A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Tears well in my eyes. This is getting messier and messier. Cody paces in the kitchen. I eye the living room warily.

  ‘Fuck,’ he shouts to no one in particular, and I begin to wonder what he and Richard are up to. All those late nights out, those arguments in the garage. I have no doubt he and Richard are up to something unsavory. How does Richard’s disappearance throw a kink in their plans, though? This complicates things. Why would Richard up and leave if he and Cody actually had some sort of plot?

  ‘He’ll come back. And when he does, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to tell him what a bitch you were when he was gone. Your hours of freedom are numbered, Crystal. And then you’ll be on your knees, begging. For your life. I’m telling you, you’ll regret this.’

  I shake as he walks toward me, a silent prayer on repeat in my head. It’s a serenity prayer I used to say over and over when Daddy was in one of his darker moods, when he would come at me with the same crazy eyes I’ve seen in Richard and, right now, in his brother. Still, I waver, my knees wobbling and my stomach muscles clenching.

  Cody touches my chin, his thumb caressing me before he painfully turns my head. His fingers apply ample pressure to my jawline. He leans in and whispers in my ear. All of the hairs on my arm stand at attention.

  ‘You better be afraid. Because when he gets back, you’ll pay. And I know this—he’ll be back, Crystal. He always comes back. Remember that when you’re out gallivanting and having a good time. There will be hell to pay eventually. You’ll have to pay for your mistakes.’

  Panic swirls. What does he think I’ve done? Does he know where Richard is? Is this all a manipulative plan—but for what? I thought I was running the show here, but now I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a pawn in some demented game.

  No, no, no. It can’t be. I rock back and forth after he lets my face go.

  He stomps toward the door, pausing to turn and look at me. ‘Oh, and Crystal?’

  I whimper, afraid of what’s next. I can’t even manage to string words together in response.

  ‘It smells like shit in here. You better get cleaning. Richard won’t be happy that you’ve been slacking on your womanly duties.’

  He flashes me a malignant grin. I shudder. He turns, flings open the screen door so hard it crashes against the siding, and heads to his truck, swearing at Henry as he does. I sink to the floor, shaken and shattered. I curl up on the linoleum, rocking back and forth. Back and forth.

  Forgive me, Father. Forgive me.

  THE SUN POUNDED DOWN, a few wispy clouds floating in the bright blue sky above. There was a soft breeze blowing through my hair and the trees, but I didn’t mind. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and stretched out my legs.

  It’s going to be okay, I told myself. I’m better now. Things are better.

  The months had passed slowly, insidiously, as I wept myself to sleep during all hours of the day. Richard hadn’t been there like I thought he would, and it was harder than I expected. I’d gone through the cycles of grief over and over and over. I’d cried alone, rocking in my chair, wondering why my baby girl had to disappear.

  I hated that word. Disappear. I hated that there was no real, true symbol that the baby had ever been here. Like one of the wispy clouds, she had just floated away, the only memory of her the feeling of yearning in my heart, in my soul for her. The miscarriage rocked me to the core for months, for years. I was never quite the same.

  Richard blamed me. I knew it. I could see from the look in his eye, from the harsh words he spat at me, from the demands to get over it. Sometimes, it seemed like he was happy the baby was gone. One less mouth to feed. One less worry. Still, even if he hadn’t wanted the baby, a harsh reality I’d only come to face in the past few weeks, he felt rage at the fact I’d failed him.

  I’d failed. He was right. I hadn’t lived up to my potential. I had been lacking somehow. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe I hadn’t prayed enough, or maybe I needed to repent, to atone for past wrongdoings. Maybe this was God’s way of making me serve penance for my sins. I hated the thought that our Savior would be so cruel. Still, cruelty wasn’t a foreign entity to me, not by a longshot. Life was sacrifice. Love was sacrifice. That’s what I had to understand.

  I heard Richard cursing in the garage, throwing a wrench or other tool aside. I flinched, my eyes opening. I’d reveled in the peaceful moment in the sun for too long. I was jolted back to reality.

