was a blade of broken glass she’d found two weeks ago. She knew exactly where it was. All she had to do was work up the courage and strength to use it.
Blackwood, New York
The next day, Benjamin came home from work and found Cassie soaking in the tub, up to her chin in bubbles. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, while at the same time signing, “How are you?”
“I’m getting fat,” she said, a small frown pinching her mouth.
“You? Nah. You’re perfect,” he told her, watching her slightly puffy belly protrude through a blanket of suds.
She signed the word fat over and over again. “It’s all your fault. You keep feeding me all those brownies and sauces and pasta al dente. Do you always eat like this?”
“It’s comfort food. You need comforting.”
“Right. They’re going to have to lift me out of here with a crane.”
It was nonsense. She was light as a bird. He smiled and reached for her belly, his fingers exploring her soft stomach, and then inching their way slowly down. There were tears in her eyes. She lifted her chin, waiting for his kiss.
He heard another scream inside his head and jerked away.
“What is it, Benjamin?” She sat up, suds sloshing. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he lied.
“You flinched just now. Are you okay?”
He shrugged it off. “I’m getting a migraine, that’s all.”
“A migraine?”
He settled his hand on her stomach again.
“Do you need an aspirin?”
“Just took a couple,” he lied. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass.”
“Oh.” She settled back into the water, and a stifling humidity filled the room. She caught his roaming hand and stopped him. She looked at him with sad, very sad eyes, and said, “I thought about him again today.”
He nodded—barely a nod of acknowledgement—and let his fingers spread wide, and then he ran his hands over her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and thighs, trying to encompass all of her at once.
Just last week, they’d squeezed into this bathtub together, naked and giggling, her skin so slick beneath his hands it felt as if he’d given birth to the woman of his dreams. Her eyes had burned with a kind of pureness, of enormous giving. He was deeply in love with this woman. But the question was—would she ever love him back?
Dignity, Vermont
Once in a while, Colton got an itch that needed scratching, and so that night, he slapped some Old Spice on his face and drove into town and had a few drinks at a rowdy bar, just to be around other people for a while. The brick walls were spray-painted with mindless graphics, and the spotty sound system was loud and pounding. His salt-encrusted baseball cap said 200 MPH Club, and there were spots of dried blood on his pants. He realized too late he should’ve changed his pants. Well, if anybody asked he would say it was paint. He sat like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, clutching a cocktail napkin in one hand and a bottle of imported beer in the other.
There were lots of people crowding into the bar, talking and dancing. He recognized a few sweaty faces. He gazed at some of the women with round, haunted eyes. One of them came over to him and smiled. She was drunk. She was middle-aged. Her name was Abby. The two of them had known each other since elementary school, but they were worlds apart. Throughout the years, they’d barely exchanged more than a few garbled words.
“Hey there, stranger,” she said, looking right at him, which startled him because people usually looked right through him. “What’s your poison?”
“I’m drinking Pabst,” he said.
“Buy me one?”
“Sure.”
He bought them a couple of beers.
They danced a little.
As the hour approached midnight, Abby suggested they take their beers outside, and they did, ignoring the sign on the front door that said, No Alcohol Allowed Outside the Premises – or Else! The
y stood on the sidewalk beneath the star-studded sky and listened to the percussive boom of the bass guitar and drums pounding on the walls of the bar like a prisoner trying to escape. They clinked bottles. The beer tasted crisp.
“I never knew you could be so much fun.” Abby finished her smoke and spoke softly. “Your place or mine?”
He shuddered a little. “What makes you think I’m interested?”
She scowled at him. “You embittered old bastard.” She spilled some of her beer on him, and he leapt backward and laughed. Then she threw the bottle at him and he deflected it with his elbow, and the bottle clunked to the ground and rolled into a gutter.
“Hey,” he said angrily.
“Fuck you!” She turned on her heels and headed for her car.
He went back inside and had another beer. He sat rubbing his sore elbow and watching the ladies dance until last call, when he staggered outside, climbed into his Chevy and headed for the interstate. He hummed along with Willie Nelson on the radio as he drove two towns over toward the old railroad yard, deserted now, and picked up a prostitute. She wasn’t half bad looking. Late-twenties. Bottle-blonde. Bloodshot eyes.
“Where we going?” she asked in a distracted voice.
“To the lake.”
She nodded. “That’s cool.”
They chatted. He kept things light.
She smoked a joint in the car. Offered him some. He got stoned with her.
As they approached the lake, he said, “Hey, listen. I’ll pay you extra to spend the night at my place.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m a serial killer or anything,” he said with a laugh.
She laughed, too.
He handed her a couple hundred dollars, and that sealed the deal. Most people liked money. “I’ll give you another hundred in the morning.”
“Well, okay,” she smirked, tucking the money into her bra. “If you insist.”
Colton drove back home and parked his truck in the driveway. They got out and tripped up the walkway together. She grabbed him on the front porch. She tasted funny, like stale beer and cigarettes. She held his hand and pulled him inside. She looked around the place and said, “Wow. You could really flip this house.”
“Do what?” he asked, panting a little.
“You know, flip this house,” she explained. “Renovate the place and sell it for big bucks. It’s cute. It’s not half bad.”
He slapped her on the ass. “I want to show you something.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask me my name? Since I’m staying the night?”
“Okay. What’s your name?” He grinned.
She placed her hand on the banister and hurried up the stairs. “Jenny.”
“Wait a second,” he said.
“Catch me!”
“Hold on.” He followed close behind. The carpet runners on the stairs were stained and threadbare from years of use. When they got to the top of the landing, her nostrils flared with revulsion. “What is that smell?” she asked.
He looked at her. The air was tinged with the odor of animal feces, urine and garbage. It made him sick. He feared the worst—that she would lose her shit right now. That she would manage to escape and tell on him. Debris littered the hallway.
