The glass and its contents distorted the shape of his eyes and nose. His face looked like it was being pulled in all directions. One eye was large and bulging, while the other was stretched sideways and appeared magnified. His eyelashes looked like thick dark spiders’ legs and I could see that he was dead inside. I began to sob.
The monster turned his back to me again with frustration and slammed the jar down on a shelf high above his work surface. Through the haze of tears I noticed that there were three other jars, keepsakes from his other victims. I had spent such a long time in that room examining all its nooks and crannies that it was hard to accept that I had overlooked the shelf high up in the shadows. The monster span round.
‘Now I will always have a reminder of ya,’ he said. Then he turned on his heels and marched out of the cellar. He slammed the door shut behind him. I was left alone again, with only pain and misery as companions.
* * *
The next time I looked into the long mirror I saw a torrent of rain batter the small glass window. The world outside was a cold and grey and the downpour drummed loudly on the panes. The snow had been washed away and dirty icy lumps remained clinging to the limp grass. I lay there sweating. The moisture that poured from my skin reflected the weather outside. I felt cold and hot at the same time. It was as if my body was fighting poison. My veins burned under my skin and I couldn’t focus. The quills of the feathers felt very sharp under my skin. I could feel each and every one move inside my arms, with each quiver of the fever. Each tip dug deeper into my torn muscles and small amounts of blood seeped out staining the feathers with fresh red blood.
At the same time I realized I could no longer feel anything below my knees. My legs were swollen and marbled in a variety of colours, mainly blacks, purples, and blues. The toes were riddled with gangrene, which stank and was slowly creeping up my ankles. My feet looked like dark stoneware pottery, tinged with green and yellow. I viewed my rotten limbs with detachment. It was as if it hadn’t anything to do with me. I felt like a pathologist in a morgue.
I knew that Christmas was over now. I thought about the gifts that would have sat under my mother’s tree, some of them meant for me. Bath salts, a warm winter sweater, slippers, and DVDs in bright wrapping paper, tied with ribbon bows. My mum had always been an expert at present wrapping, and our tree had always looked like a picture from the cover of a magazine. Stockings hung from the hearth, carols floating up from the Roberts radio, and the house would be toasty warm. It should have been filled with love and laughter.
I felt a fresh surge of anger rise in me. I could just about accept that the monster had ruined me but I was livid he had inflicted the pain on my family. The fact that it was Christmas somehow made it much worse. Whether you believe in god or not, it was a time for family and friends. It should have been a happy time.
My fractured mind kept coming back to the same thought. It was as if every idea I had was for the first time. I felt like I was living in a world of déjà vu. Somewhere in my synapses I was aware I had thought about these things before. The fever had a tight grip on me and I knew that if the monster didn’t kill me, the poisonous infection coursing through my body soon would. I wanted the fever to be responsible for my death, to take the opportunity away from my captor. It offered me a small glimmer of hope. I longed for the grotesque man to find my corpse and realize that his final sick enjoyment had been snatched away.
* * *
I attempted to find my way back to the dream world I had inhabited so happily. Reality had returned to me with such a vengeance, it severed all ties to the fictional place I’d once found solace in. I suppose it would have been too much for my mind to cope with. I would have been unable to suffer the transition from heaven to hell without causing myself further damage. To splinter my mind further would no doubt have been the final straw, and the damned human desire to survive would not allow me to self-destruct.
I watched my breath cloud as it left my mouth. It was the only tangible evidence that I still existed. I noticed how strained my breathing was and the rattle that echoed in my chest with each breath I took. My ribs felt like a cold, concrete cage, imprisoning my lungs. For a while I listened to the wheezing from my chest. The noise became almost soothing and held a hypnotic quality. I found myself drifting in and out of a feverish consciousness and still the sound remained a constant. At the same time I could feel the pulse in my wrists and neck. The rhythm of the beat was in time with my shallow breaths. My body and its clock had begun a countdown. I could feel it.
Then the door to the cellar swung open with a loud thud. I hadn’t noticed the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. He shuffled into the room and pulled the stool into the corner, before shyly sitting down on it, trying to balance his large frame. He sat there awkwardly, looking at the floor. I had never seen him like that before, and this new side of him left me feeling uneasy. Naively, I had come to believe that the monster could no longer surprise me. I was wrong.
I noticed his mouth was moving and he appeared to be whispering to himself. His voice was so quiet that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I strained but his tone was indistinguishable from the distant rumble of thunder. I couldn’t tell if he was taking to me or to himself. He remained muttering on that stool for at least five minutes before slowly getting up and inching towards me. The monster was furiously chewing the nails of his thumbs and was finding it difficult to look me in the eye. He stood a few feet away from my bench, half of his face hidden by shadow. He looked almost childlike, but as mad and monstrous as ever. Again he began to murmur nonsensically. I felt a large tear run down my cold cheek as I turned my face away from him and closed my eyes.
Then I heard the jangling of keys. I spun my head around to find him coyly fiddling with my shackles. The locks were stiff and it took some force before he was able to pop open the first one on my ankle. I stared down at my damaged but free foot, in disbelief. The monster shuffled over to my other side and released the other ankle’s shackle. Then he backed away and returned to the shadows. A moment or two later he spoke.
