The old man’s maddening laughter filled the room; it was unreal. This wasn’t happening. No, I was far away somewhere. Beth and I should’ve been looking at the sheer rock faces around the coast of Acadia. This wasn’t real life.
Beth gave my arm another squeeze, ripping me back into reality so hard that I took a great big breath like I’d just broken the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning. My joints froze and refused all input from my brain. Try as I might, I couldn’t move quickly to my feet— instead, I wavered to a standing position, trying my best to bring Beth with me. I took a step backward, nudging another set of books to the ground so that they fell across John’s legs. This seemed to snap Beth from the spell she’d been placed under, and she too stood. She was shaking; or maybe that was me.
For seconds, the only noise that could be heard were his nasty laughs, even as he lifted himself to his knees and made the universal old-man groan of bringing himself up, he wiped at the corner of his right eye. “They always fall for that, don’t they?” said John.
Retta, smaller, but not necessarily less intimidating, stood beside her husband so as to block our path to the front door completely. Her big eyes through the windows of her glasses once seemed comical— now they looked ready to burst from contained insanity. “They do,” she agreed.
“Hey now,” I said, “There’s no reason for any of us to do anything hasty, is there? We’ll just go. You can have our money and all of our stuff. You just take whatever you want.” I was bargaining. I surprised even myself with the words. All I knew was that I wanted us to be out of this situation.
“We intend to take whatever we want,” said John. “We promise.”
“Yes,” said Retta.
Beth spoke up, “We won’t tell anyone anything. We promise, right?” I felt her elbow nudge me, but I couldn’t bring my eyes from the wild intensity of those old codgers.
“You won’t have the opportunity to tell anyone anything, ever again,” said Retta. Those words made the air pass right through me.
“Please.” The word left me before I’d even comprehended it. I begged. I was begging. I said it again, even smaller than the first, “Please.”
“Please what?” asked John. “I’ll tell you something, young man, you’ve gone straight to the ‘pleases’ faster than most. I would’ve thought you’d have put up a fight before all of that nonsense.”
“Alright,” I said, “You can have me. Just please let Beth leave. Just take me.” I was surprised.
So was John; he raised an eyebrow. “And what? Split up such a young and happy couple as you two? I don’t think so.” He kept his bearish hands at his hips, forcing his shoulders out even more. Old or not, he looked as solid as a wall.
I would have no other option but to go for Retta; even now it seems like a shitty thing to do, balling up my fist and punching an old woman directly in the nose, but I had a fairly good feeling that she’d go down after only one hit. And I was right, she did— Retta stumbled backwards, foot sliding across an open book cover, and landed directly on her bottom, producing a pained squeak as her hand shot up to her nose. John, on the other hand, was on me immediately; both of those massive hands had my throat in their grip, and he squeezed so hard that I thought my head might come clean off like a Barbie’s. I could feel the energy leaving my body with each passing second. He was fast— in a moment, he straddled me. The cool surface of the hardwood floor on my back; the ceiling; his intense eyes lusting with murderous rage.
My hands shot out, scratching at his face, swinging my fists— each one less effective than the last— until finally they spasmed in all directions around me, hoping to find an unseen item to strike him with. My hand felt something solid, and I yanked; another set of books came piling down, this time directly over my head. I’d made it worse. But whatever the books had been sitting on was hard and I still had it in my hand. I was totally blind— flapping pages of dime-store novels covering the entire upper half of my body. With everything I had, I shoved whatever was in my hand directly into his face. I felt a crunch and he let go.
I gasped and shouldered the books away, rising into a sitting position. In my hand was a flat decorative rock. John wiped at his face, strings of blood adorning his mouth. “You fucker,” he spat a red loogie and it struck my chest. I flinched.
The shrill screams of Retta met my ears and I looked to find her with her knotted fingers wrapped in Beth’s hair; the old woman was slamming her head into the table in the nook.
My free hand found a book— surprisingly, hardback— and I lobbed in her direction; the book struck her in the side of the face, giving Beth enough time to free herself from the crazed woman’s grasp and shove her into the stair banister. Retta’s ribs landed squarely into the bottom post of the staircase, and she stood there a moment.
