A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  It’s all okay, I remind myself. Whatever Richard is wrapped up in isn’t my problem. It isn’t like I knew about it. It isn’t like I can get involved in that. And Cody missing, well, that’s no issue either. I have bigger things to worry about.

  Like when he comes back. When he comes in here, I can’t let this place be as it is. It needs to be spotless, homey. Fresh and clean, just like Richard would expect it to be. The thought drives my battered hands forward. The bleach stings the cuts on my hands, but I barely feel it. There are more immense sorrows. I want to curl up on the rocking chair and scream. I want to crumple face down on the floor and sob until I can’t sob any more. But that’s a luxury I can’t afford.

  I have to keep us safe now. It’s becoming more and more important, because it’s just a matter of time until he comes back. It’s just a matter of time now. My freedom from the chains is running out, and the shackles he’ll impose on me are going to be much heavier. I brush the thought aside, but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. As the days go on, I know it’s inevitable. It’s all going to come crashing down—and then what? What will happen to him? To me? To us? I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. Gideon. Sweet Gideon. Why did it have to happen like this?

  I think back to that night, when my sweet baby called to me from the forest. Why didn’t I get there faster? I should have been there for him. Why wasn’t I there? Why didn’t I do the right thing then?

  I finish scrubbing until the floor is immaculate, just as it should be. I carefully tuck the rug back into place, smoothing out each tassel until all is well again as I’ve done so many times now. I rinse my bucket out and store it back in the closet where it goes.

  I take a deep breath, steadying my resolve. If the Blessed Mother were still here, I’d kneel before her, pray for a sense of calm for what I’m about to do. Then again, I don’t know if I could face her. I don’t think she would approve. But maybe she would. She was a mother, after all. She knows what lengths you sometimes have to go to in order to protect your child. How did she feel when her son was up on that cross? Did she fantasize about crying out, about stepping in and saving him? I grab my head, my brains banging into my skull as a headache pangs through me. I can’t get lost now. I must stay the course and figure out the best move.

  I open my eyes, a new, steadfast resolve resting inside. It’s time once more. The game isn’t over yet—and I need to hurry it along. I have to finish what I’ve started and then make my getaway. But it has to be just right. Too soon, and the ends won’t be wrapped up neatly, the escape pointless. Too late, and the prison I’ve called a house will consume me—and he’ll win. He always wins.

  But maybe not this time.

  A new emotion takes the place of the fear, the twinges of guilt, the regret inside.

  Anger. Sheer, unrestrained anger. Hell hath no fury like a mother’s wrath, I think, as I head to do the good work I must do.

  Night Five

  I try to wiggle my wrists free, but I can’t. Why can’t I move a muscle? Why won’t my wrists move? My toes? Nothing will move. My body is a frozen block of ice, stuck here, wherever that is. I will my body to move, but it doesn’t cooperate.

  Where am I? I look around, my bottom freezing cold on the metal chair. There is no light, no noise. The silence is what’s the eeriest. I want to scream, but I’m gagged. I feel like I need to be sick. I’m trapped in here, and my blood runs cold at the thought of how I am at the mercy of the universe. I’m helpless in every sense of the word. I can’t save myself from whatever horrors may appear.

  I am naked, and the nakedness makes me feel vulnerable. My exposed body begs to be covered. If someone sees me like this . . .

  I can’t let them see me like this. I don’t want to be exposed. I can’t be. I will my hands, my fingers, my toes to move. I need to get out of here. I need to be free. It’s no use, though. They’re not budging. And then, sheer terror sets in.

  I’m being watched. I feel eyes on me, can see them glowing red in the distance. Something’s coming. Closer and closer the footsteps fall. I am frozen, screaming, shrieking, clawing my way out inside. Yet my body doesn’t cooperate. No one knows I’m here.

  ‘Crystal. Crystal, you’ve been a terrible girl, haven’t you? You’ve done some unforgivable things. You better repent.’ The voice is soft and condescending. I want to close my eyes, but even my eyelids refuse to cooperate. I know the voice. I don’t want to see her. I can’t see her.

