by Matt Shaw
Glance down. He’s hard.
I pause. I’m not sure if I can do this. I look up at him again.
If you insist.
I get a good grip – extra support.
I look back to his face - his eyes are shut again.
This is it.
Clamp.
I love the flick of her tongue.
I love the feel of her saliva as it trickles down me.
I love the feel of her...
Teeth?
...........................
...........................
My mouth fills with his blood as I chew down hard.
A twist of my head and his shaft tears off in my mouth.
Chewy.
I choke on his blood and gag as I come to terms with what I’ve done.
Spit it out.
Don’t think about it – it had to be done.
The Keys To Nowhere
The house fills with his screams as he pushes me off – onto the floor where I land with a bump. I let out a whimper as I bang my ankle, dropping his now-limp member to the floor. It takes all my effort not to throw up – the taste of his blood still strong in my mouth and trickling down my chin. His screams continue.
I stand up and look at him as he writhes around on the bed, holding where his penis used to be. His eyes shut tight – the pain stopping him from opening them.
I try and walk towards the bed but fall as I forget about my ankle and put pressure on it. Landing next to him, he takes the opportunity to grab me.
His eyes open. I see his pain. I see his hate. He tries to say something but I don’t want to hear it. He can’t speak anyway; the pain is too much for him and he lets go of me before holding onto where his penis used to be. The blood is gushing out thick and fast – spraying the entire length of the bed.
Part of me feels sorry for him. Most of me feels no sorrow for him. He did this to himself.
I grab the keys from around his neck and pull on them so hard that the chain snaps, “Fuck you!” I spit in his face just as he spat on mine, repeatedly when I was unable to move – when I was unable to do anything about it. How the table has turned.
I scream another “Fuck you” for good measure. This is it – I’m free. I’m going home. Holding the keys in my hand, I fight through the pain from my ankle and hobble to the bedroom door, using the wall as extra support. The staircase, from the landing, that was so uninviting earlier, look like a Godsend in the dim light.
I can do this. Nothing can stop me.
The banister is my support now and I get to the stairs in a good time, hopping along and keeping my weight off my bad ankle that’s raised off the floor. The staircase is going to be the challenge.
Pause.
Rest a minute. You have the time. I look back to the main bedroom. His screams have stopped now. I can’t hear him at all – not even writhing around on the bed. Good. He’s probably passed out from lack of blood or shock. Maybe even both.
Fuck him. Forget about him. Concentrate. The stairs. I slide the keys down the back of my underwear. Had I thought about it, in the bedroom, I would have stopped long enough to throw some trousers on, or a dress at least. An outfit wasn’t high on my list of priorities though – I just want to get out of here. Worry about clothes later. Hopefully, whomever I stumble across first will lend me their coat or shirt.
The keys are cold against my skin. At least I won’t forget they are there. Concentrate. The stairs.
I rest my left hand against the wall and grip the wooden railing with my right hand. Go careful. Another short pause before I, once again, lift my foot off the floor so as not to put unnecessary strain on my ankle. This is it. Just ‘hop’ down the stairs – one at a time.
Go.
Surprisingly I manage to get down the stairs fairly easily. The wall and railing offering me all the support I need to keep my ankle from causing me any more pain. My heart beats faster due to both the level of energy this is taking and the thought of getting outside. Just a few more steps to go and I will be down. Careful. Don’t rush. There’s no need. You’ll only do something stupid.
The last stair is the hardest as I run out of railing and have to rely on the wall for all of my support. I land awkwardly and slam my foot down – a scream escapes my throat as the pain shoots up through my body. Forget about it. You have time to hurt later.
Still using the wall for support I drag myself up and ‘hop’ over to the front door. I pull the keys from where I put them, scratching my skin in the process, and frantically search through the numerous designs. There are so many different styles – all different shapes and sizes – I have no idea which one is the one that I need.
Stop panicking. The key will be there. Just try them all. One by one I systematically go about trying each of the keys in the lock until finally I hear the ‘click’ that I’ve longed for since finding myself a prisoner in this house.
This is it. I’m going home.
I can’t help but let out a joyous shriek as I pull the door open wide.
Fuck. Bricks. Beyond the door is a wall of bricks – like the wall of bricks that have blocked some of the windows I’ve encountered. I want to cry. Don’t cry. There must be a way out. Try the other locked rooms. One of them must lead to freedom.
I’m so close now that I forget about my ankle and catch it repeatedly as I take the keys and hobble through to the kitchen. I ignore the pain just as I ignore his system for storing food and throw myself through the containers in an effort to get to the door quicker than following the path he’s left.