John lunged at me, but I held up the rock and he stopped short, locking eyes with me; they were intense, deadly.
All four of us were at a standstill. I felt the urge to negotiate our safe passage once more. “Let us go,” I said, “If you let us go, we won’t tell a soul.” A part of me actually believed I wouldn’t— if only we were allowed to go free.
Retta crowed, “I don’t think so.” As if in a delayed response, she snatched up a book and launched it at me.
I put up my arm to deflect, the one with the stone. In a second, my shoulders struck the wall— more books went falling and a few of the ornaments and metal-sheet posters skirted from the wall. John had me pinned, both hands. He was slamming my hands into the wall, trying to get me to let go of the rock; I wish this is the part that I could tell you that I fought back— might against might— and bested the old bastard, but him pinching my wrists paired with the repeated slams forced me to let go of the rock and it clattered somewhere unseen.
Once more, his fat fingers met my throat, digging in; this time there was nothing to reach for, no hope, no lucky placed objects. My hands palmed at the flat wall, sometimes reached out to shove at him in futility. He was too strong, and my vision went to pinholes. The last thought I had before I lost consciousness was that he was going to crush my windpipe and I’d never breathe again. No more fight, no more strength, no more willpower, the last thing I recall were those eyes, those eyes that had once seemed warm and inviting were only cruel— emotionless as anyone of the dolls’ decorating the Happy Place B & B.
He did let go of me at some point, but I felt brain dead and time passed in incomprehensible blinks of knowing. I saw him turn his attention on Beth and both he and Retta held her down while they handcuffed her. There was screaming, biting, spitting, but John struck her. Then they were gone; the common area was empty, but I still heard screams— they came from outside somewhere, muffled through the walls, twisting me in knots. The next thing I noticed, I felt, was soreness around my own wrists. Metal, cool and hard. I jerked and kicked, and my eyes came open, gasping came hard; I lay on my side with books strewn all over.
My hands remained pinned behind my back; I felt with my fingertips to the small chain connecting my handcuffs. I wanted to cry. We were so fucked. So unequivocally fucked.
I tried pulling my arms free, more out of frustration than logic, and when that proved fruitless, I angled myself awkwardly to my feet. My neck was sore— obviously— I heard the sound of a car door slamming and I staggered over the fallen books in the floor to the nearest window overlooking the gravel lot. The big black truck sprang to life and drove across the grass, rounding the heart shaped garden. John sat in the front seat— in the truck bed I could scarcely make out Beth’s hair. She wobbled to peer over the edge of the truck bed. She seemed to wager the moving ground, debating whether she might break her legs from the jump. The big black truck disappeared around the edge of the house. Sick misery and anger rose is what I felt as Beth’s scared expression disappeared from view.
Then I heard footsteps on the front porch, and I awkwardly moved to the door, stepping over the mess. My heart raced. Without that monster, John, surely his wife would be easier to deal with. The handle twisted and as I watched it slowly turn, I lived a lifetime. Each new second was a year, and every breath was a century. It shifted, clicked, and pushed inward. Adrenaline made it so that when I lifted my right leg, it felt stiff and uncooperative.
There was Retta, standing in the open doorway— unsurprised by me being there. I kicked with my leg, and it landed. In her hand. She’d caught my shoe and lifted it. The welcome mat under my one grounded foot slid and the fall brought with it pain as my head struck the hard floor.
I hadn’t a moment to clear the stars before a new pain met me— it burned like hell and took away my breath. All of the sudden I was crying and couldn’t see a thing. Red and black. Nose, mouth, eyes— all was on fire.
Then came Retta’s voice. “How’s that mace feel? Not too good— I can imagine. You’re probably thinking about how badly you’d like to kill me right now, but if you make a move, I won’t hesitate to stab you in the gut. That’d make things less interesting, so let’s agree to keep things civil.”
I squirmed. I couldn’t help it. I imagined I was an ant beneath the beam of a magnifying glass. “Fuck you!” I screamed in the dark.
“You will do exactly as I say, unless you want me to hold your eyes open and hit you with this mace again. Do we understand?”
