The last thing Olive heard was the sound of Eddie’s footsteps clamoring up the stairs like a child running from a well-deserved punishment. The noise registered as something she should pay attention to, but couldn’t summon the energy to concern herself with, like the sound of her mother calling for her when she’d played in the back garden of her childhood home and didn’t want to come in for supper. Before she could decide if the footsteps were indeed important, they were gone.
After another measured, strenuous breath, it was as if they had never been there at all.
—
Light.
Light flooded the previously dark world. Olive had fallen while mountain climbing and a rescue team shone their lights into the craggy canyon in which she was trapped.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Olive strained against the fog, trying to remember where she was. The truth had made it to the edge of her awareness when the light went out again.
No, that wasn’t right either. The light persisted, but Olive had closed her eyes. She took a breath and forced them open, shocked at how much effort it took to command muscles previously governed by reflex.
The integrity of the light source established, its illumination was both lovely and loathsome, bringing with it the end of uncertainty—Mother is home, run to the door to greet her!—and the onset of a dismal alarm—the bus is here, the bus is here, get up, Olive, it’s time for school. Her tongue felt fuzzy, as if an insane artist had sketched her in pencil before deciding to erase her mouth. Her arms and legs were enduring waves of pins and sewing machine-powered needles, jackhammering through her skin into once-tough flesh, now tenderized.
Olive could’ve been convinced that what was formerly her brain had become an organ of reverence, removed from her skull by idolaters to be preserved in an embalming fluid of analgesic vapor. If euphoric mummification was not its fate, than perhaps her brain had been turned into a vat of strawberry jelly, crafted from the ripest, juiciest berries and baked between layers of puff pastry, warm and buttery and pliable and delicious.
A shadow fell across the light on the basement floor and Olive murmured something inaudible. Though she’d perceived his footsteps on the last two stairs, it seemed to Olive that Eddie materialized from thin air. Blinking in confusion, Olive alternately doused and reignited the sun in the shoebox diorama that was her universe.
“Well, you’re not dead,” Eddie said. His voice conveyed neither relief nor surprise. “You’re not dead,” he said again. “So how did you like your medicine?”
Olive saw Eddie’s mouth move, but someone had disconnected the auxiliary cord that ran from her eyes to her ears. Or maybe it was the cord that connected her ears to her brain?
Her lack of reply did little to discourage him. “It is not exactly an acquired taste. If I had to guess, I’d say you enjoyed it quite a bit. And that was only your very first dose.” Eddie laughed a snorting, piggish laugh.
The laugh succeeded in reconnecting her sensory sound system.
“You’ll graduate from enjoyment to full-on love affair soon enough,” Eddie said. He eyed the vomit on the floor with distaste. “Everyone throws up their first time. Then again, that was some good shit I gave you. A regular user may very well have booted it after shooting what I gave you. That stuff is fire.”
Olive watched Eddie pick at something wedged between the crooked tombstones of his teeth. He stared at her over the substantial surface of his hand, then, as if he had only just remembered, said “Speaking of fire, I brought you round two.”
That auxiliary cord must have a kink in it again because Eddie’s words skipped in her head like a scratched record on a gramophone. Olive regarded the syringe pinched between nicotine-stained fingers. The thoughts that swirled through her head were indecipherable.
Eddie stepped forward, his satisfaction evident. “It’s like a science experiment,” he said. “Watching someone like you turn into someone like me.”
Her lips strained to form some plea or protest, but their meaning was lost when Eddie leaned over her, squinting as he inserted the needle into the same vein as before, reopening the puncture wound to inject the pale brown liquid.
Olive’s brain knew what to expect, anticipated the sensual rush of sweeping warmth that washed over her body.
A small smile touched the corners of her lips. Other than that smile, she did not move.
—
Movement.
Above, coming from upstairs.
Olive swam toward it, the water parting around her, flowing over her skin without temperature, taste, or odor. Breaking the surface, Olive blinked water from her eyes to find that it had evaporated upon hitting the air, vanished like the commotion from above. From behind the basement windows, a pale glow hinted at either morning or a blinding full moon, with no way of telling which.
