That Which Binds Us

by Amanda Richardson

  At some point, I must fall into a deep sleep because I awake with a jolt, panicked, in the darkness. Reaching out for the blanket, I see another tray sitting by the door. Ben must’ve brought it at some point. A small part of me wants to give in and fill my belly, but the rational side of me wants to starve, to make him pay, to make him hurt. Because if I refuse to eat, he’ll get mad. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to see a glimpse of the caring Benny I used to know and love.

  S I X

  Nina—Present

  Isla Culebrita, Puerto Rico

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up shivering. To my surprise, it’s raining out. The grey skies cast a gloomy haze around the room. I notice another tray with fresh food. Eyeing it—an egg and sausage breakfast sandwich—my mouth waters, but somehow I resist. I don’t know when my captivity turned into a hunger strike, but it feels nice to possess some sort of control over my situation.

  I stand up and stretch, my body feels even more sore today. It feels like I’ve fallen down a large mountain made of boulders. My bladder feels like it’s about to burst. I walk over to the water and take a few sips, hiding the rest under my blanket for later. I might be able to stave off hunger, but being thirsty is the worst feeling in the world. I resolve to continue drinking water. I don’t want to die. I just want to make him pay.

  I knock loudly on my door. I need to pee, otherwise the small dip in the stone a few feet away is about to become my toilet for the foreseeable future. I’d really rather not be living in my toilet, but I guess I can’t be picky in a situation like this. Luckily, less than a minute later, Ben swings the door open and blocks me from going down.

  “I have to pee,” I growl.

  He moves to the side and doesn’t say anything as I rush down the stairs. After finishing, I wash my hands and face. When I walk out, I find him staring out of the window. To my right, I eye the open door to his room. I could quietly walk in, find something to hit him over the head with, and end this whole ordeal. Just before I make the decision, he turns and watches me with his arms crossed, as if he knows exactly what I was thinking of doing.

  “Did you want a bath?” he asks, his voice low and quiet. He clears his throat. He’s acting nervous. Why?

  “No.”

  He clicks his jaw angrily. I scowl. “I just want to go back to sleep.” I start to climb the stairs. My plan to kill him was futile. I’ll never be able to kill Ben. Benny. He certainly does have all of the control now, because how could I possibly kill the very person I loved more than anyone else? Just the other day I had nightmares about that charred SUV… No. I couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of killing Ben; no matter how much of a monster he’d become.

  When I get to the tower, I hear him close the door behind me from the other side. He doesn’t lock it. Maybe he’s now realizing that I’m done trying to escape. Maybe he can sense that I’ve given into his control over me.

  A few hours later, Ben comes in and replaces the empty tray with lunch. Three meals a day. I guess I got lucky—he’s not starving me.

  “You’re not eating,” he says through clenched teeth. I look up from my curled position on the floor.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I mumble.

  His nostrils flare. I see him walk quickly over to me. “You need to eat.”

  I prop myself up on my elbows and glare at him. “I’m not hungry. I lost my appetite sometime around learning your true identity.”

  My eyes search his. I let my words sink in. I hope they attack him and his black heart, in the very same way they stained mine. The realization still hasn’t fully sunk in. I’ve gone seventeen years thinking he was gone, and in all of the scenarios where we miraculously reunited, this was not one of them. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It now stands up in all directions. I have to hide the urge to laugh, because it makes him look so ridiculously young and innocent.

  “Very well,” he says irritably. “I hope you’re at least drinking water.” I give him a forced smile and show him the hidden water bottle.

  “I might not be eating, but I’m not stupid. Or did you forget our fifth-grade spelling bee, when I kicked your ass?” My words work. They hurt him. I can see the way they slay him, the way our intertwined past cuts him deep. He narrows his eyes, but the outer corners dip lower and he frowns. He sucks in a small breath of air. I continue. If words are my weapon, I’ll wield them as much as I possibly can. “I guess little Benny Adler turned out just like his father after all.”