Vitriol pumped through my veins. I tried looking at her through slits, but it was too intense, so I squeezed my eyes shut again, concentrating on what she’d said. “Yes. I understand.”
What were their plans? Were they going to kill us? Were they going to bury us? Would we be forgotten? Who would believe that a sweet old couple running a bed & breakfast would torture two strangers?
“Good,” said Retta, “I’m glad we understand each other. Now, I’m going to reach out and grab you, I don’t want you spitting or biting. You know the rules, right?”
I tried nodding. “Okay.” Talking through the pain was difficult.
I felt her hand grab me around a bicep. I leaned on her to try and get to my feet. It was strange being led blind by Retta like that, totally in the dark, jumping at every book I accidently kicked with my wide steps. I barely realized that she’d taken me through the threshold of the door marked PRIVATE. Some part of me expected the place to look like a torturer’s dungeon— some macabre place with instruments of rusted evil. But this was not the case, from what I could tell, it was a normal living room with a couch and TV and in the far corner there was a kitchen with a small dining area; a hallway led deeper into the house where I can only guess these horrid people slept. Beside the couch there was a high-backed wooden chair. She scooched it so it sat against the wall, and this is where she told me to sit. I sat slowly, pulling my shoulder up to my eyes as best as I could to try and wipe some of the mace away; snot came from my nose in heavy strings.
I should’ve run. I should’ve fought. But half of my limbs were pinned and every time I opened my eyes, I could only see through kaleidoscopic tears for a brief second before the burning forced me to close them tight. Spit pooled in my mouth; I dribbled it down the front of my shirt, trying to remember her rule of no spitting. Oh, I was in a world of hurt and things only got worse when I felt her threading something around my leg; my initial instinct was to kick but getting hit with that mace again scared me. It was rope or twine. She secured my left leg to the chair’s leg then my right and I was officially useless. For good measure, she pushed a loop through my handcuffed arms. Once she had me totally harmless, I heard her footsteps recede somewhere; I pinned my eyes open to see her move to the kitchen.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was being detained by an absolute psycho, I would’ve thought she looked like any other old woman, putting on a kettle of tea, searching the fridge— I blinked. I hate her. I hate that woman.
Retta returned with a carton of milk and a washcloth. She pulled up a dining chair to sit opposite me in my high-backed seat. “Oh, you sure are a helpless little thing. I think I’ll call you Penelope; that’s a pretty name. If I ever had a daughter, I think that’s what I would have called her. I brought it up to John once and he said he liked it too, so Penelope it is.” She touched the washcloth to the mouth of the carton, wetting it before she took the cloth to my face; I flinched. “Don’t be scared. Now’s not the time to be scared,” she said, “That’s for later.” At those words, my heart tried escaping my chest. “For now, I want you to relax. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon, so let me clean you off.”
She brushed the mace from my face carefully with the cloth. It helped, but not by much. Although the cool touch of the milk was met with initial gratitude, it did not take long for the burning to return. I believe at that time I would’ve preferred if my eyes solidified into marbles and rolled out of my head.
“Why are you doing this?” Those words. Why would I say those stupid, horror-movie words? “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shh,” she said, “We’re going to have some tea and watch some stories. Do you like scones? I’ve never much cared for them. I can’t make them without them being overly dry, but I’m feeling lucky today.”
“Soap operas?” I felt my bottom lip quiver. She wanted to watch soap operas with me?
“That’s right, but first I need to get you cleaned up, so the others don’t think I keep bad company.”
“The others?”
“My other guests.”
I inched my burning eyes around to fully examine the room. There were dolls. The front end of the house was covered in books and the back end was covered in dolls, my god. Rag dolls, clowns, babies, human-sized scarecrows adorned with straw hats or cloaked in spring dresses. Some of them sat lining the wall or on any free surface and others sat on the laps of larger ones. They all stared at me blankly and each of their expressions said the same thing: you’re going to die here.
I could hardly smell a thing beyond the burn, but I could pick up on a subtle smell of bitter decay. There was no way I was the first person to be put in this chair like this.
She smiled, those jam jar eyeglasses bringing her total madness into stark focus. “You two are such a sweet couple— you really are. Honestly, you remind me of me and John when we were about your age.”