  A light shines down, as if we’re in some demented play, on stage for all to see. It illuminates my mother in a way that is otherworldly. She is beautiful, more stunning than she ever was in real life. There is a glowing quality to her, and her hair is much longer. Is she an angel? I think she might be an angel. She ambles toward me, smiling, silent. I am afraid of what she might do. I don’t want her to see me like this. I can’t let her see me.

  As she gets closer, I realize she’s holding a perfect bundle, a black blanket around whatever it is. She walks closer, not saying a word. When she is right in front of my naked body, she shakes her head, grinning. She stoops down and puts the bundle eye level with me.

  No. No. God no. What is this? My chest heaves, and my stomach lurches, but I can’t react. I am a frozen doll, sitting placidly in the midst of this horror. For in her arms, right in front of me, is my baby. Sweet Gideon, cocooned in smothering black.

  But there’s one problem. This isn’t my baby. This isn’t the sweet angel who died before I ever got to kiss him. Sure, it’s his face, his tiny fingers. But there’s one important difference. This time, his eyes are open. And they’re glowing red. Bright, demonic red, the kind that would send me running from my own child if I could.

  ‘Your mommy’s here,’ my mother says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Gideon. I want to kick her. I want to grab my baby from her. But I don’t want to, either. Because I know this isn’t my baby. The being in her arms looks up at me, and a paralyzing chill runs through my veins, freezing even my thoughts. I can’t take this. I can’t. This can’t be.

  Because as my sweet Gideon’s hideous eyes bore a hole into my soul, his face turns into an impressive grin. He opens his mouth, wider, wider, until he’s smiling bigger than the Cheshire Cat.

  And then, all at once, from his mouth spews pointy, jagged, bloody teeth. They slap into my face, the raw roots on them slapping against me, splattering blood. This can’t be real. I want to die. Please God, let me die right here.

  Finally, mercifully, my eyes squeeze shut. I feel myself whirling, teeth hitting me left and right, a horrific cackle in the background whirling me around and around.

  When things grow quiet again and I stop spinning, I will my eyes to open. I look down. I’m still naked, but this time, I’m walking. This time, I’m not frozen. In fact, I’m the opposite. I can’t stop. I want to stop, but my muscles don’t listen. My feet are working under their own volition, carrying me forward, forward, forward. Where am I going now? I wonder as my feet plod through mud and grass. Every now and again, I step on something sharp. It is when I look back as my feet move forward that I realize the sharp objects are teeth. Always teeth. So many teeth. Where’s Gideon? My feet finally stop, and I’m in front of the familiar yet unfamiliar sight.

  The decrepit house with the haunting red aura about it. I want to stop, to hesitate like I have before but I can’t. My feet lead me right up the porch, right through the door, right into the kitchen. And finally, my feet stop. I glance around for a moment, wondering what’s next. Is Gideon here? Where is he? What can I do? What should I do? That’s when I hear it. That’s when my whole body rocks with grief and fear.

  Because from somewhere in the house, there’s a guttural scream that’s terrifying enough to rattle both the living and the dead. Suddenly, though, the scream becomes my own, and I’m whirling about the house, slamming into walls and trying to make sense of this place that isn’t a place at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sleep has become a
rarity, but not for the right reasons. I should be having sleepless nights because of Gideon’s cries—not the cries of terror and guilt. I should be up rocking his sweet body back to sleep, not swaying myself in protection against the harsh reality of my fears. I should be awakened by the cries of my child, not by my own screams from the nightmares that plague me every night. I sit and stare into the room, tears welling. Who have I become? What have I become? And what will become of me now?

  These are the questions that have no answers, not today at least. I’m growing weary of this. I’m tired, so tired. But I know it’s not over. It won’t be over until I know Gideon’s safe for good. It won’t be over until I’ve protected Gideon and his memory. And, a shakiness erupts within as I realize it won’t ever be over, not really. Hair dye and a new town can’t cover all that’s transpired here, no matter how much I wish I could just let it all go.

