A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Another rustling to the right. I turn, looking at a much darker tree line. A murder of crows perches in the trees, thousands of them cawing and flapping in a wonderous yet horrifying sight. And that’s when I see him emerging from the tree line, bleating and charging.

  The black goat. He’s come for me. There’s no fooling him. There’s no pleading innocent when he knows the absolute true color of my soul.

  I’m still glued to the spot, unable to move an inch. Tears fall as I surrender to the reality. I raise my arms out and look to the sky, waiting for the fatal blow.

  But it does not come.

  Night 354

  Prisoner #312

  Smithfield Correctional Facility

  Black Emptiness.

  MY EYES BLINK OPEN with a start, and I gasp until I take in the surroundings. Once I realize where I am, I inhale slowly, closing my eyes again in relief. I’m where I always am. I’m okay with that. And most of all, I’m thankful. Thankful that yet again, no dreams came to me. I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise, not really. After all, there aren’t many dreams to be had when you’re alone, all alone, day in and day out. Eventually, the dreams dried up with my hope of seeing the light of day. The dreams of Gideon and Henry, of what had happened, of the goat, all disappeared. In many ways, it comforts me. It was too painful to live those dreams over and over.

  I take in the lonely surroundings, the emptiness. I am also comforted by the solitude. Being around the other women didn’t suit me. They learned that really quick. I’ve heard it didn’t suit them either. Who can blame me though? I know what I did was wrong in those first days after I tied Richard up. I just couldn’t help myself. Just like Henry, I’d tasted blood . . . and I wanted more. Oh, did I want more. That doesn’t always stop when you put someone behind bars. In fact, I found that the hunger grew.

  I don’t remember much about the first night in jail. After Sheriff Barkley had hauled me out, shrieking and crying because I didn’t want to leave Gideon, everything became a blur. I remember being terrified—not for myself, but for Gideon. What would happen to him? I hated not being there to watch him, to care for him. I knew no one else could take care of him like I had.

  When I’d finally fallen asleep on the dank mattress that night, I’d dreamt of Henry. I was standing in the middle of the yard, naked and alone. I was shivering, blood running down my legs. And that was when I saw him. Henry, foaming at the mouth, blood seeping from his teeth. He snarled, walking closer and closer. I realized he had something in his mouth, something so large. And then the mastiff who had saved my life that night dropped the bundle at my feet.

  I shrieked and shrieked in my dream, the decaying corpse of Gideon rolling in the grass, flopping in ghastly contortions beneath me.

  I screamed and cried so hard in my dream that I must have been shrieking and crying in real life. The next think I knew, I was opening my eyes to the sight of guards banging on the bars, warning me to quiet down. I couldn’t go back to sleep that night. I was so convinced that just like the other dreams, it was real.

  I know now that that dream was just that . . . a dream. Unlike the seven before it, the nightmare was just a figment of my overactive imagination. Henry was out, roaming, free and clear. And Gideon was safe now. He had to be. Sheriff Barkley had promised me that much. He’d promised Gideon would get the respectful burial he deserved. I always knew he was a good man. And he is. He truly is. He came back to visit me a few times, to assure me that Gideon’s grave is taken care of. He’s even shown me a picture. Sheriff Barkley puts flowers on it and keeps it clean. He pulls the weeds and makes sure it looks nice. I know I could’ve done a better job, kept it cleaner. But Sheriff Barkley’s doing his best, and I’m thankful for that.

  He’s also come to say he was sorry. He says he’s sorry he failed me, that he didn’t help me. I’ve assured him over and over it’s not his fault. He’s a good man. I made my choices. We all make our choices. We all choose to listen or to ignore the dark callings of our soul. He is not at fault for mine.