I land in a messy heap, laughing to myself. It was loud, and painful, but destroying what he spent so much time setting up was satisfying. I pick the keys up and pull myself to my feet before falling against the door that I’m supposedly forbidden to go through. Fuck him. He can’t stop me now.
The same process that I employed before helps me to discover the needed key and get the satisfying ‘click’.
Please. No bricks. I’m in luck. It’s the garage. Jesus, what’s that fucking smell?
The Garage
Don’t think about the smell. Just find the light switch. Breathe through your mouth not your nose. Ignore the air. You can get all the clean air you need when you get outside. Just get outside.
I lean into the garage and scrabble against the wall, just inside of the doorway, hoping to find a light switch. Peering into the darkness I see the outline of a car. Until this very moment I’ve never been excited about cars. This car, however, makes my heart beat fast and adrenalin surge through my body. This is it. There’s no stopping me now.
Another stroke of luck: my hand stumbles across the needed switch.
‘On’.
The lights flicker on and off for a second, teasing me with the horrors they are about to reveal. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the lights on. Shut your eyes. Pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you didn’t see the bodies. He didn’t let them go. He lied. He didn’t let anyone go. Keep your eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t put yourself through it. The glimpse was enough. Just feel your way to the car and get in. Keep your eyes shut. Get in the car and just drive. Go straight through the door. Don’t look. Don’t look back.
I stumble into the garage and clumsily stagger down the stairs trying to ignore the intense pain each step causes because of my ankle. I think I’m off the final step and yet I know I’m not standing on the floor.
Don’t look.
I’ve been through enough. I don’t need to see what he put others through as well. It will be hard enough to move on with my life as it is. Just take another step.
Now I know I’m standing on the floor. I shuffle my feet forward a little more. There’s something else in front of me. I lift my good foot up and use it to ‘feel’ how high the ‘something’ is. Whatever it is – it’s the same size as what I just got off.
I step up. Slowly. Carefully. It’s soft under foot. Fleshy. Don’t think about it. I bring my other foot up, careful
ly, so I’m standing on the ‘something’ completely. Shuffle your good foot forward. Whatever it is – it’s not big and it drops off again. My good foot finds the floor again. Good. I step off completely.
Where’s the car? Am I close yet? Just sneak a peak. A quick flash can’t hurt. Can it? Just don’t pay attention to what you see. Just get an idea on where the car is.
I open my eyes, for what’s supposed to be a quick ‘second’, and stop dead. I don’t want them open and yet I can’t bring myself to close them.
A red Mercedes – like the one my mum and dad drive.
I can’t take my eyes off it. Even the knowledge that rotting corpses surround me doesn’t distract me from the car – the red Mercedes.
It’s exactly the same colour on the exterior and interior. The number plate: the same. The scratch in the bonnet: the same. It can’t be.
Shut your eyes. Close them. Ignore it. Pretend you haven’t seen it. Just get in and drive. Drive far from here. Just keep driving.
No. You need to know. It can’t be the same car. He doesn’t know mum and dad. A few more tense seconds pass until it dawns on me that the boot is wide open. Why would the boot be open? Never mind that – why would the fucking car be here in the first place. Take a look. What’s in the boot?
I step over the bodies, without giving them a second thought, not feeling the pain that should be coming from my ankle. I can’t swallow.
I’m scared.
There are two bodies in the boot. I can see their feet.
It’s okay. It won’t be mum and dad. He doesn’t know them. They don’t know him. They wouldn’t be in his house. They certainly wouldn’t be in his garage.
I peer in to see the faces; blue skinned, rotting. I’m struggling to fight back the tears. My heart stops.
“Mummy? Daddy?”
I can’t fight back the tears and they flow freely from my eyes as I wail like a lost little girl. First of all he took my freedom and then he took my parents. The ‘man’ that said he loved me.
I drop to the floor – a hand on each parent, refusing to let them go. I won’t let go of them. I climb into the car with them and cuddle in close. I can’t believe this – what he’s done to me.
I’m so very tired.
“I love you,” I say – truthfully for the first time since being in this god-forsaken house, “I love you so much.”
In turn, I kiss them both – noticing cracks in their heads. Along with the crack in the head, my mum also has some deep cuts in her leg. Why?
“What’s he done?”
I shut my eyes. Tighter. Tighter still. Leave this place. Go somewhere else. Somewhere when everything was okay. Somewhere with my mum and dad.
No. Open your eyes. Don’t give up. You’re so close. Grieve later. Just get out of the house. I roll over and clamber through to the front seat. This is it and the keys in the ignition. Freedom. I turn the key. Nothing. Fuck. I turn it again and, again, nothing. I twist another turn of the key and another sting of disappointment hits home.