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“Yeah. Except we’ve never killed anyone.”
She pressed her thumbnail into the soft tissue beneath my eye— hard— then released to continue wiping my face. “Everyone has their flaws. Wouldn’t you rather share the woman you love with the world? You should share the things you love. Share your wife; share yourself. It’s the way of the world. It makes everything better. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I don’t know who it was that said that originally, but they were a genius. It’s a universal philosophy.”
I swallowed hard. “It doesn’t need to be that way.”
“John is a smart man. He knows what he’s talking about when he says that.”
“I-Is he making you do this?”
She stopped moving the cloth against my face and I could sense an unsteadiness in her demeanor. The air changed. “It’s really not like that,” Retta insisted, “It’s not like that at all.”
“Are you sure? You don’t need to live this way.” Even I could hear the sense of hope grow in my voice.
She sat the cloth and milk to the side and stood, one of her knees letting out a protesting pop. “I love him. You don’t understand. He’s really a wonderful man.” A palm came to her cheek, and she pushed her glassed up on the bridge of her nose; her shoulders slumped.
“You can let me go!” I said, “You can let me go and I’ll tell them— I’ll tell the police you were stuck with him, and you had no choice.”
Her voice changed; it sounded of longing, of escape. Then she looked off to the kitchen where a window stood over the sink, a gentle sigh flared her nostrils. “Do you really think they’d let me go if I turned him in?”
“I know so! Of course, they would! They’d understand! I know they would, because I understand, Retta. I understand!”
“Do you?” A look of sadness fell across her face, one that perhaps told the story of abusive years, of years that had broken her down and rebuilt her into the maniacal old crow I saw before me— for a blinking moment I could even see what she must’ve looked like when she was younger, fuller of life, and not stuck.
“Retta, please, listen to me!” I could escape, this was my chance. Just over the horizon I could imagine me and her calling the police, rescuing Beth, and I could go home.
She covered her eyes with those knotty old hands, and her shoulders shook; high pitched crying moans left her body. I was so close.
“Please. Just untie me. Let me go. We can go to the police and tell them together. I promise!”
The crying’s rhythm changed, and she removed her hands from her face to expose a malicious grin— wet and horrendous was her cackle. “Are you fucking stupid?” She asked.
My jaw clenched. I pressed my tongue hard to my teeth. “Retta?”
“You got riled up, didn’t you? Gosh!” She straightened her glasses. “I was doing this well before I met John, dum-dum. That’s why we’re a match made in heaven.”
I wanted to throw up. The panic of escape jumped into my body; there was no way I’d be able to talk myself out of this situation.
She returned to cleaning my face and once she’d finished, the burning sensation remained but I could see clearly enough.
Retta returned to the kitchen with the carton of milk in one hand and the washcloth in the other. Her voice had the cheeriness of a grandmother. “Now, don’t you feel much better? I know I feel better looking at you.” She closed the fridge and eyed me over from across the room. “You’re still a bit puffy, but that’ll go down with time.”
The tea kettle on the stove whistled and I jumped, letting out a gasp.
She chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey, it’s just the tea. I asked you before whether or not you liked scones, but it’s too late for that now, I think.”
“W-what do you mean?”
The old woman moved to the kettle, removing it so its whistling halted. After pouring two cups, she returned with them on a platter of lady fingers. She sat the platter on the coffee table in front of me. “Do you take it with sugar or cream?”
“I don’t like tea,” I said, dumbfounded.
“That’s right!” Retta legitimately displayed the expression of a courteous host— one that had forgotten her guest’s request. “I’m so sorry.”
I remained silent, watching her return to the kitchen to remove a mug before pouring a cup of coffee from the pot by the sink. When she came to me with the ceramic mug— it had Kermit the Frog’s face on it— a straw protruded from the top. She placed the straw to my lips, and I took a big, long drink to fill my mouth, ignoring the intense burn; it was too hot. My eyes watered and I was certain I’d blister my tongue. Retta did not seem to notice me suffering.
“There. It’s not so bad. John prefers coffee too, but tea— I enjoy the relaxing properties of it,” said Retta.