  I’ve learned, too, that dreams aren’t real, not typically. But the seven, the ones I had during that week that changed everything, well, they were different. I think maybe those nightmares were my mind’s way of processing what I was doing, and what I had to do. Maybe they were a type of purgatory inflicted by God, to show me what was happening to my soul. Maybe they were supposed to scare me into stopping. But the opposite happened. Those dreams gave me power, made me hungry. Somehow, those dreams made it all make more sense. They gave me the strength to continue on. They gave me a place to grieve, to feel guilty, and to repent while also knowing I needed to finish. I needed to strip Richard of his power, to make him understand what weakness truly was.

  In a way, being in here has brought me a sense of peace I never understood before. True, I’m a prisoner of this dark and musty cell, alone more often than I’m not. I have few choices, limited freedom, and very few things to fill my day.

  Still, there’s a freedom here that I didn’t have at home. I’m alone with my thoughts, and the few choices I have, well, I get to make them. And I do find ways to occupy myself. There’s a trustworthy Bible under my mattress. It isn’t the same one as at home, of course. That one’s in evidence now. Sometimes I wonder if they left in the lovely bookmark I made. I don’t know. I’m sure Richard’s tattooed skin is quite leathery now. What a fantastic bookmark it would be after all. I’m sad I didn’t get to see it.

  When I don’t feel like reading the Bible, there’s always cleaning to be done. These floors won’t clean themselves. Richard always liked things clean, but I guess over time, I learned to like that too. I take pride in my cell. It’s clean, so clean in here. It makes me happy.

  I’m glad all the formalities are done now. All the questioning. All the court appearances. How I hated answering those questions over and over. I had nothing to hide. I told them everything they needed to know. I’d walked them through those seven days, the basement fiascos, the reasons behind it. I’d told them every detail they needed. I hid nothing. The truth sets you free—but I guess sometimes it just doesn’t. It really doesn’t.

  The trial was hard. I had to hear strangers talk about Gideon like he was something to pity. I heard them talk about his death like it was a simple line on a piece of paper. I hated that. But there was one interesting thing about the trial. While my appointed defender was trying to strum up pity and sympathy, I was busy.

  I was staring at Richard.

  I hadn’t really thought I’d see him again after that day they took me away. If I had realized it was our last day together in the basement, maybe I would’ve done things differently. Maybe I would have said something. I don’t regret it. It’s just interesting to think about.

  When I got to trial, it had been a while since I’d seen him. He hadn’t come to visit me. I was glad for that. I didn’t really have anything I needed to say to him. All was well. Gideon was buried. He was at peace. I’d helped Richard repent, and I’d taken back my power. I’d served my purpose. I had nothing more to say to Richard.

  So at the trial, when I saw him for the first time, I couldn’t stop staring. I really don’t know what I expected. I’d seen him in the basement, after all. Still, those days, I wasn’t completely focused. I was too busy to look at him, to properly take it all in. In some ways, I guess I’d detached from him, almost forgetting that he was Richard.

  But looking at him in that courtroom, I couldn’t help but gasp. Was this really the man who had ruled me with fear for so many years? Was this the same monster who had thrown my baby into the woods like a heap of trash? Was this the man who I had let overpower me for our entire marriage? It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be.

  Because the specimen before me, well, he was hardly a man let alone a powerful one. He wore the scars of those days, but he didn’t wear them well. Richard was broken, his face sunken in and gray. Even from across the room, I could see that his dark eye was tearful, remorseful, powerless. He walk
ed with a limp, his hands in his pockets. He never took his hands from his pockets now. He would never be hitting someone again I betted. Those stumps for hands would be pretty useless in a fight.

  There was no swagger to him anymore, no defiance. In fact, when I watched him from my seat, I realized something. His head was no longer held high. His eye rarely lifted from the ground when he talked. The strong had fallen. The weak had risen. Our places had shifted, and I doubted Richard Connor would ever be in control of anyone again.

  It was a little bit sad, I guess. He did have spirit, that one. But I suppose I was also a bit proud to know I had finally broken him after all.

  Crys had proven to be Crystal, and even though I had been damned in the process, I had risen up in a feat of strength no one had expected. I had won in so many ways, and Richard wouldn’t be winning against anyone again. He would understand his sins of the flesh, and maybe he could find a way to forgiveness—something I still had to work on myself.