  But this reality was better than the devious reality of the bedroom, wrapped away in a cocoon of myself, praying for death. I needed to reconnect with the world. I needed to repent. I needed to atone. There was always so much to atone for. I stood from the porch, ambling to the garage.

  ‘Richard?’ I murmured when I got to the threshold. ‘Richard, can I make you lunch?’ I was meek, afraid to enter his territory. I learned last week what would happen if I did.

  Richard emerged from the back of the garage, his T-shirt smeared with grease. He appraised me, his eyes shifting up and down over my body. I held back a shudder, averting my eyes. I hoped he liked the dress. I was trying my best. I just needed him to see that.

  ‘About time you fucking clean yourself up. What, you think you’re going to lay around that bedroom for the rest of your life? I didn’t marry you so you could be a fat ass mooch.’

  I wanted to tell Richard I’d been out of the bedroom for weeks. The latest bout of depression over our lost baby girl had lifted, and I’d been scrubbing the place up and down, hurting my fingers so much from the cleaning. I wanted to remind him how I’d been the perfect wife these weeks, making up for lost time and pouring myself into something to help numb me to the pain. Most of all, I itched to reiterate to him that we lost her, the sweet baby, and that I was still grieving, just as he should still be grieving. It didn’t matter how much time went by. This month, that date, would always be so hard. I wanted him to understand. God, I so desperately wanted someone to understand.

  But it wasn’t my place. I needed to be a good wife. I needed to obey. Isn’t that what Mama always said? She prepared me for this role. I had to stay in my place.

  ‘Yes, Richard. Okay. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to see if you wanted lunch.’

  He smirked as I trembled under his glare. He crept toward me, and I fiddled with my fingers. My ribs ached from the memory of what power he held over me, what pain he could inflict. I prayed I hadn’t angered him. I’d learned the hard way what happened when his temper roared.

  Richard, after all, wasn’t the man I thought he was. Then again, maybe he always was. Maybe he was exactly who I thought he was and that’s why I chose to walk into the garage that fateful day. Maybe I chose him because he was familiar. He was exactly the kind of man I understood—and no matter how bleak that understanding was, isn’t the familiar always welcome? Don’t we crave what we know? Then again, that was assuming I did the choosing. In reality, I’d always known Richard was the one in charge. He’s always been in charge.

  He walked closer and closer until his hot, tobacco-laden breath puffed against my cheek. He swiped at my cheek, and I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself not to cry. This was my husband. I loved him. Why was I so nervous? But it was a dumb question. I knew why I was so nervous.

  ‘So you want to know if I want lunch, is that right?’ he asked, whispering.

  ‘Yes, Richard.’

  I smelled the booze on his breath. He’d been drinking again. I should’ve known better. Why hadn’t I learned? Maybe I was as stupid as he said I was. I was always too stupid.

  He snatched my jaw, squeezing tightly. ‘Don’t you think that’s something that’s understood? What, you think I’m going to let you off the hook? That I’ll just starve while you lay around that house, eating my food I’m working to earn? Is that what you thought?’ His voice surged with intensity, and he gritted his teeth.

  ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry.’

  I trembled, my constricting chest making it so hard to breathe. I hoped it all would be swift. I
wasn’t strong enough to handle anything but something quick.

  There was a long pause, and I waited for the assault. I started silently praying, chanting the familiar words in my head. I needed to put myself into enough of a trance that the pain lessened. But before I could get through one Hail Mary, Richard let go, flinging my jaw out of his hand like I was a defiled object to be chucked aside.

  ‘Pathetic. Truly. You’re lucky I married you. No other moron would want you. Especially now. Just remember that if you think you can do better. Remember that if you think you can wander off and slut around with other men. You can’t do better, Crystal. You can’t. And if you try, I’ll kill you.’

  Tears pooled as I studied the ground. ‘I love you, Richard,’ I said, hating myself as the words spewed. How weak could I be? How could I love the man who hurt me so much? How could it be love? But I did. I did love him. He was familiar. He provided for me. I was his. It was my duty to love him, no matter what. I said those vows. I was a woman of my word. Mama always said to be a woman of your word.

  He stomped away, ignoring my final words.

