A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Photographs on the wall aren’t of anyone I know, and the furniture is all different. The floor is murky, muddy even. I’m falling now, tripping in the middle of some great room.

  I scurry backward, trying to get my footing, trying to get out of here. But I can’t. I keep falling, falling, a reddish mud gripping my bare feet. He’s coming closer now. My breathing intensifies. There’s no escaping him. What does he want? What will he do?

  Please don’t, Daddy. Please don’t do it.

  But it’s too late. I look up, deciding to look into his face this time.

  There’s no face. Where Daddy’s face should be is a gaping, seeping hole, blackened flesh rotten and crumbling. His features are gone, and it’s like I’m staring into a darkened tent, his skin flapping in the breeze.

  The scream I emit now is one from the depths of somewhere outside of me, somewhere I can’t even begin to understand.

  Chapter Ten

  It isn’t even dawn yet, but I need to get out of here. I need to think, to stretch my legs, and to escape the house. The place is doing something to me, truly. The dreams I keep having aren’t healthy, especially with everything else. It wouldn’t do to lose it now. I can’t lose it, not yet. I have to keep my wits about me.

  A walk. Yes, a walk will help clear things up. I’ll feel better, getting out of that house, getting some air. Some fresh air is all I need now. That’s all.

  I amble into the blackness, the morning chill biting through my thin, threadbare sweater. But I keep walking. Down the lane, past Henry who stares at me. I trudge past Richard’s garage, shuddering at the spookiness of it. I power onward, to where, I don’t know. There’s a winding, overgrown path in the forest. I follow it, not worrying about the fact it’s not light enough out yet to venture into the brush. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m not that worried anymore.

  Trees above me and vines and bushes darting out at my feet, I keep walking. The sun is getting ready to peek over the horizon as evidenced by the fact that the blackness isn’t completely inky black. It’s fading into a hazy, grayish black, the kind right before dawn or right after sunset. The best kind of darkness. I breathe in and out, the chilly air hurting my lungs, but I savor the pain. It means I’m still here. I’ve still got another day.

  It’s going to be a particularly draining day, I know. I have things to do today. I can’t stay cocooned forever. Reality will come knocking, and I have to be prepared. So today, I will take care of things, be pro-active. A tingle jolts through my body as I realize I’m not home right now. Oh, this could be bad. I hate the chains I feel to that place, though. I shrug the thought aside. I need to break them a bit. I need to step out. There’s nothing wrong with stepping out, after all. What could anyone say? Who could blame me? Hands in my pockets, I walk on and on until my calves ache. My body has been through hell and back, but the human body, well, it’s resilient I suppose. It can handle amazing things. It can endure exceptional circumstances. I should know, after all.

  My feet plod on, for how long, I don’t even know. It feels good to not have to think, to not be surrounded by the fears and memories within those walls. It feels good to break away. For a moment, I think maybe I’ll just keep on walking forever. But I know I can’t do that, not yet. There’s still more I have to do. But if the next few days go as planned, maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  I have a number for the women’s shelter a few counties over. I’m going to call it today, see if I can find a shelter in another state. Maybe in one of the Carolinas, near the beach. It would be a start. I feel like maybe they could help me with the new life. Maybe they wouldn’t ask too many questions. I need to be far away from him. I need to make sure he can’t track me down once I’m gone.

  But I couldn’t stay there forever, not for long. I’d have to figure things out quickly—a job, a new identity. Otherwise, it will all be pointless. Otherwise, he’ll find me.

  Still, I know I can’t stay here forever, either. What’s left here for me? Nothing but darkness and torture, worse than the nightmares I’ve been having. There is danger and fear lurking around every moment. My freedom is sucked away by the knowledge he’ll eventually reclaim it. If I can get things sorted through, get some things organized, maybe that secret stash of money in the garage will come in handy.

  Unless Cody gets to it first. Or unless he comes back and ruins it all.

  Maybe I should leave today, I think. What’s stopping me?

  But I know the answer to that. I know there are things that my soul needs to finish here. For Gideon. I owe him that much. I can’t leave yet. Soon, but not yet.