“Wow,” she giggled, shocked and amazed. “An intervention should’ve taken place years ago. Kidding! I’ve seen worse. Don’t look so freaked out.”
It made the skin on the back of his neck prickle and crawl. “Come back downstairs. We’ll have a drink.”
“But seriously, what’s that smell?” she said, looking at him with stoned eyes.
The doors to all four rooms on the second floor were closed. One of them was labeled DO NOT ENTER. Jenny opened that one and stepped inside. The windows were covered with old newspapers. The floor was tacky when you walked across it. There was a stomach-churning smell and mousetraps on the floor. There was a cage in the corner. The lights were off. It was dark.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, cautiously approaching the cage. The smell was overpowering. She drew back. She didn’t want to look anymore. She tried to run away.
He prevented her from escaping by choking the screams right out of her.
Her eyes rolled up in her skull, her knees buckled and she dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Blackwood, New York
Benjamin heard the scream in the middle of the night again and bolted upright in bed. It sent shivers cascading across his shoulders. He looked over at Cassie, who was sound asleep beside him.
He waited in the dark.
It wasn’t going to go away.
The screams weren’t going to end.
He clapped his hands over his ears, which was crazy, since the screams were coming from inside his head. Make it go away, he prayed in the dark, dreading the next one.
Dignity, Vermont
Colton never panicked, but this situation was different.
Bella was screaming. All the way from the basement.
“Shut the hell up!” he hollered down to her.
She stopped.
He grabbed Jenny by the ankles and dragged the body across the hallway, then threw a powerful kick that bounced the bathroom door open. He dragged her into the tile-floored bathroom, gathered her up, along with her purse and jacket, and dropped everything in the tub. Her head bonked against the porcelain.
He opened her purse and fished around for her wallet. He took all the cash and the rest of her pot and dropped the purse in the tub.
He tromped downstairs and unlocked the basement door, fingers fumbling with the key. He could hear Bella screaming down there. “Shut up!” he roared, and she gasped a bunch of times and stopped.
He tromped down the steps and wove through the crates and junk and found his grandmother’s moth-eaten trunk and threw it open. He grabbed his kit and hurried back up the stairs. “Bella, I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!”
He detoured into the kitchen, where he peeled a couple of trash bags off the roll. Then he took the stairs to the second floor, where he saw the place with new eyes. He didn’t like what he saw.
The old-fashioned tub had dripping faucets and the toilet didn’t flush properly. Everything was streaked with rust. Everything was moldy. He put down his kit and went to check on the thing across the hall. He approached the cage slowly, cautiously, and the creature stirred in the shadows. Colton could make out its strange features moving in the darkness. “Sorry, buddy. You okay? Huh? Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. The bad lady’s gone.” He held up his hand to the cage, pressing his palm flat against the wires, because you couldn’t poke your fingers in there. He had the scars to prove it. The thing gratefully licked his hand. It had a moist sandpapery tongue. It was amazing—you fed something and you earned its loyalty forever. “Everything’s okay now. Go back to sleep.” It stopped licking his hand and shrank into the shadows, where it watched him with wet, menacing eyes.
Colton got up and crossed the room and gently closed the door behind him. He strode across the hallway and stood staring down at the prostitute. He hated her for showing him exactly who he was.
He opened his kit and took out the rag and the bottle. He leaned over the tub and could see that she was still breathing. Still alive. He opened the trash bag and tossed in her purse and jacket and shoes. He took off her socks and pulled off her T-shirt and unzipped her jeans, and he put everything in the bag until she lay in the tub in her underwear. She wore a thin red bra and a matching pair of red thong underpants.
He sat on the bathroom floor and waited for her to regain consciousness again. He waited for six or seven minutes, until her eyelids fluttered open. She inhaled a big gasp, but he was ready for her. He held the soaked rag to her face, and she kicked and flailed around, but he kept the pressure up until she blinked out like a light.
Blackwood, New York
When Benjamin got home from work that night, he parked his car, got out and stood looking a
t the woods across the street, branches stirring in a chilly breeze. The sun had set and the sky was a haunting crimson color. He shuddered and drew his coat collar tight. The voice, the presence, had been fading in and out all day long. Pulsating like the tide, back and forth, back and forth. It was exhausting. He finally had a name. Bella. She reminded him of thunderclouds, of a looming ozone-filled atmosphere. Her presence was not wholly human. He could sense her all around him now. She was in pain. She needed rescuing.
The voice, this feeling, was coming from the east. Everything pointed in that direction. Now the sun sank below the horizon and the sky dimmed. His heart raced as he surrendered himself to the darkness. It had snowed again this morning, and the ground was lacy blue in the moonlight. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to his right, where the woods were dense and pitchy. But it was just the wind shaking patches of snow off the trees. He felt a sweep of movement to his left and turned again. But it was just the wind in the trees. He was jumpy. He told himself to chill. Calm down.
He walked toward the house, taking the cold air deep into his lungs. The night sky felt incredibly close, like the domed ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The single yard light cast a yellow rectangle over the snow. The gutters were laced with icicles. He paused to inspect the dry rot on the weathered boards, wrinkling and alligatoring in the moonlight. He mounted the porch steps and scraped his boots on the horsehair mat. Then he went inside.
The house was warm and full of solid blocks of furniture with well-established boundaries—assertive desks and obstinate chairs with tufted upholstery. He went over to a living room window, parted the curtains and looked across the road at the dark, sodden woods. He heard a distant cry and flinched.
Bella’s voice inside his head was like the warm breath of a dog, intrusive and inquisitive. It would whisper things that didn’t make any sense: Who is she? What did she ever do to him? I’ll kill him. Did he kill her? What did she ever do?
