by Yessi Smith
“I’m sure it’s great.” I twist the spoon between my fingers, unsure of what else to say. “Thank you.”
Awkward silence follows, seeping into my pores, splintering my resolve. When Heather walks back toward the kitchen I take my first bite.
“Holy hell, this is good,” I say.
Heather laughs in appreciation, the sound filling the empty silence, before I place another spoonful in my mouth.
Poppa sits down next to me, not touching the food Heather set on the table for him. I look at him, pointing at the food, until he grins at me and he finally digs in. Content, I continue eating and can’t help but wonder how many times I sat at the table, sharing meals with my family. How many arguments has this table witnessed? Have fists pounded down or have tears slapped the surface of our pretty wooden nook? Did we sing happy birthday songs and cut cake here?
With my memories still nothing more than fog, I decide I’ll make new memories at our table, starting with me devouring a bowl of chicken and wild rice soup beside Poppa.
“I’m meeting with Derrick in a bit,” I shoot a grin at him with my declaration.
“Where are you kids going?” Poppa doesn’t seem surprised, but pleased with the relationship Derrick and I are forming.
“A boxing gym.” I turn my attention back to my food, my right foot tapping as I wait for him to respond.
“A boxing gym?” he asks, his mouth agape as he stares at me.
I peer up from my food watchful, hoping I’m not about to be reprimanded. Then, I remember I’m not a child but a twenty-four-year-old woman who was recently held captive. A victim, I think. I reel at the word, remembering my vow to never be so susceptible again.
“Yeah, Poppa. A boxing gym,” I reiterate, still waiting to be chastised. “I wanna learn how to defend myself. You know, just in case—”
“Yeah, just in case,” he interrupts, pinching his nose with two fingers. “Be careful. You’re still not one hundred percent.”
No, I’m not one hundred percent, nor will I ever be. Even the most well-hidden scars leave their repercussions, ones I’ll live with for the remainder of my existence.
The gym reeks of sweat, and the smell is augmented by the dryness in the air. There are a handful of punching bags and two areas with makeshift rings for people to spar.
I follow Derrick to the back of the gym where we put our belongings into a locker. I allow Derrick to help me wrap my hands, and I only cringe inwardly. As he puts the gloves on my hands, my heartbeat quicken in anticipation and fear. I want to learn how to fight, how to defend myself, but I don’t want to be touched. The idea of being hit sends my head spinning. My nerves get the best of me, making cold sweat drip down my spine, until the unease completely takes over, and my toes go numb.
Derrick guides me to an empty punching bag where he first works on my fighting stance. Unsure, I try to mimic his form but lose my balance after I throw a left jab, right hand combo to the bag. Derrick walks behind me and separates my legs to improve my balance, but I freeze, unable to move or breathe, as my eyes dance from side to side.
“It’s okay, Holly.” Derrick moves his hands away so that they hover slightly over me. Just a breath away, but still an intrusion. “Just point your right foot out a little,” he guides my foot in the direction he wants, “and bend your knees some.”
I do as he says, all the while concentrating on my breathing and hoping I won’t hyperventilate.
“Good,” he says, pretending I’m normal. “Now, when you punch, I want you to punch straight,” he says, leading my hand to the bag. “The left jab is meant to gauge the distance between you and your opponent,” he explains. “When you follow through with the right hand, you twist your right hip with the motion to gain more strength and power in the punch.”
Calmer, I listen to Derrick’s instructions and do my best to follow his explanation, but I feel foolish, like an overindulgent child who hasn’t quite learned how to function in a normal setting. But I’m fueled with the desire to learn, to become stronger, and I punch the bag with enough vehemence that I’m surprised my wrists don’t break.
With each jab, uppercut, and hook, a sense of freedom fills me. The tension in my neck and lower back subside, and while my heart is running amok, it’s not from fear. Rather, I’m driven to succeed.