  Still, I should be getting ready. I’ll call that shelter today. I’ll get a plan in place. I’ll get the supplies I’ll need, and then, when the job is done, when all is right, I’ll disappear. At just the right moment.

  I wonder what Richard would say if he could see me now, marching into the darkness without a single care. Marching forward with hope and an escape plan. It would make him possessively mad. That makes me smile.

  Richard. Over three full days gone. I sigh. I can’t avoid it forever. Something’s clearly not right at all. What will people say if he never shows back up? What if this town never figures out what happened to him? Or to me? I picture the black-haired woman standing by the ocean, but I know it’s not so simple.

  I’m tainted. I’m ruined. I’m lost in so many ways.

  Even if I do make it out, I can’t just wipe everything away. Some sins can’t be cleansed, and some lives can’t be saved. There is no starting over for me completely, and as sad as that is, it’s something I’ve come to accept. The best I can hope for is a few weeks, a few months of freedom, of feeling the sun on my face, of choosing which way to walk. Life isn’t fair, even if God is. Life isn’t merciful, either. We deal with the hurdles we’re given, we make our choices, and then we’re left to reap what we’ve sown.

  And reap, oh reap will I.

  I shake my head. Too deep of thoughts for too early. I yawn. I barely slept a wink last night between the dreams and the screams. That statue really needs to stop it. I’m going to have to bury her soon if she doesn’t stop. I need sleep, especially for today. Today is going to be trying. I need to dig deep, to find that Crystal smile. I can’t have people pitying me or worrying. It won’t do to have them worry.

  The sun is peeking over the horizon now, the light from it brightening the path. How long have I been walking? I really should be getting back now, shouldn’t I? I’ve been gone long enough. There’s no sense in trying to escape now. I know how that will end. It doesn’t take one of the devil’s fortune tellers to know that.

  Mama always hated fortune tellers. Once, when I was in high school, some of the girls I talked to were going into town to see one. Chrissy Harris wanted to know if her Mom was going to survive her bout with cancer. I wanted to go and see what it was all about. But Mama found out, and I spent that night kneeling in front of the statue, seven hours and seventeen lashes.

  What would Mama think now? What would she say if she were here? I’m pretty sure I know what she would say, and I don’t think I’d like it. After Daddy died, Mama went down to Georgia to live with her sister. Said there was nothing here for her. I wasn’t surprised, but the hurt did cut deep. It still does. I’ve come to learn that’s life.

  It’s too bad I can’t turn to Mama now. Georgia would be a good place to get away—but Mama would never understand. Stand by your man, Crystal. It’s the lifeblood of her ways, the mantra of her heart. She would never be okay with my need to escape.

  Loneliness. It’s the evading emotion that marks my life, even now. Being alone in every way. We are all alone, just in different ways.

  As I stomp back to the house, my bones weary and my head pounding, I freeze. Because suddenly, I’m not alone at all. I shake my head, tears welling. No. No. No. I take a step forward, blinking. It can’t be real. It must be a waking nightmare, a delusion. I’m losing it. I am. But as I step forward, he bleats, the noise s
tartling me. He stares at me, defiant, stomping, right in the middle of the road.

  Where did it come from? There are no neighbors for miles and miles. I’m all alone out here. Where did the goat come from? I stare at it insolently at first but then apologetically. This can’t be good. No, it can’t be a positive omen at all.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I say to the goat, to the universe, to myself, to the baby. To him. To everyone I’ve ever known. I crumple to the road, the dirt greeting my knees as I sink down, hands folded in a familiar position.

  ‘Please forgive me.’

  I rock back and forth, and the goat eventually wanders off, but it’s left its mark. It’s made its point. I know what’s happening now, and I know there’s no stopping it. I sob in the dirt for a long time, trying to sort it all out. But I know now that it’s irrelevant. No matter what choices I make, no matter what I do from here on out, it’s sealed. My fate is settled. There’s no escaping the truth.