‘Now ya can go. Dada says it’s time for ya to go home now. You has learnt ya lesson.’
I blinked a few times, questioning whether what I heard was real. Unable to speak, all I could do was look helplessly at the restraints around my wrists. How could he expect me to leave if I was still attached to that wooden bench? He eyed the metal cuffs and chains that held me prisoner. With a quiet apprehension, he continued.
‘Ya mustn’t fight or wiggle when I unlock dem. Dada says you is to be a good gal, alwhite?’
My mouth was too dry to utter a single word. I nodded my head so violently that it brought on an instant stinging migraine. He seemed satisfied and returned to his task of freeing me. With the final click of the last lock I let out an exaggerated breath. I hadn’t moved but already I felt free. I almost smiled at the monster, almost. He too, seemed pleased.
‘Well, now you is free. Fly away lil’ birdie.’
He put the keys down on his workbench and turned to leave the room. My heart began to race, and panic surged through me, don’t leave me I thought. I squealed like a rabbit in a snare and he turned to look at me, confusion plastered his face. I extended a bloody feather-stuffed arm in his direction and silently pleaded for his help.
‘Nah, nah gal,’ he said. ‘You have to take the step yaself. Free yaself is what Dada always says.’ He left the door open behind him, before beginning his ascent up the creaking stairs.
I lay there in stunned silence. Could this really be happening? The excited rush of blood to my head made me feel dizzy. I looked around, frantically trying to work how to exit my hell. I stared at my legs and wondered how to get down off the table.
Slowly and with immense effort, I lifted my right arm across my body. I didn’t have the energy to move quickly. Gradually I began the painful task of pulling the feathers out of my arm. It wasn’t the easy task I had hoped it would be. The skin surrounding the quills had begun to
mend and sew itself together around the manmade wings he had given me. I struggled to tug the handfuls of bloody crusty feathers out and with each new rip came a fresh wave of pain and blood. It hurt like hell, but every injury I did myself meant I was undoing his work.
It took ages before my arms were cleared of all the feathers. I felt exhausted. It was the most physical exertion I had undertaken since my capture. I lay back, gasping for air and trying to steady my breathing. I felt light headed and needed to compose myself. I had to focus on my next move. My mouth was so dry. I searched the room for anything to drink but found nothing. Then I heard the familiar sound of footsteps in the room above me. My heart leaped into my throat and I realized I had no time to waste. I needed to get out of there before the monster changed his mind.
With a low groan, I managed to turn my body onto its side. My bones cracked in protest and my sores throbbed. Determined to overcome my physical state I forced myself to swing my shredded legs over the side of the bench and sit up. It took all the energy I had. Blood rushed to my head, and I felt very sick. I looked down at my thighs and the small amount of burnt flesh that still clung to my skeleton. The room span around me, and I gripped the edge of the bed to steady my fragile frame.
Once the feeling passed, I hurled myself onto the floor. There was no way I was going to be able to walk out of my prison. I would have to drag myself out. I landed with a hollow thud and the vibration of the hard floor rippled through me. The ground felt so cold against my brittle skin, which cracked on impact in some places and leaked red. My bony hips were the cause of severe agony, but still I pushed on. What other choice did I have?
I gritted my teeth and began to drag my body along the floor and away from the cellar using the small amount of strength I had left in my arms. My injuries scraped along the floor, and in places where they had started to heal they opened up again. A raw burning sensation gripped me.
My progress was slow but steady as I dragged myself to the bottom of the stairs. I rested there for a moment and looked up at the daunting task ahead of me. The stairs seemed to go on forever. I could see light through the open door at the top, but the staircase itself was dark, dank, and smelled musty.
To begin with I tried to pull myself up, but my legs scraped against the edges of the stairs and the agony was too much to bear. I could feel the shattered bones in my knee and toes moving around and digging into my flesh. I stopped and allowed the pain to flood me for a moment. Then I decided to change my approach. If I was unable to go up forwards, I was left with only one option: go backwards. I flipped myself round onto my back and my spine creaked in complaint. Taking all my weight on my buttocks and elbows, I slowly started the climb again. Thankfully, it was easier. Watching the cellar get further and further away with each step was a wonderful and surreal experience. I started to believe I was going to make it.
When I finally reached the top step, I was limp and breathless. I rolled onto my front and allowed myself to rest for a moment. With a determined push of my left hand, I managed to swing the door open enough to get through. The door was heavy, and my fingertips felt numb. I squinted and turned my eyes away from the light. I had become so used to dull darkness that the brightness hurt. It was like waking up in the sunshine. I shielded my face with my arm as I tried to adjust to the light. Cautiously I surveyed the house before me.
The house wasn’t what I had expected. In my imagination I had envisioned the monster living among filthy piles of old newspapers, the windows thick with dirt and dust. I thought rats and mice would live with him, side by side.
It wasn’t anything like that. The home he lived in was neat and tidy and old fashioned. The floors were polished oak. It belonged back in the fifties. It looked like my grandmother’s house. Even the paintings on the wall were from a bygone era.