Trying my best to hold the scolding liquid in my mouth, I pulled from the straw, Retta sat it next to the lady fingers on the platter. She swiveled around to face me with a cheery look on her face. I puckered my lips and squirted the drink, so it struck her in the face and spiderwebbed down her wrinkled face.
“Fuck!” screamed Retta.
I ran dry, with the remainder hitting the front of my shirt.
The old crow wiped her face with the back of her forearm. Faster than I realized, she reared her hand back, collapsed it into a solid little fist and rang my bell so hard it bounced off the back of the chair; I felt blood on my tongue— whether it was from the heat or her striking me, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe both.
There were no more negotiations; I’d been stupid. The thought crossed my mind in those seconds where I sat dazed in that chair that I was in a situation where it was either kill or be killed.
She hit me again. Blood sprayed from my nose. I was rattled; adrenaline pumped through my body, but my tied limbs were totally useless. I blinked and shook my head, trying to rouse myself; the rope afforded me little movement, but I tried moving to sit up straighter. Retta returned to the kitchen. I blinked. She lifted the pot of coffee. I blinked. She held the coffee pot— half full— over her head. I blinked.
It burned; I shook violently in the chair, trying my best to slide from the handcuffs pinning my arms behind my back. I wanted to defend myself, but I couldn’t. It rained down on me as I squalled; it wasn’t until later that I recalled her girlish screams of delight at my misery— in those haunted moments where I am alone in the dark, I hear Retta. Everyone has dreams where they feel like they’re falling before they jerk themselves awake; I jerk myself awake because I try to free myself.
The cuffs cut into my wrists as I tried slipping out of them. My legs kicked, my feet stomped, and I rocked the chair back and forth. “Stop!” I pleaded.
The pot was empty; Retta sat it on the table beside the platter of lady fingers. “We’ve only begun.”
I could feel the skin around my eyes swell in response to the heat. My chest heaved. “Let me go!” It should’ve sounded like a demand, but it sounded like begging. “I want to live!” And I did; I wanted to live.
Retta went quiet then returned to the kitchen. The glint off the blade she pulled from the drawer by the sink made me want to empty my bowels. She removed my left shoe; even while I tried fighting her by contorting the shape of my foot in awkward ways, she chucked the shoe to the side and peeled away my sock.
The cool wooden floor beneath my sole. Her pushing the knife down so as to break skin then wiggle it to slice into the tissues holding bones together. Me being so full of crazed adrenaline.
I bit my bottom lip and flared my nostrils; tears rolled down my face.
She stood, holding the knife in one hand— along its edge was my blood— but in her other hand she held something smaller; this, whatever it was, she tossed onto the platter sitting on the table. My pinky toe bounced between two lady fingers. I do not think my brain comprehended everything in the appropriate measures; I think my mind swung pendulously between the mind of the normal Greg to some other dark place where everything stood against absurdity. My toe— a gentleman toe— mixed in with the lady fingers. Please! Help me, waiter. Yes, excuse me, there’s a gentleman toe in my lady fingers. Help me.
Her voice was solemn. “I told you. No spitting. I told you!” Retta shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. My resolve was broken but not all gone.
Smug, self-assured, she said, “Good.” The blade clattered to the platter, sending my pinky toe bouncing away, to roll under the couch. No! Not the gentleman toe!
“I’m sorry you didn’t take more of them, bitch.” I collected spit and shot it onto her chest. “Just do it already— you’re going to kill me. What are you waiting for?”
Retta clenched her jaw, looking at the spot on her chest. Then her eyes met mine. She leaned in, placing each of her hands on the arms of my wooden chair, so close that I could smell Polident. “I just want you to share yourself with me. Don’t you understand? Sharing yourself with another person is the most important thing you can do in life. Open yourself up. Expose yourself.”
A million thoughts raced through my mind, but only one remained when the smoke cleared: I’d better not let go.
I lurched forward in the chair with my head cocked and my mouth wide open; I clamped my teeth down, hard. The rubbery texture of her nose caught in my mouth; Retta squealed, and I felt her press against my shoulders with her palms. She began screaming, “Let go! Let go!” but it came out in such quick hisses it sounded like she was saying, “Lego lego lego lego!”