I pace around the bag, fully aware that Derrick’s eyes remain on me so that he can correct me whenever necessary. I try to remember to breathe, to exhale each time I punch, but I easily forget and find myself holding my breath. Sweat drips from my forehead, at times getting into my eyes, but I continue, determined to win this battle I’ve waged against myself and a bag that symbolizes a strength I’m only starting to realize I possess.
Hours pass before I’m ready to leave. And I only leave because Derrick makes me, saying he doesn’t want me to reinjure my still healing body. I want to argue with him, but I don’t want to be difficult, wanting him to bring me back tomorrow. Instead, I frown up at him but follow him out of the gym aware that I’m always following, always being guided. Have I ever been a leader?
As we leave the gym, I spot a field of blue flowers, and I walk toward it, leaving Derrick in the parking lot.
Time stands still, my skin alive under the night sky, as I gawk at them - bluebonnets in January. I gasp, taking it as a sign that things have to get better. The unexplained happens every day. Just like these bluebonnets, I’ll be one of those unexplained phenomena and bloom.
Once we get into Derrick’s car, I roll down the window, allowing the cool fresh air to circulate through the car, so the smell of our sweat isn’t as poignant. I stick my head out the window and take a deep breath, only to shift my body back when Derrick starts to roll up the window.
“What are you doing?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“My car, my rules.”
Although I know he’s teasing, my body tenses at his words. He’s right. His car, his rules. I should have asked permission. Derrick leans toward me, and I force myself to sit still, not showing the fear that is inherently a part of me. Expecting him to companionably put his arm over my shoulders, I cough and then gag when he shoves his armpit in my face.
“Gah! Gross!” I turn away from him, laughing and choking, while I try to put the window down again, only to find it locked. “You’re disgusting!”
“I’m all man, baby,” he teases, taking a big whiff of his underarm.
Ridiculous is what he is—but in a good way that puts my heightened nerves at ease. A sense of joy I’m still weary [wary or weary – one’s suspicion and one is tired] of grips me, momentarily choking out the bad.
“Want to grab something to eat?”
“No.” I shake my head. I’m sweaty, and I more than likely smell like roadkill.
“There’s a diner close by. A sandwich wouldn’t hurt you.”
I make a face.
“Or just toast,” he says. “Carbs are good for recovery after a workout.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatev—”
Bread. Stale bread with green mold that I’d pretend was a spread. Followed by vomiting. Still, after days or sometimes weeks of no food, the bread looked appetizing. It even tasted good, and I’d be grateful to him, thanking him for the little handouts that would ultimately make me sick.
No longer was I the strong-willed girl he’d kidnapped. He had tamed me to be obedient, passive.
I stopped fighting him. I couldn’t escape. I’d tried everything.
The only thing left was to survive in the isolated dark vault where he kept me chained to the wall.
“Are you okay?”
I blink, biting my lower lip, as I reacquaint myself with my surroundings. Parked on the side of the road, Derrick stares at me, his eyes wide, waiting for me to answer.
How long was I lost in my memory?
Too long.
It’s left me dirty and vulnerable.
I clear my throat and swallow, hoping to alleviate my suddenly dry throat.
“Yeah.
” I look forward, not wanting to see Derrick when I recap what I remember.
“You never stopped fighting,” he counters when I finish. “You got out. Remember that, Holly. You escaped.”
“What if he comes back?”
I haven’t voiced that concern before simply because I’ve wanted to at least appear strong and fearless, not at all like the soulless fear eating away at me.
“You have me,” he assures me, starting up the car, unaware that the only assurance I have is that he is coming for me.
While Erica snoozes on her ottoman, I fold our laundry and sing her favorite song, Journey’s “Open Arms.” My body vibrates with luxurious bliss when I sing it because it not only makes my girl happy, but I also remember the terror the lyrics slipping from my lips would bring to the girl. Each verse would bring on a new form of torture.
I hope her parents are watching from the afterlife, realizing they should have destroyed me. They should have rendered me helpless, so I could not avenge the permanent injuries Erica sustained because of their inability to drive in their lane.