She shuddered, and the duct tape cut into her wrists. The sensation was uncomfortable, but not painful; the last dose of heroin had yet to wear off. Olive concentrated on pinpointing the noises. After several long moments, the back and forth of pacing footsteps announced themselves, accompanied by muffled voices, their inflection and tone implying anger, or at least impatience. She could discern nothing else through the ceiling beams, and lowered her gaze to evaluate her environment.
My prison, not my environment. I’m being held prisoner here.
Her conscious mind accepted this amendment, but the sentiment accompanying it was fleeting. The sharp edge of fear that had penetrated her every thought, pre-injection, had been blunted.
Olive knew she should explore this further, should analyze the reasons why fear was no longer her predominant emotion, but the issue didn’t seem as pressing as she supposed it should. She turned her head as far as the restraints would allow, only to be reacquainted with the dirty laundry that had been her landing strip upon her initial descent down the bulkhead stairs. It looked softer and more inviting than she remembered.
Past the discarded linens, a set of metal shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. These contained the typical assortment of basement-delegated goods; cleaning supplies were interspersed with a myriad of holiday decorations, gardening tools hung from hooks on the wall, and a pink tricycle, matching hula-hoops, and a tangled spider web of jump ropes suggested little girls past the age of toddlerhood. In addition to these shelves so representative of normalcy, a home gym gleamed from the far corner, arranged on the quintessential puzzle-piece black foam mats.
Where am I? According to Nicole, Eddie couldn’t afford a shitty studio; this looked to be the basement of a good-sized home, owned by people who could afford fancy gym equipment and expensive shelving units to house their off-season knick-knacks. Rows of clear storage bins showcased piles of well-organized children’s books, toys, cookbooks, fishing equipment, backyard BBQ accouterments, and countless other indicators of a normal American family living normal American lives.
Only two possibilities, Olive surmised. Either the couple—a couple with at least one child—whose home she was being held in was implicated in her kidnapping and subsequent drugging. Or Eddie had broken into an empty house in order to carry out his plot.
Olive grasped at murky memories of counseling sessions prior to Nicole and Eddie’s breakup. She thought she could trust a vague recollection of the previous November, and the crazy gesticulations Nicole had engaged in while telling Olive of their nightmare Thanksgiving at Eddie’s brother and sister-in-law’s.
The pair had gotten so high before dinner that Eddie had nodded out with a serving spoon of mashed potatoes still in hand. Eddie’s two nieces had found his apparent narcolepsy hilarious, but Nicole had been mortified, Olive remembered. Nieces would explain the pink tricycle and boxes of toys, but if this was Eddie’s brother’s place, where was Eddie’s brother?
The possibility that they were on a weeklong vacation—similar to her post-Memorial Day time off planned for the upcoming week—felt like being tackled to the pavement all over again. The awful probability of this scen
ario cut through any lingering euphoria, and Olive felt the tips of her fingers turn to icicles on the arms of her chair.
A house conveniently unoccupied for the next week, and her with a time-off request already on the books, the final piece of the puzzle that would come together with no one knowing that Olive was even missing fell into place: Olive’s behavior, her recent withdrawal from her parents, would hardly facilitate panic on their part. Not answering the phone when her parents called was one symptom of a larger, more complex condition. Olive hadn’t been home in months.
Olive spun an amber ring around one finger, remembering when she’d sat across from Nicole in her warm, safe office, watching her patient engaged in the same nervous tic. Had Eddie given Nicole the obsidian ring, maybe years ago, before spending money on jewelry was still a plausible gesture?
Olive’s boyfriend of four months—their meeting the only benefit Olive could attribute to working at The Living Room—had given Olive the amber ring on her birthday. The ring was a perfect symbol for their relationship: agreeable, understated, and less-than-resolute. If he didn’t hear from her over the course of her vacation, Richard might wonder where she’d disappeared to, but he wouldn’t worry, and he certainly wouldn’t call the police. Olive’s commitment to Richard was capricious at best.