  We were all safe. I had done that for us.

  I pluck at the hole in the mattress like I do so often. If only I could have some thread and a needle, I could fix this right up. I was never the best seamstress, but I was good enough. I could make it work. I turn to my side now, stretching out my left hip. I let my mind wander today, a luxury I don’t always afford myself. I let it drift back to the basement, to those days I don’t often peruse in my mind. It doesn’t do to look at the past. What’s done is done. But something about today is different. Something makes me want to look back.

  I hadn’t really had a plan when Richard had thrown me to the ground that evening, drunk as usual. Tears and rage swirled in a dangerous concoction. It wasn’t about what he’d done to me. I could handle some bruises, some scars. No, it was much deeper than that. It had been about Gideon, about what he was denying his son. I wouldn’t have that. I couldn’t.

  So when I wandered to Richard’s garage and found him stumbling over himself with bourbon breath, I knew I had to act fast. Without thinking, I’d stomped toward him with the fury of a grizzly in mating season and swung at Richard’s head with the passion I’d been holding in for a long time. It was a passion I didn’t realize was in me until it emerged in full force.

  The sickening crack against Richard’s face stunned me, and as he crumpled to the floor, I’d wondered if I’d swung too hard. I gasped, thinking I’d killed him. The hammer clanged to the floor as I’d covered my mouth. I’d killed him. I’d really killed him.

  I fell to the floor, Richard resting on his back. I crawled to his body, gasping and shaking. I felt for a pulse, relieved when I felt the thudding. He was still alive. I stared into the blank face of the man who had forsaken our child, and the rage bubbled again. I wouldn’t let him get away with this. He’d gone too far. I would take care of Gideon. I would keep him safe. I would make sure he was close by, treated with respect and care. I could still look out for him. And I could still make sure Richard knew that what he had done to our son, well, it was wrong. It was time Richard paid for his sins. It was time for him to repent.

  Dragging his dead weight through the garage, into the house, and through the basement hadn’t been easy, especially in my condition. But I found a will deep within, and with each step down into the damp, dark abyss, I gained strength and courage. The excitement over the fact that I would be able to prove my love for Gideon drove me forward.

  Once his body was in the basement, I’d fiddled about, pulling on the single string to illuminate the room with the bare lightbulb. I’d found the corner of the unfinished, dirty room to be a perfect spot for storing my new prisoner. I managed to prop his limp body onto a dirty metal chair in the corner by a beam. The same metal chair he’d once tied me to when he set my red shirt on fire. I was a quick learner, even if Richard didn’t realize it. Some zip strips, rope, and a gag later, and my improvised plan was seemingly coming together. I brushed my hands off, proud of my handiwork. I wasn’t the stupid, weak Crystal everyone thought. I’d managed to pull off the unthinkable.

  Now, I was free to make him pay. Still, there was something else to be done.

  I had planned on burying Gideon in the backyard, a simple stone to mark the grave. Still, the thought of leaving him outside in the cold, dark night, the threat of animals in the forest nearby, well, it didn’t seem right. I wanted Gideon in my arms, in that rocking chair. I wanted so badly to nurse him, to love him, to protect him. Tears welled as I retrieved his sickly body from the forest edge, cradling him as I carried him into the house. I carried him inside and found myself heading straight to the rocking chair. I’d held him for an hour or so, the smell of his body sickly, but the craving to be his mother stronger.

  It hadn’t been easy prying up the floorboards in the living room, not at all. I’d had to return to the garage—I hated leaving Gideon alone—to find some tools. The hammer in a pool of blood made my own blood curdle. I’d have to clean that up later, but first thing was first. Gideon was always first.

  I’d retrieved the tools and struggled for quite some time. After what felt like forever, sweat pouring down my face, I’d managed to find a safe spot for Gideon, a place he could be close to me. That’s what we both needed. I would keep his gravesite clean and well-kept. I would watch over him. I would have him nearby, and Richard couldn’t stop me. Richard would never stop me.