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered to the ground, tears falling freely as I trudged back to the kitchen, not even bothering to wipe at my eyes as I made lunch for my husband.

  Chapter Nine

  Scrub, scrub scrub. Swish the brush in the bucket. Scrub, scrub, scrub.

  The rhythm of my scrub brush mixed with the scent of bleach swirls around me, lulling me into a trance-like state. The sun is setting, and Sheriff Barkley hasn’t shown up. I haven’t heard from him since going to the station to check for updates. Should I go back down to the station? Should I go to him and try to find answers? How long until he figures this all out? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to do.

  I scrub, back and forth, back and forth, my brush following the lines of the familiar floorboards. It seems like I have to scrub more often. My knees ache from being on the hard floor, but I don’t stop. I need to keep it clean. The house smells bad. So, so bad. Tears well. I’m failing at even this.

  I keep scrubbing, rinsing the brush every now and then as I clean, clean, clean. My knees are creaking as I fling my body back and forth wildly, overexaggerating every movement. At least I have something to do. But the mindlessness of the job isn’t helping. My thoughts keep wandering, pondering over whether Sheriff Barkley is actually searching for Richard, wondering if he’ll actually turn anything up.

  Why do I care? It’s stupid, really. Richard isn’t here. That’s all that matters. No one goes looking for the wild lion when it isn’t bothering the flock, after all. It’s silly to worry. I’m losing it. Maybe I’ve been in the house alone too long. Maybe not having Richard to talk to or to yell at me is making me a little crazy. I don’t like that thought and snuff it out hurriedly.

  After a long while, I stand and study my work. The wet spots on the floor soothe me. All better, at least for now. I take the bucket, ready to dump it. And then my eyes land on something else in the hallway.

  The Blessed Mother.

  I’ve walked past her so many times these past few days, but I haven’t seen her, not really. Eyes averted, I shudder as I walk by her, thinking about what she must be thinking. Would she pity me? I don’t know. Maybe. I hate the thought of her seeing me like this.

  I set the bucket down now, entranced by the familiar face ahead of me. I take the time to look, to really look, at the worn statue sitting on the shelf in the hallway. Richard always hated that statue, swore that it cluttered up the house and that it was hideous. It had been a housewarming gift from Mama. At the time, it felt like a haunted relic, an insidious reminder of the agony I’d suffer in atonement.

  I walk closer, the chipping robin’s egg paint of the statue’s headdress eerie. Her face is worn, ragged, and dirty from years of penance. I kneel before her, staring at her, tears welling. I think of all the times as a child I knelt before her, forced by Mama to beg for forgiveness. I think about all of the times I stared into those unsettling eyes, the pupils too large, thinking about how odd it was to put so much weight on a statue. I remember all of the hours kneeling before her, Daddy whipping me with the belt, my screams echoing off her ceramic feet. I remember all of the holy water ablutions, the sacrifices at her feet, the rituals of a family who put too much faith in a religious idol and not enough faith in each other. Still, she is like a familiar photograph that becomes so ordinary, you walk by it without really seeing it. She’s blended into the background of our humble house and become a thread in the needlepoint that is Peacot Drive.

  Tears fall as I rock back and forth, staring up at the statue that was both my refuge in my parents’ house and my own personal hell. I don’t know what the statue is anymore. I don’t know. But right now, I’m clinging to anything familiar, and so I find myself crawling toward her, touching her, tears flowing. I scooch back from my knees, plopping onto my bottom, wrapping my knees into my chest. I stare up at her, those eyes peering down on me with judgement like so many have before.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve messed up. I’m so sorry,’ I cry, truly acknowledging the statue for the first time in years. I beg for things to be okay although I know that even the Blessed Virgin can’t make any of this okay. It’s too far gone, even for her.

  My head pounds, and my pulse quickens. The Blessed Mother. Why didn’t she help me? Why didn’t she save Gideon? At the thought, I look up at her putrid face, and I shudder. Am I losing it? I must be losing it. Because for a second, I could’ve sworn—

  No, there it is again! I leap to my feet. I’m positive. I walk closer.