A fire rose in my stomach; the anger, the fear, the confusion, the torture— I was done. I clenched my jaw as hard as I could. Until I felt the cartilage split in my mouth. Until I was grinding my teeth together. Until I tasted her blood.
Retta pulled back and I went with her, falling on top of her, still secured to the chair— with my arms tied, I had no other choice but to head butt the old woman.
Then something miraculous happened. I felt the structure of the chair come loose; I began fighting against the rope, against the cuffs. The metal dug into my wrists, the seams of the chair screamed, my muscles protested. It was a dream, that sweet release from confinement. I rolled off Retta, slamming into the coffee table; the teacups spilled over me. I fought against the rope caught around my legs. Hunks of the chair clung to me, and I kicked them away, trying to worm out of the rope. I rolled until I collided with one of the oversized, scarecrow dolls sitting along the wall by the TV; something about it was off; its foot was too solid. I reeled around and it careened forward, looking over my prone face. One of its glass eyes fell from its head, landing by my shoulder; a spurt of insects spilled from within, and I screamed. It wasn’t a doll; it was human.
I wavered to my feet, first kneeling, then pouncing into a standing position. Retta, scrambled blindly around, feeling on the floor, undoubtedly searching for something to throw at me. Her glasses lay by the crumbled remains of the chair; I stomped them with my right foot and stumbled backwards.
What came next would require concentration. I hunkered down onto my bottom, watching Retta sling her arms around madly, and tried slipping my cuffed hands under my feet. My wrists popped, I cried out, but I was able to pull my hands in front of my chest; just as I’d guessed, the cuffs had cut into my wrists.
Retta’s hand clapped the flat side of the knife. The old woman slipped to her feet, swinging the blade in a blind fit. Blood ran down her chin; I could see I’d taken off the end of her nose. Good.
I tried giving her a wide birth, but as I shifted to circle her right, her unfocused eyes came to rest on me. She lunged, I ducked, sidestepping the arch of the blade. With a thud, the knife lodged itself in the wall and I found myself behind her. She tugged on the handle of the knife, attempting to free it.
An electrical shock went up my body; I could’ve left her there. She was obviously blind without her glasses— I could’ve left and called the police. I probably could’ve ran.
I slipped my pinned hands over her head, tugging the chain connecting my wrists against her tiny throat. A gargle escaped as I pulled her onto me. The floor met my back, nearly taking my breath. Her hands flung around wildly while her panting matched my own. The ceiling. I studied the ceiling. The off-white space broke open infinitely till it ceased being a solid object and refracted into a light beam— I did not feel the strain against my wrists as she fought. Her legs kicked and pulled tighter. The ceiling. It took me away like a dream. There was only that. I bit my tongue as her finger attempted to snag my hair. I pulled tighter, promising that I wouldn’t let go until her head came off; that’s unrealistic— I’m not that strong. The ceiling and nothing else; I blocked out her gasps.
I lay there on the wood floor, staring at that ceiling till she went still and when I returned to the earth, I was unsure how long she’d been limp. Without looking at her, I slipped my arms from around her neck and threw her off me; her head met the floor with an audible thump. Moving to my feet, I found my sock and shoe and fought against the pain to put them over my left foot. The space where my pinky toe had once been felt empty and stung as I slid the shoe over it. With it covered, it looked better, normal. Maybe this wasn’t real; my gaze shifted to Retta’s still form, her on her side, facing away from me. It was real and everything was silent.
Moving to the sink, I caught my reflection in the window in the wall above it. Swollen red face, blue around the neck, miserable expression. I held my face beneath a cool stream of water, forgetting I’d been sprayed with mace; the burning came again, and I cussed, kicking the foot of the cupboard. I forced my whole head under the water, washing myself down; it became easier. I rubbed dry with a dish towel slung over the oven handle. I spied an overcast midday through the window.