I hope they fear for their daughter’s life every day, knowing I will get her back. And when I do, the torture she suffered will be nothing compared to the wrath she has yet to witness.
Where she once lay in her own feces and drank her own urine will be replaced with my blood, urine, and feces. I’ll torch her skin, tainting it with my mark, over and over again. And she will endure the pain because I’ll no longer allow her the privilege of fainting.
She’ll bleed out, and only in her death will she find peace.
Unable to settle down, I go to my gun cabinet and pull out the .357 Magnum, admiring it in my hand. It’s heavy, but it feels heavier with the emptiness Holly has left in her absence. Stroking the sides, I go back to the day when she finally submitted.
She was stubborn, and it took me two months and three days to break her. I caused her pain, starved her of light, water, and food, but she continued to fight me. I’d cut her once flawless skin, leaving angry red wounds against her pale complexion. Still, she believed she could beat me—until, one day, she didn’t.
It was bittersweet, like breaking a wild creature. To ensure her obedience continued, I rewarded her with a home-cooked meal that she ate with my gun pressed against her temple. I played with the hammer as she chewed her food and forced it down her throat.
I did this for her, so she’d understand that there was no running. There was no escape.
A week after being home, I log on to my Facebook page but quickly sign off when I see the posts on my wall. I know everyone means well, and for the most part, they’re happy that I’m back and recovering. But these people aren’t my friends. I don’t know any of them, and none of them have made a real effort to contact me—except for Amber and Stephanie.
I’ve agreed to go to the mall with them. A robotic response to what I know is expected of me. The mall’s somewhere I’m sure, at one point in my life, I enjoyed going, but now, it’s as alien and scary as the hospital was when I first woke up.
I walk into my closet to pick out clothes, but the task becomes overwhelming. I try on different tops that accumulate on the floor as I reject each one.
A strappy black top?
No.
A strappy black top with a long-sleeved lace wrap over it?
No.
A vibrant flowy top?
No.
A regular tee?
No.
None of them are right, and I hate them all, every last piece of clothing I own—except for my comfortable yoga pants and band tees, neither of which are the type of clothes I want to wear on my first outing to the mall.
Sitting on top of the clothes collecting on my floor, I hug my head to my knees and rock myself as the tears pour down my face. With my hands in my hair, I pull on it until my scalp hurts. Breathing hurts, so I hold my breath and mentally flip off every stupid breathing technique I’ve learned since I resurfaced from nowhere.
I should cancel my trip to the mall. I can’t very well go without clothes. I take in a shaky breath and reach into my jeans to pull out one of the magical pills Ann prescribed to me to help me think rationally.
With my eyes closed, I lie down on the clothes and stare at nothing in particular while I wait for my breathing to normalize. As the minutes tick by, my body along with my hammering heart relax.
I don’t have to go to the mall, I remind myself.
But I should. Only a coward would stay in her overly stocked closet, claiming not to have any clothes, rather than face the world.
Crawling to the side, I pick up a blue tee and put it on. The blue jeans I’m already wearing will work fine along with the boots I vomited on the first day out of the rehab center. I later cleaned them until they were immaculate. After washing my face to rid it of any signs of my sob fest and minimal effort with makeup, I walk downstairs where Amber embraces me in a strong hug, which I return after a moment’s hesitation.
Not accustomed to being outdoors, the sun temporarily blinds me when I step out my front door. I shield my eyes with my hand and promise to get myself a pair of sunglasses with the money Poppa’s given me.
There’s a trail out back that leads to a small creek, and while I don’t know how I know this, I know I want to follow it to make sure I’m right. I just don’t want to do it alone, so I’ll ask Derrick to go with me the next time I see him. I’m curious to see if following the trail will somehow remind me of something, anything. I’m sure I spent hours in those woods, exploring and playing. An innocent girl who still believed the future belonged to her.