  The face. It’s smirking. A barely noticeable smirk, but upon closer inspection, I’m sure of it. The line of her lips, it curves just enough. She’s definitely smirking. I shriek at the statue. How could she do this? How could she? After all of those years I sat at her feet, basking in the shadow of her judgement, how could she let this happen? Tears fall. Gideon. Sweet Gideon.

  Evil monster.

  I snatch the statue from its stand, the weight and bulk of it feeling unruly. I know what I have to do. I charge to the basement door. I can’t avert my eyes any longer. I can’t avoid her. I need to be rid of her. I need to have the statue gone. Too many bad memories rest in her robes, and too many fears are tucked in her eyes. Too much anger lurks in her sneer.

  I don’t bother with pulling on the light cord, hurrying my way down the steps in the darkness. I can’t have her up there, studying me, judging me anymore. I can’t. She’s not who I thought she was. Through the blackness, I saunter through the murky, dirty basement, the dirt floor underneath my feet gritty and chill-inducing. I need to scrub my feet now, I think. But there’s no time for that. I wander to a back corner and chuck the statue there for safekeeping. A pang of guilt assuages me, but I ignore it. Some things have to be done, and some things change.

  I’m heading to the stairs, and I pause for a moment as my feet contact the first splintery board. I listen, hearing the faint, muffled screams. I look back to the dark corner where the statue is. Dammit. She’s screaming. She’s definitely screaming. Tears well again.

  Don’t think about it. Just breathe. Don’t think about it.

  I march up the steps, slamming the basement door. I head straight to the shower, turn on the water, and get in with my clothes on, desperate to drown out the basement screams and to wash away the memory of that mocking smirk.

  Night Three

  I pour the cereal into my bowl and retrieve the milk from the fridge. The house is empty, silent, save for a single mouse sitting in the corner of the room. I wonder if the trap will get it. I’m sitting now, the bowl in front of me. I’m spooning the cereal into my mouth, but something doesn’t feel right. The cereal tastes odd. The texture is off. Confused, I pause, reaching into my mouth. I pull the chunk of cereal from my tongue and look down into my hand.

  I shudder, dropping a bloody toenail onto the wooden table. My stomach flops, and fear takes hold. How did that get in there? I look d
own to my milk, pink now. I stir the spoon, confusion still setting in. I sift through the milk, lifting my spoon over and over, horror flooding my entire being.

  There are no pieces of cereal in here. Instead, my spoon lifts up toenail after bloody toenail. I shove the bowl back, covering my mouth as I shake my head. What’s happened? I’m going to be sick. Oh, I’m going to be sick.

  I run to the bathroom, but when I get there, a murky red haze fills the room. It’s an oddly ethereal fog with a reddish tint. I freeze at the threshold. Do I go in? I don’t know. I take a step, but then, on the floor, it rolls. Back and forth, it rolls. I lean closer. What is that? And then my scream catches in my chest, rattling in my lungs. I cough and sputter, needing to get away from it. I pant, exhausted, the sight of the baby’s severed head rolling around and around, around and around. I think I hear it scream. What the hell is happening? What’s happening to me?

  ‘Crys,’ a voice chokes, coughing and sputtering. I turn my head to the screen door.

  I stand, daring to walk closer even though I want to run the other way.

  ‘Crys, I know what’s going on here,’ the voice rasps. I look, the tucked in shirt, the perfectly pressed pants familiar. The voice, although throaty and guttural, is recognizable, too. But it can’t be. It can’t be him.

  He’s . . .

  I look at the figure standing in the doorway.

  ‘Crys, come on,’ he says again, rattling the door. I shriek. It is him. He’s the only one who regularly called me that. Richard would use that name once in a while to get a rise out of me, but there was only one man who called me Crys.

  Daddy.

  ‘No,’ I whisper. What’s happening? It can’t be him. I walk closer to the screen door, terrified. I need to be sure. But before I can get a closer look, he’s dashing through, chasing after me. I make a run for it, heading to the back of the house. Once I’m in the middle, though, things shift. This isn’t my house. I’m so confused. Nothing’s the same.