  When I finally pull myself up to my feet, I run, not walk. I dash home, through the screen door. It might be irrelevant, and it might not matter, but I need to clean. I need to feel that rag between my hands, the floorboards under my knees. I need to waft in the smell of the bleach. Maybe I just need to cover up the cold, hard truth I’ve been trying so hard to hide. And maybe, just maybe, today will be the day it all comes crashing down. I scrub and scrub until my hands ache. Then, I carefully pull the tassels on the rug taut and straight. There, there. All better now.

  All better indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pamela’s hair is in braids today. I study her, the way the perfect blonde hair is woven into the intricate design. Her face is still pretty, tight, but the braids look ridiculous. I think they make her look childish. Then again, Richard always loved braids. Maybe that’s why I’m being so harsh. I hate the reminder of the not-so-distant past.

  ‘Mrs. Connor, what can I do for you?’ she asks through crackling gum. The phone rings, but she ignores it. There’s a lot of hustle and bustle, even though the town is so small. It seems like a hectic day. I wonder what could be going on. Have they found something? Have they found something about Richard? My stomach plummets.

  ‘I just came to check on the report I filed. Is Sheriff Barkley around?’ I ask, twiddling my hands, looking at the ground now.

  Her gum snaps as she wheels backward in her chair, peeking at the office nearby.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ she mutters, leaning back so far I think she might fall. ‘I think he’s busy. On the phone right now or something. But have a seat. I’m sure he’d like to see you.’

  At her words, I glance up and stare at her. He’d like to see me? What does that mean? Have they found something? Have they found evidence already? Oh God, this could be bad. My mind flashes back to the hammer, to the blood. Could Sheriff Barkley have found something already? Is that possible? And if he did, this can’t be good. Not at all.

  Just breathe. Don’t think about it, I tell myself as I sink into the uncomfortable metal chair, trying not to think about the similar metal chair that used to be in Richard’s garage. I cling to my purse as I set it on top of my floral-patterned dress. Suddenly, my eyes follow the pattern, the swirls and vines running into rose after rose. This is too much. Why did I wear this? This dress is way too over-the-top. It screams that I’m trying too hard. I don’t want him to think I’m trying too hard. It’s just sad.

  How should I act in this situation? It’s tricky. Then again, I’ve lived my life within the confines of Richard’s expectations. I’ve lived the past years meticulously weighing every word, every action, every sentiment. It’s not easy dancing on eggshells day in and day out. One gets tired. More than that, though, one gets unaccustomed to how to walk on regular ground. This, of course, is not regular ground, not at all. How would I know how to act in this situation? How many times must a woman report her husband missing?

  Not very often, if she’s lucky.

  This gets my wheels turning again, though, and I fiddle with the handle on my purse, worn and faded. Why this time? Why is this different? Richard’s disappeared time and time again. Why is this time different? Why am I here? Why am I so worried? Sheriff Barkley must be wondering what’s going on, for sure. Why did I feel the need to report him as missing? Why did I feel like this had to be different? And only two days in? I don’t have a good answer. I don’t. It was a gut feeling. That’s all. Would that be good enough? Did that make sense?

  I ask myself if it makes sense to me. It doesn’t. But I guess sometimes a woman just has a feeling, and sometimes a woman has to go by that. Life can’t be lived only on the margins of science. Sometimes life has to be lived by the heart. God, do I know how true that is.

  I sit for what feels like forever, my back against the chilling metal chair, my head resting against the mint green walls in the waiting area. Phones ring. Papers shuffle. A few deputies float in and out. Every time one comes through, I shudder, wondering if they’ll have turned up something.

  What could they possibly find?

  Then again, what couldn’t they find? My mind travels back to the wad of cash, the mystery of its origins something I’ve tried to shove aside. There’s too much to think about, after all. Still, it’s something I probably should be concerned about. What was Richard into? What did he get wrapped up in? And whatever it is, how long until the sheriff’s asking questions I can’t explain? How long until he comes rapping on the door wanting me to explain the inexplicable? I shudder at the thought. Richard, oh Richard. You’ve sure left a mess behind, haven’t you? I think about how that wad of cash represents so much now—the hope of salvation, of escape, of possibility, of potential danger. It makes me realize how delicate my life is right now, how one discovery could lead to my dreams crumbling down. It’s all risky. It’s all complicated. It’s a delicate dance, and I don’t know which way to step.