  As I tearfully put the board back and cleaned the gravesite, I meticulously put every thread back in place of the rug. I laid down, resting on top of Gideon, my labor of love done for the moment. I knew, though, it would never be done. I would show Gideon my love for him by keeping him safe and clean and nearby. I sang him a lullaby as I rested on the rug.

  That was where I’d fallen asleep.

  It was the next day that the plans with Richard really began. I knew that it would be impossible to keep Richard from disturbing Gideon, and I knew after what I’d done, he’d kill me if he got the chance. I couldn’t have that. If I was dead, who would keep Gideon’s grave clean and neat? Richard wouldn’t. I had to make sure to protect Gideon, to keep him safe from Richard.

  And that’s when I began.

  I started with his fingers. The fists that had hit me over and over, had bruised me and marred me. The fingers were the first to go. God, the blood. At first, it was difficult. I didn’t have the stomach for it. I didn’t have the heart for it. It hurt me just as much as Richard. I didn’t realize how tough of a job it would be with that dull saw. Even through the gag, I could hear his screams. I was glad when he passed out. It was easier to wrap his fingers then, to tend to him. I always was good with nursing skills. Maybe I should have went to school for it. I spent the evening hurling that night, and after giving Henry the snack I knew he craved—the fresh meat—I went to bed.

  That was when the dreams began. That was when my living nightmare haunted me even in sleep. That was when I knew I was truly damned.

  Day after day, I lived that waking nightmare. Tending to Richard, stripping him of his power, and tending to sweet Gideon, keeping his living room gravesite clean and neat. Richard always liked things clean and neat, after all. I needed to show him that our son mattered because he did. I needed to keep him close, to be near my baby.

  The whole time, nevertheless, I knew my purpose would be short-lived. I knew he would show up. I knew it was only a matter of time until Sheriff Barkley figured out what I was doing. Even when I fantasized about my plan of escaping, I think I knew, deep down, I’d never be able to leave Gideon. The thought of leaving him alone, untended, was horrifying. I’d bought the hair dye. I’d made the phone calls. I’d even planned my destination and packed the suitcase. But I think I knew my bravery, my courage had limits. And even after I was done with Richard, after the final sacrifice of him, I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave Gideon’s final resting place. What kind of a mother abandons her child? I’m no monster, after all. I’m a good mother, I am.

  I’m surprised it took him as long as it did for Sheriff Barkley to show up. In a wa
y, I was glad when he found out. I was so tired then. I was exhausted from covering my tracks, from protecting the hidden treasures I had lurking in that house. I was tired of living out my role. Still, I knew I had to finish what I’d started. Thy will be done.

  I don’t know when it happened, the true madness of this journey. But somewhere along the line, there was a shift in me. I’d like to pinpoint it to one moment, but I don’t know if I can. It was too complicated, and my feelings ran so deep. But at some point, the pain I felt hurting Richard turned to something else.

  Pleasure. Thrill. Enjoyment.

  I started to enjoy the torture. His pale face, the grayness spreading—I liked it. No, I started to crave it. What started out as a noble cause perhaps turned into something else. I loved flirting with the line of life and death—and then using my power to bring him back over. I liked being in control. I liked having physical domination over him.

  For the first time, I started to understand Richard and maybe even appreciate him. I got the addiction, the thrill of hurting another. Suddenly, all of those moments he was so abusive to me—well, I understood them. I got him a little bit more. Being the one in control is addicting, like the most heinous drug or the most elusive addiction. There is a high that goes with it that you can’t explain. It’s just too bad it took so long for me and Richard to bridge the gap between us.

  I think about Richard often now. Some days, I think about the past and what drove us to this point. Most days, I just wonder what he’s doing. Has he found a new version of himself as I did? Has he found a way to make peace? Or is he still the broken man I last saw? What color does his eye glow now? I wish there was some way to know. But he hasn’t come to visit me. I guess I can’t really blame him. I’ve tried writing to him a few times, but I never know what to say. I don’t know if I want to say anything to him, in truth.