The mention of his ‘Dada’ was beginning to make sense. Perhaps the monster came from a long line of depravity. My pulse quickened at the thought, and I decided not to hang around deliberating for any longer.
I searched left and right for an exit. My instincts guided me right. I followed my nose, and dragged myself through the dated sitting room, trying desperately not to make a sound. My senses were on full alert as I focused all my attention on the door leading out of the room. I slithered past two high back armchairs upholstered in floral embroidered fabric. An ancient television sat on a teak side table. On the mantelpiece stood a porcelain Victorian vase. It was white with hand painted posies of flowers on it. My mother would have liked it.
I struggled on, refusing to look back. I felt the floorboards against my skin but was no longer conscious of my nakedness. When I got within arm’s length of the closed door, I flopped onto the ground and allowed myself a moment’s rest. I thought I heard a sound behind me and spun my head around to investigate. Every movement was painful. I noticed the bloody trail of skin and sweat that I had left behind me, like a slippery path leading back to my dungeon. The claustrophobia returned in an instant. I reached up to the door handle and turned it. The action was agony.
When the door fell open I discovered my instincts had led me in the right direction. It was a hallway with stairs leading up to the first floor and a front door leading out of the house. I was nearly there: I could feel it.
As I groped my way along the terracotta-coloured rug on the floor, I noticed a picture hanging in pride of place. It was next to an old round ship’s clock. The time was ten past three. In the frame was an old black and white photograph of a family. From their clothes, it looked like it had been taken in the seventies. In the picture stood two serious parents and one plain-looking boy of about four years old. The father stood glaring at the camera, unsmiling. He had his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder. The mother, standing a foot away from her husband and son, looked meek and sparrow-like. I realized I was looking at the monster as a boy with his parents. How could such an average looking family have giving birth to that amount of pain and suffering?
Then it occurred to me that the boy, my monster, may not have acted alone, that his father had been his accomplice, his guide. I felt sickened by the idea. His father would be an elderly man by now. I imagined him bed-bound and barking orders at his simple son. The pair of them had probably been murdering for many years.
My head whirled with gruesome images and pictures of violence. The fear and revulsion returned and my body began to shake uncontrollably. Vertigo took hold of me and I was unable to move from the spot. The walls closed in around me, and the ceiling felt as if it were coming down. Breathless with terror, I frantically scrabbled around on the floor. I didn’t have the luxury of time. The more I thought about it, the harder it was. In the end, I had to let the panic attack take its course. The harder I fought it, the worse it got, but as I succumbed I felt my mind and body let go. After a short time, I lay still and lifeless on the floor of the monster’s hallway.
* * *
When I came to, I felt a bitterly cold breeze against my skin. I heard the sound of my teeth chattering and was acutely aware of my nudity. I couldn’t open my eyes at first. My brain thumped against my skull. I knew the light would do more harm than good. I tried to shake the heavy feeling. My mind gradually kicked into gear and I remembered where I was. My eyelids sprung open and I scanned around for signs of danger. I was alone. Escape was still a possibility. The icy breeze was coming from a gap beneath the front door. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that only ten minutes had gone by.
I pulled myself a little closer to the door and stretched up towards the handle. I tried to turn it a number of times, but it was stiff and I had no luck. I slumped back down on the ground and took some deep breaths before making a second attempt. I had to summon up all my might and anger in order to release the bolt that held the door closed. As the door flew open the wind from outside came sweeping in and danced on my flesh. I hadn’t felt fresh air properly for a long while. I would have relished it, had it not been mid-winter. It felt abrasive on my bald, scabby head.
Looking into the distance, I tried to glimpse sight of another house or buildings, but found none. This house, wherever it was, was out on its own. I looked at the ground outside and saw that it was frozen. I doubted my body would be able to withstand the icy temperature. As luck would have it, I was within reach of a hat stand that was covered with men’s coats. I pulled the warmest looking one down and slipped my skinny, bruised and broken frame into it. It was a huge, checked, woollen number that felt itchy and foreign against my paper thin, blackened skin. I tried to ignore the fact that I was wearing the monster’s coat.
I had no idea how far I would have to travel before I reached civilization. But I was determined to make it, despite the weather and the creeping darkness. I did not look back as I tugged myself over the doorstep and out into the cold world. I felt a spit of rain land on my head and looked up at the sky. It looked ready to break and I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue, hoping to catch a raindrop. No more came. I longed for a drink and clung to the idea it might be just around the corner.
I pulled myself a few metres across the driveway and was getting close to the grass island on which the tree stood. I felt small and insignificant, beneath its sprawling naked branches. The sensations I had were conflicted. I felt safe and under threat at the same time. I made it to the thick gnarled trunk. I lifted myself up and rested my back against it. It was so nice to be sat upright. Again I was aware of a light drop of water landing on my head and running down my neck.
The light was fading fast and I felt scared and exposed. I had become accustomed to the small space in which the monster had kept me. The temperature was also falling and I could see a dark frozen layer covering the grass. The murky puddles of melted snow had a thin film of ice on them. I was repulsed by what the coat represented but I was glad to have it.
BENEATH THE WATERY MOON a psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 23