  Then again, life with Richard is always a mess. A beautifully disgusting mess, oozing with pain and torture. There’s not a prayer out there to absolve the pain he’s caused. I breathe in again. It won’t do to think about all that now. It won’t do at all. Focus. Focus. Focus.

  ‘Mrs. Connor?’ a voice asks, and I look up to see Sheriff Barkley. His stoic face offers a hint of a smile, and I find myself weakly grinning back. He’s a nice man. A good man. When you’re married to one of the bad ones, I guess you have a knack for seeing the good ones. If only I could’ve used that methodology years ago. For some things, though, it’s too late. Way too late.

  I rise from my seat, sliding the metal chair as I do.

  ‘Sheriff Barkley. I just wanted to stop by and see if there are any updates,’ I offer meekly.

  ‘Come on back,’ he says, adjusting his belt, standing tall with his chest puffed as he studies me. For a moment, my heart flutters. Why do I need to come back? Is it that bad? What has he found? But then I calm myself. Procedure. It’s all procedure.

  I saunter back to the office, which is tidy yet also disheveled somehow. Everything seems to have a spot in the organized chaos. A stapler sits perfectly perpendicular with the edge of the desk, and a dish of paperclips rests right beside it. The desk, however, is covered in folders, stacks and stacks sitting on the edge. Paperwork clutters the top of the desk, and I fight the itch to organize it. I fold my hands in my lap once I sit down to resist the urge.

  ‘Mrs. Connor. How are you holding up?’ he asks me, his fingers intertwined as he leans on his desk, as if ready to hear every word.

  For a moment, I feel like I’m in a therapy session. I open my mouth, and then close it again, taking a breath. Don’t say anything foolish. Don’t say anything that will give away how you’re feeling. He doesn’t really want to know how you are. He doesn’t really need to know all of your complications.

  ‘I’m okay. I’m doing okay. Thank you,’ I say noncommittally, eyes averted.

  ‘Well, since yesterday, I’ve done a bit of digging. I’ve put out a dispatch to other stations with Richard’s
license plate number and the make and model of his truck. If he’s spotted or pulled over, I’ll hear about it. I also swung by a few of Richard’s haunts you told me about. Asked around. No one’s seen him since the night he disappeared. He was in at Fifth Street Pub earlier in the afternoon he went missing. Apparently, he got into somewhat of a fight with Joe Johnson over a game of pool but nothing out of the ordinary. Typical Richard behavior. No one’s seen him since.’

  I sigh, nodding. ‘Okay.’

  Sheriff Barkley gets out a notebook, flipping to a new page. ‘Have you thought of anything else, Mrs. Connor, anything at all that might be helpful to the case?’

  Flashes of the money blaze through my head. I feel myself getting sweaty, but try to rein it in. I hope I’m not looking gray or burning red in the cheeks. I don’t want to give anything away. I’m not ready to answer that question.

  ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve been racking my brain. I don’t know, Sheriff Barkley. I know this is going to sound silly, but, well, I’m just worried. I know this isn’t out of character or anything, and who knows, he’ll probably show up in a day or two, having been on some bender or out of town or God knows where else. I know my husband isn’t the most reliable man. He isn’t the must trustworthy. I know that. But something feels . . . different this time. It’s nothing concrete. It just feels so different. I’m wondering if Richard will ever come back.’ I weigh the power of my final statement. Maybe I’m trying to judge the situation from Sheriff Barkley’s eyes. Maybe I’m looking for reassurance that my freedom might be sealed, that escaping might be a possibility. Or maybe I’m just hoping to lay the groundwork for when I don’t come back, either.

  Sheriff Barkley sets down the pen he’s been holding. He looks across the desk at me.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, and then he pauses. I look up, staring into his face. ‘Listen,’ he continues. ‘It’s going to be okay. I really don’t think you need to worry yet. Richard is a rough one, and yes, he’s not trustworthy. But the man always comes back. You know that, and so do I. For better or worse, he always shows up and raises hell. This will be no different. But if you’re worried, well, who am I to judge? You’re his wife, after all. You know him better than me.’