Fuck One more turn. Nothing. It’s dead. Everything is fucking dead. “Please start!” I beg. Nothing. I sit back, deflated. It doesn’t matter. Forget about the car.
Just get out. Run! Ignore the ankle. You don’t need the car. Don’t give up now. Just open the garage door and run...
Bricks.
I was so transfixed by the car and my parents that I failed to notice that the entrance to the garage had been completely filled in, with more bricks. Everything’s been sealed up. Everything. There’s no escape.
Fuck him. There has to be a way out. He won’t beat you. Don’t give up. I climb from the car and climb my way to the bricked entrance. The bricked ‘exit’ to be more precise. Maybe they aren’t secure. I start kicking them, with my good foot and they don’t budge. Kick them harder. Nothing. There’s no movement.
More force.
More disappointment. Find something in the room. There must be something in here that I can use to break out. Something. Anything.
I frantically stagger around the room, tripping over strangers who all stare dead-eyed and hunt on the shelves and in the many fridges. There’s nothing. No heavy instruments.
Nothing sharp.
He’s thought of everything.
I only find slithers of meat and tubs of butter along with other refrigerated perishables – nothing that I can use. There’s nothing in here.
There’s nothing in here.
They might be something in the main house. Get out of the garage but keep looking. Don’t give up. You’ve come so far – achieved so much.
I won’t let him win and lock the door behind me, as I leave the garage.
I won’t go in there again. Ever.
Desperation
I’m exhausted. I feel sick – either caused by hunger or the feeling that I’m stuck here. I’ve looked all through the downstairs of the house; I can’t find anything that I can use to break the bricks down and my ankle is killing me.
There’s just upstairs left and the next room on the list. His room. As I stand at the doorway of the main bedroom, I struggle to cross the threshold. I’m being silly. I know he can’t hurt me now – he’s lying on the bed, motionless. I can’t tell if he’s dead or unconscious.
Just go in there. Keep looking. He isn’t going to hurt you. He can’t.
What if he’s pretending? What if I enter the room and he suddenly springs to life like a typical ‘bad guy’ from a poorly written Hollywood movie; the sort of bad guy that comes at you, from the shadows, despite previously being set on fire and shot in the head.
Don’t be stupid.
He isn’t coming for you. Just look at the duvet. The mattress soaked heavily in a pool of deep red blood. He isn’t coming for you. I put my first foot over the doorway. He doesn’t move.
His non-movement is a good sign that encourages my second foot to cross over the threshold. I don’t take my eyes off him though.
Check to see if he’s breathing. At least if I check, I’ll know for sure.
“Peter?” Stupid girl. He isn’t moving. He isn’t going to answer you. “Peter?” I take a few ‘limps’ closer to him and hold out a hand that shakes uncontrollably. Why am I so scared? He’s motionless. “Peter?”
I’m close enough to touch him now but I don’t. I don’t dare. Instead I pull at as much of the cover as I can get to and throw it over his body. Out of sight, out of mind.
I take step away from him; something soft is under foot. I already know what it is. Don’t look at it. Don’t remind yourself. Just kick it under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Done.
Out of sight, out of mind is a lot easier said than done and I struggle to stop casting a nervous glance in his direction as I look around the room – a look around the room that turns out to be fruitless with no heavy objects that I can use and, if there were heavy objects, they were bolted to the floor.
Fuck.
I turn and leave the room – I leave him. He hasn’t moved. As I give his body a final glance, before closing the door on him, I can’t help but feel sorry for him, in a weird sort of way that’s hard to explain.
He killed my parents. Why do I feel sorry for him? Fuck him. I close the door and move towards the next room. I ignore the bathroom. I’ve been in there enough times to
know that there’s nothing in there that I can use; nothing that would smash through bricks. The same for the spare bedroom – I know what’s in there and I know there’s nothing in there either.
There’s only one room left and it’s hidden by another locked door. I take the keys from the back of my underwear and, once again, set about trying them in the lock, one at a time, until I stumble across the one that’s needed: a large, silver key.
‘Click’.
The door swings open, into a room, which contains a handful of monitors that show the other rooms of the house. Next to the last monitor on the right is a computer terminal. Thank fuck. Send an email to someone. Anyone. I rush over to the
seat, in front of the computer screen, as fast as I can and flick the on switch to the screen that wastes no time in asking me for a password.
A password? He has thought of everything.
Think. What would he have? Love? Eternity? Together?
One, Two, Three, Four? None of them work. Peter? Vanessa? Peter and Vanessa? Vanessa and Peter? Rejected. All of them, rejected. Fuck. I should have spoken to him more. I should have tried to get into his head. I might have stood more of a chance in finding the right combination of letters, the right word to unlock the freedom that the real keys have failed to get for me.