Amber interrupts my thoughts when she tugs on my hand to get in her car. Reluctantly, I turn away from the woods and catch Poppa’s amused eyes. I smirk back at him and laugh to myself when he winks at me, letting me know I’ve definitely had my fair share of good times in there.
Hide-and-seek in the dark. The image of me as a little girl running around outside, hiding behind trees, while my parents and Poppa look for me with flashlights pops in my head and leaves my mind reeling but for once, in a good way. I’m certain it’s a real memory and not something I’ve fabricated. Before I get inside Amber’s car, I rush to Poppa’s side with excitement bubbling over.
“Maybe we can play hide-and-seek out there tonight?” I point toward the woods.
I’m rewarded with one of Poppa’s smiles.
He touches my face with the palm of his hand and throws his head back in laughter. “I think we can manage that.”
Happy, I turn away from him and make my way to Amber’s car. Today will be a good day.
While the mall is crowded, I don’t let the noise or people bother me. I focus all my energy on Amber and Stephanie, and I try on every piece of clothing they throw in my direction. Like a life-sized Barbie doll, but in all honesty, I’m kind of enjoying it. I trust their input, but more than that, I’m actually having fun.
At first, they wanted to go into the fitting room with me, but I was able to deter them. I don’t want them or anyone to see the scars left behind from my nightmarish past. They’re my scars to protect.
With five large bags in tow, we make our way to the food court where Amber and Stephanie each settle for a salad while I eat a hot dog and French fries with a chocolate shake.
“Skinny bitch,” Amber scoffs as she steals one of my fries.
I grin.
“Gotta put some weight on this emaciated body.” I laugh, alarmed at my own joke. “Steal another fry, and I’ll cut you,” I warn her. But I push my tray closer to her, so she can have as many as she wants.
Amber looks back at me, alarmed, before she lets out an unladylike snort and laughs into the crook of her arm.
Stephanie watches us, uncertainty brimming in her eyes, before she also starts to laugh and picks up one of my fries.
“I think you should order more fries for your poor malnourished friends,” Stephanie suggests.
“Smothered in cheese,” I add.
“An
d bacon.” Stephanie nods.
Not needing any more prompting, I get up, and moments later, I come back with our smothered fries and a large Coke for all of us to share.
“You, my dear, have made dieting so much more fun,” Amber toasts before taking a sip of the Coke.
“You mean, it’s not fun?” My brows shoot up in disbelief. “I always thought it’d be easy. Kinda like riding a bike. You know, if the bike were made out of spikes and everything around you was on fire because you were in hell.” I wink, thinking about a top I saw with that inscription written on it.
“That about sums it up,” Stephanie agrees with a chuckle while Amber continues to snort between her laughter.
I take a big bite of my hot dog and swallow quickly when I notice a guy around our age hovering over us. Annoyed that I’m not able to savor my first bite of a hot dog, I glare back at him, my eyes narrowing when he opens his mouth to speak.
“Is it really you?” he asks, his eyes a vision of bewilderment. “I heard you were back, but…”
Uncomfortable, I squirm in my chair and stare past him while I try to collect myself. I can’t freak out, not in public.
He’s an old friend, is all.
I look back at him and try to smile, but everything about him frightens me. With my arms wrapped around my chest, I force myself to sit still—no rocking, twitching, or running. I will not freak out.
“I’m sorry, Holl. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He moves to touch my shoulder, but I jump out of my seat, tearing myself away from his touch. I stare at his hand as he puts it in his back pocket to show me that he doesn’t pose a threat to me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
I’m sorry I’m out of my mind. I’m sorry I can’t cope on a normal level. I’m sorry I freak out everyone around me. I’m sorry.
My heart continues to war against my chest, and I try to calm myself down, counting and breathing the same way Ann showed me. Already though, my hands are shaking and cold sweat’s dripping down my back. I have to get away. I look around for an exit, something that’ll lead me outdoors. I back away from him when I find it, but suddenly, I find Amber’s arm linked with mine.