  Dread seeps into my pores, my chest, as I nod at this truth. I can’t put it off forever. This power, this freedom, is short-lived and not far-reaching. Because behind the semi-quietude of the house with Richard’s disappearance, there is always the underscored fact that he will come back. He will come blasting through that door any moment to rip down this façade of freedom. He will shred any hope I had of building a safe, peaceful life of choice and autonomy. He will shatter the remaining pieces of who I am. And even if I get away, escape, how long will the freedom last until he hunts me down, a wounded piece of prey who was, for one shining moment, at the top of the food chain?

  This time, when he comes for me, it will be worse than before. This time, there will be no mercy. It will make all of those other moments look like child’s play. He will devour me once he finds out what unforgivable things I’ve done.

  At least there will be comfort in knowing that for these few days, I’ve done my duty. I’ve protected Gideon. And I’ve made the world a little bit safer now. I stand from the kitchen chair, yawning. I march into the bathroom and peer into the mirror.

  ‘You can’t quit now,’ I command myself. I look past the bags under my eyes and the gray pallor of my skin. I look into the irises looking back at me. I see the truth in there, and it shocks me. A grin spreads on my face as I shake my head. I think back on the past few days, consider all that’s been accomplished. I think about how I underestimated myself, just as Richard always does. But things have changed, and I’m not the same Crystal. Looking through the hazy glass, I recognize something I’ve been burying deep within.

  This isn’t just about doing what’s right. It’s about seeking what’s mine. It’s about grabbing onto power I haven’t had. Sometimes you can’t just turn the other cheek. And whether that’s something to be afraid of or to be guilty about, I don’t know. But it is what it is at this point, and I can’t surrender yet.

  ‘HERE, BOY,’ I SAY, putting down the bowl in front of Henry as the ravenous dog devours the meat. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been doing a great job at taking care of you.’

  I do feel bad. I’ve been too distracted. I need to do a better job at caring for Henry. Not that Richard would care. But I’m not like Richard, I reassure myself.

  I’m not him. I’m not.

  I stroke the dog’s fur with shaky hands, and, once he’s done eating, blood dripping from his jowls, he rubs his face on me. I ignore the smears of blood as I rub his ears, settling into the dirt with him. Richard would never let Henry in the house. He said the dog was lucky enough to get this patch of dirt and some food and water. The thought bubbles within, a fury rising. Richard’s not in control anymore. He’s not here to tell me now. I smirk at the thought, untying the rope from Henry and clutching his collar.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ I say. It might be nice to have him inside, the guard dog within the house. Just in case. You never know who could show up. I lead the dog to the house, and he trudges inside, sniffing wildly. He’s not used to being in here. I watch him explore. I smile, thinking about how nice it will be to have a companion now, to snuggle in with him. I picture myself sitting in the rocking chair, cradling Gideon, Henry at my feet as we look out into the clear evening. But then the unthinkable happens.

  No. Damn dog, no. No. No. I rush toward him in horror as he scratches at the rug, sniffing and moaning. Scratching, scratching. All of the tassels are skewed, and everything is messed up. Dammit, he’s messed it all up. Tears start to fall.

  ‘No. Henry, no. You’ll ruin it,’ I argue, yanking the dog back. He has laser beam focus on the area, and I shake my head. He’s ruining it. I’ll have to clean again. I’ll have to clean. I’m sorry. No. Don’t think about it. Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I’m sobbing now, my head racing. This was a terrible idea. What will I do? The dog jolts away from the scene after a loud noise crashes through the house. Something must have fallen. What was that? Henry lets out a massive bark, backing away from the spot, momentarily forgetting about it.

  I rush to the kitchen and find some leftover meat. I entice the dog with it, and his barks go silent as he follows me. I make a beeline for the tree, throw the meat in his bowl, and tie him securely to his place in the world once more.