And the clinic. Would anyone at the clinic realize that Olive had gone missing the same day as Eddie’s involuntary discharge? Again, Olive didn’t believe they would. As far as the staff at the clinic was concerned, Olive had left early for a week’s vacation after a rough day at work.
The ceiling creaked above her again and Olive winced. She was uncomfortable, but apathetic, hungry, but none too worried about eating. Will Eddie inadvertently starve me to death in his quest to turn me into an addict? Then, a primal, unspeakable thought: Is he going to rape me?
The idea produced a feeling of foreboding in the marrow of her bones stronger than she would have thought possible. Olive longed for her previous state of incoherence before chastising herself for this repulsive, counterproductive thought. The cloud cover hanging over her consciousness had dissipated and terror took shape. Navigating her thoughts was like traversing a topiary maze, where stagnant bushes morphed into leering, stalking beasts.
Olive’s breathing quickened. Light-headedness returned full-force. The sound of footsteps hit the top stair, and began to descend, one nail in her coffin after another. Eddie appeared before her. Poof, Olive thought. Eddie the Magnificent, coming to you live. He stopped in front of her chair, tapping the toe of one Timberland, lips stretched into a lecherous smile.
Eddie’s hand darted out toward hers. The sound reached her ears before the pain had registered—POP!—and the tape that had been sliced in two was left dangling from one numb and bloodless wrist. Olive was staring at the burst blood vessels rising in the aftermath of having the pocket knife forcefully inserted between tape and flesh when—POP!—Eddie knifed through the remaining shackle.
She raised her eyes to find him picking sticky remnants from the blade. He was panting slightly, as if he’d over-exerted himself coming down the basement stairs, and looked like he was waiting for her to acknowledge her newfound freedom by fighting. His expression twisted into one of wicked glee when instead of lashing out, he noticed Olive’s eyes searching his empty hands.
“It’s happening,” he said, rubbing those hands together like a mad scientist. “You’re fiending for it. Probably your body will take to it even quicker, being in the situation you’re in. Defense mechanism, or some Sigmund Freud shit like that. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. The less time it takes to turn you into a full-fledged junkie, the less dope I have to share.”
Sandpaper lined Olive’s throat, but she managed to croak out a single word: “How?”
“How?” Eddie repeated. He looked perplexed. “How what? How did I grab you from Warren Street? I was going to tail you when you went home for the day, but you left the clinic early, so I followed you then.”
One hand disappeared behind his back, then reappeared to produce a tin foil parcel (Eddie the Magnificent!), nearly flattened by its journey from ground floor to basement in the confines of Eddie’s pocket. He unwrapped the dented foil to reveal two slices of sloppily-buttered toast, which Eddie inspected the way a chef examines a gourmet entrée prior to its departure from the five-star kitchen in which it was forged.
He held the bread to her lips. Its sodden appearance, coupled with the smell of singed yeast and flour made her want to gag.
“Eat,” he said.
Cardboard would have had more appeal, but she opened her mouth and allowed Eddie to shove the food between her lips. At first contact with the crumbly, alien texture, Olive’s tongue recoiled; a moment later, her cheeks moved up and down in conjunction with her slow, methodic chewing.
“My boy helped nab you in exchange for some of the same shit you’ve been catching a habit with. If you mean how am I getting you high on top of my own habit, that answer is simple.”
Eddie gestured to the walls around them, to the house they currently occupied. “My brother is as yet unaware that Nik let some know-it-all counselor talk her into breaking up with me. A few days ago, he texted her and asked if she would house-sit for the week following Memorial Day. My brother was also unaware that I swiped Nik’s cell phone before she bounced. I had to sell mine, and Nik makes so much waitressing, she can afford a new phone no problem. I figured she wouldn’t miss it.
“So Scott asks her if the two of us would stay here while he goes up to Maine or Vermont, or some bullshit state up in the mountains, with his picture-perfect family. He asks her to keep an eye on me, to make sure I don’t pawn any of his priceless shit. Scott received a message back confirming that yes, we’d be happy to watch his house for the week, and no, he didn’t have to worry about a single, solitary thing. I told him—or rather, Nicole told him—that we’re both on the clinic now and doing really, really well.” Eddie’s tone conveyed how pleased he was with pulling off this deception.