Taking stock of the room, I counted the ‘scarecrows’; fourteen. There were fourteen dead bodies in the room. Scratch that. I looked at Retta, unmoving. Fifteen dead bodies. So that’s where the rank smell of the place emanated from. That subtle stench of decay. How long had they been doing this? Years? Decades? Some silly part of me thought that we’d stumbled into an ancient evil that had always been but knew stuff like that didn’t happen; this was real life.
I stomped— hobbled really— through the Happy Place B&B, searching for a phone, my phone, a landline, any godforsaken phone. There were none. No computers, no wifi, nothing. Me and Beth wanted to get away and we had surely found the place for it. Hoping that Retta had the keys to my cuffs on her, I patted down her pockets and found them totally empty; her purse sat on the dining table, and I dumped that. Nothing. A sad chuckle came from me, startling me in my otherwise silent shamble through the house.
I rummaged through drawers in the kitchen.
“Bingo.” Sitting in the junk drawer beside the sink was a thin screwdriver; being careful not to drop it, I angled it through a loop in the cuffs and used the kitchen counter to apply force to the link. Closing my eyes, grunting as the metal dug in, I gritted my teeth. Finally, I heard a pop and wiggled the loop loose. It felt good having free motion over my arms again. I flexed my shoulders.
What was I going to do?
I stepped out on the porch, scanning the road then the Fiesta with popped tires. I could run, flag down a car, or find a house. How long did Beth have? Had John already killed her? I wanted to run— I’m ashamed to admit that, but it’s the truth. Some part of me told me that I’d suffered enough, that I could run and make it out alive. I looked to the trail opening up in the forest by the lake. A set of tire marks impressed on the grass led straight to it. That’s where he’d taken her. Somewhere in those trees. How far? Was I even in the shape to fight? Could I stand by the road and wait for someone to come by?
Running back into the house, I searched for a weapon, but came up short. I took the canister of mace from Retta's pocket and yanked the knife free from where it was planted in the drywall; it was partially lodged in a stud.
Shaking, scared to go on, but knowing I needed to, I took the steps of the porch down the stone path and cut through the yard, passing that heart-shaped garden; somehow it looked less lovely than it had the day before. My vision went with blinders— I could see only one thing: the opening of trees, just large enough for a truck to squeeze through.
Walking was hard work, each step on my left foot sending a tingle up my leg because of the missing toe. Part of me thought I should’ve gone back to find it. It had rolled under the couch; maybe I could put it in my pocket, and they’d be able to put it back when I made it out of this. Another chuckle escaped me. This was no laughing matter, but it came all the same. I sure was assuming a lot. I assumed I’d make it out of this alive. I assumed I’d make it to a hospital.
I met the trail and the canopy of northern pines and birches cut the light in angles. The air was damp, and my shoes stuck in the wet trail. It seemed I’d started walking into marshland. I’d take a step and go into the ground up to my ankle so I tried finding spots where tree roots rose, hoping that it would prove better ground. Nausea overtook me with the rising temperature paired with the day’s events; a mugginess clung in the air.
Thunder bellowed through the trees, startling me so bad that I nearly slid in the mud again. Peering up through the canopy of leaves, I saw deep gray clouds overhead.
It began to rain, and I couldn’t see how it could get much worse, but then I heard the crystal-clear voice of Patsy Cline.
She was getting closer, her voice screaming down the trail with the hum of an engine.
My heart pounded in my ears, and I slid completely off the trail, stepping directly into a mudhole, losing my right shoe. I dove into pine needles and leaves littering the forest floor; they clung to my wet body. The truck came closer. I peeked from around a tree trunk, holding my breath as though he’d be able to hear me over the music, the rain.
The black Chevy roared by, and I tried to see if Beth was with him. He had his window rolled down, hand out flat, palm surfing the wind. I saw John and no one else. Was she dead? Was she lying in the bed of the truck? Was I too late?
The truck disappeared and the forest was silent save the patter of rain.
I scanned the ground for my shoe and slipped it from the mud before I staggered back onto the trail. Should I go back to the house? Should I continue on?
A strained scream echoed from deeper in the forest; it had to be Beth. I hoped.
I shlepped on, flinching at the sound of every insect, at every bout of thunder, and every time the tormented scream of my wife met me on the trail. But I was getting closer.