  When Henry is back where he must be, I sink into the dirt, staring ahead. Tears fall as I think about the loneliness and about the harsh fact that in some ways, I guess I’m not any better.

  I’m not any better than Richard. Maybe I’m worse.

  Father, forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The familiar, tissue-thin pages beneath my fingertips, I rock slowly, methodically as I stare out the window into the darkness. My head lightly presses against the headrest, and I close my eyes shut after a long moment, tracing the ink on the pages as a blind woman reading braille would do. But I don’t need to feel out the words with my fingertips. So many verses are etched into my skin, into my mind. I just haven’t listened to them lately. Why haven’t I listened? What’s happened to me?

  My fingers glide over the words—words of sin, of guilt, of resurrection. Tears leak from my eyes as I think of all that’s transpired and how there are no verses to soothe my tortured soul now. I should be reading, should be repenting. I’m a sinner now. I’m such a sinner. But I’m also weary, and I just can’t bring myself to read the words. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of all that’s happened, or maybe it’s just the debilitating fear of what’s to come. Perhaps, though, it’s something darker.

  Perhaps it’s that as I gain strength and independence, I realize a harsh truth—God has forsaken me, long before I had forsaken him. What kind of God lets a man like Richard walk this Earth? What kind of creator would let a God-fearing woman like me suffer at the hands of a monster? Or become one in her own way?

  My fingers trace over the page, left to right, my mind’s eye seeing the words.

  James 1:12 Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

  But this crown of life is a gory one, a demented one. It’s a crown I wouldn’t mind cracking, I comprehend, as my mind flashes back to the harsh truths of the life I live in this house.

  ‘RICHARD, I’M SORRY. I’m sorry.’ The whimpered words sliced into the stagnant, damp air between us as my choking sobs racked my pale body. I could barely see through my tear-filled eyes—but I discerned that all-too-familiar, complacent grin on Richard’s face. My stomach sank once more.

  My naked thighs clung to each other. My wrists were tied too tight behind my back, and my shoulder blades were aching. The tearing and straining of my body accompanied the debilitating throbbing of my head. I ached to reach up and rub the growing bump on my head from where Richard cracked me in the skull with the wrench. Sticky blood dribbled down, crusting over, but I was too woozy and too restricted to do anything about it.

  How long had I been there, naked and wet, tied to the dilapidated metal chair? How long would he leave me there, the chill in the air nipping at my skin and causing goosebumps to emerg
e? He walked closer at the sound of my pleas, and the stench of bourbon lingered between us. The smell caused me to involuntary shiver even more. Bourbon. Of course it was a bourbon kind of night. He straddled me, his dirty jeans brushing against my cold skin. I trembled, dropping my face down and to the left to avoid his eyes. I saw the pocketknife glinting in his left hand.

  ‘I bet you’re sorry, you slut,’ he replied, his words a burning bellow that sank into my ears, down my throat, into my core. My body tensed, waiting for the blow. But it didn’t come, Richard’s plans demented by an alcoholic rage.

  Instead, his left hand raised in an agonizingly slow fashion, methodically poking into his target—my cheekbone. The knife burned into my flesh with its metallic bite, and I whimpered. He leaned in, his hot breath smacking into my face and drowning out any hope I had that it was almost over. I cried and implored him to stop, which I knew was a mistake. Richard loved to hear me plead with him. He lavished in my tear of desperation and terror. I was only feeding the demon within him.

  ‘Tell me. Do I provide for you, Crys?’ His words had a lilt to them, a sarcastic, chilling tone that told me his true intent.

  ‘Y-yes,’ I stammered, the knife point stabbing into my cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut now and tried to steady my shaking.

  ‘Do I give you everything a woman could want? Do I take care of you?’ His words were tenser, angrier. They slapped into me.

  ‘Y-yes,’ I repeated, not moving a muscle for fear of the knife carving deeper into my flesh, stabbing my eye, or worse.