He pushed the toast toward Olive’s slack jaw and she ventured another bite. It was cold, on top of being burnt, but she was surprised by the growls her stomach produced now that she’d activated her anaesthetized metabolism.
She took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and said, “Ahhmph—”
Olive concentrated on the necessary facial muscles, and tried again. “Aaa—and when he comes back?”
Eddie shrugged, his expression shrewd. “Scott will get a text informing him that we had to leave for work. Then I’ll stage a break-in. He’ll probably still suspect it was me, but there’ll be no proof. Besides, I know the guy who owns the pawn shop on Broadway. We’ve been tight ever since I helped him beat the shit outta some Southie scum a few years back. Punks broke into the store and shattered a bunch of display cases.”
Eddie grinned, and Olive wondered at what point in his drug use his teeth had taken on their current level of rot.
“He’s on the clinic too,” Eddie continued. “Gary Hansen. You know him?”
Olive said nothing. She’d had Gary in group once or twice; he was mandated for dirty drug screens, but rarely showed. Olive didn’t see how this was Eddie’s business. The week of his brother’s vacation would end soon enough, and what did he plan to do with her then? If he wasn’t going to let on, she wasn’t interested in small talk. Before she could maneuver her slothful tongue into forming the words, Eddie tossed the toast over his shoulder and stood.
“You know, I was thinking earlier about your pearl necklace. The one I accidentally broke when you tried to run away. I’m sorry about that, but to be honest, now that I’ve gotten to know you, you don’t really strike me as a pearls kinda girl.”
Eddie’s hand disappeared behind his back again.
Watch the amazing, stupendous, fantastical Eddie the Magnificent as he facilitates a trick beyond your wildest comprehension!
A syringe of Dunkin Donuts orange appeared.
Olive closed her eyes.
/> “Look at you,” he laughed. “You’re mine, I could put you on the lawn and you wouldn’t go anywhere.” She felt a tiny pinch.
The world’s most efficient cleaning service came rushing in, countless maids sweeping feather dusters across her mind, obscuring the monstrous, looming shapes, and draping sheets over the sharp-edged furniture.
—
Olive dreamed that she was free. She was returning home to her apartment, anxious to put the harrowing ordeal of the last week behind her. Eddie Vance’s face kept appearing on billboards along the side of the highway, and her heart only stopped its imitation of a moth beating itself against the glass walls of its lantern prison when she pulled off the exit for Overlook Ridge.
The left-hand turn to her complex a mere three-hundred feet away, she almost relaxed, approaching a police car with a black pickup truck pulled over in front of it. The driver of the pickup was standing next to a police officer who leaned against the hood of the cruiser and...
Olive jerked forward in her seat and stared. Even with everything she had been through, even amongst the mayhem and the horror and the breakdown of her world, the sight of the pickup driver aiding a police officer in tying off and injecting a syringe in the crook of his arm left her flabbergasted. She did not comprehend the sound of her own muttering, but as she pulled onto Terrace Road, past the red-rocked cliffs of the quarry that skirted her complex, she repeated to herself, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”
The first building in her complex was as it had always been, the tan and burnt-orange brick fortress blocking the identical second set of apartments behind it. But the second building should have blocked her building from view, as the first building had blocked the second. Instead, a monstrously peaked black roof pitchforked up into a sky that was dark, and growing darker.
Gone was the impeccably landscaped front yard and walkway, replaced by looming rock structures, grey, dismal, and connected to one another by thick iron chains. Black mud and fissures of wet earth gurgled in the mist, and the great-winged shadow of a vulture moved across the ground in the last of the dying sunlight. The building itself was a castle straight from Hell; any nightmare that manufactured that structure would have been banished to the dreamer’s subconscious, never to see the light of day.
Something Borrowed, Something Blood-Soaked Page 9