  He lunges forward and holds both hands to my neck. I try to kick him, but it’s useless. The weight of his body pins me down. The pressure of his fingers gripping my neck makes my eyes bulge out. I try to fight back. I can feel my atrophied muscles working against him to no avail. My arms struggle to get out from under him. My legs try to find a way to escape. I’m too weak now. I’m hungry, tired, and dirty. I have no strength left.

  He’s going to kill me. I went too far with that last comment.

  Roughly, he shoves me away and jumps back. I flip over onto my side and cough. When I sit up, he’s watching me in horror.

  “I may be a murderer, but I will never turn into that savage,” he growls, his face red.

  I cough again, trying to dislodge the lump that’s formed. Benny hurt me. Again. “You never really told me what he did to you. You never opened up to me. I wanted to help you. I wanted—”

  “Stop!” he barks, kicking the tray of food and sending the contents flying. “It’s done now. I killed him.”

  In all the years we were friends, he never told me what his father did to him. I asked a couple of times, but he always got this glazed over look on his face and told he he didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to know. I wanted to help him. The two times I’d seen Mr. Adler, he had this dark, menacing presence, and Ben had always managed to convince me to leave before Mr. Adler said anything to me. As a child, I was scared. I only felt fear. Now, as an adult… I can see that Ben was trying to protect me.

  I nod. “I know. That’s why I’m here. Tell me what happened.”

  I don’t know where the sudden empathy comes from. Until a moment ago, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to cause him searing, staggering pain, like he caused me. The man just tried to fucking choke me. But for some reason, I feel like his father might be a clue. I have no idea what happened to Benny after I thought he died. I want to know. I want to know where my Ben went. I want to know when and why this feral animal replaced him.

  To my utter surprise, he nods once and sits down against the opposite wall. Sighing once, he nods again, as if his resolve is breaking, piece by piece. Maybe he can read my mind. Maybe he’s sick of pretending. Maybe the small part inside of him that houses my old friend is making an appearance. His jaw is tight, but he looks almost relieved to be telling someone this story.

  How long has he been alone?

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  He sits deathly still. I wonder for a second if he’s going to change his mind. But then he catches my eye, and I see the old Ben. His forehead relaxes, and although he isn’t wearing his goofy smile, his face unclenches.

  He begins to talk.

  S E V E N

  Ben—Nineteen Years Ago

  Denver, Colorado

  “GET UP, YOU motherfucking stupid piece of shit,” my dad yells, kicking the side of the mattress. I want to groan, but I know if I show any sort of emotion, he will pound it out of me.

  Groggily, I throw my legs over the mattress and stare him in the eye. He’s menacing, like a brute that just can’t seem to let anything go. I know he’s angry for what happened yesterday. I snuck out and slept at the Cosway’s. It was the only place I felt safe.

  “I’m up, sir,” I say, my face never wavering. Even at ten, I know how to control him.

  “Get dressed,” he hisses, giving me a withering look. “I want you downstairs in five.”

  He leaves before I can respond. Quickly, I drop to my knees and hunt for my box underneath the bed. I pull it out. I’ve
been stashing my personal belongings in here for what seems like my whole life. I have baseball cards for when I need to feel better. Baseball is a sport my dad hates and thinks is for steroid-injecting pussies. I also have candy and every letter from my mom that my dad never intercepted.

  She writes sometimes, when they let her. I know she’s locked up somewhere, and dad calls her crazy, but I refuse to believe it. At least she loves me. She used to stroke my hair at night and sing songs to get me to fall asleep. I still remember her smell—roses and baby powder. She always smelled so good. When they took her away when I was five, I couldn’t sleep for over a year. My dad had to start giving me special medicine to get me to sleep. Now I can sleep on my own, but it’s not the same. I want her to come back. My dad says she won’t as long as he’s alive.

  I found a pocketknife last week, and I plan to use it soon. I want my mama back. I stand and throw on a pair of too-big shorts and a t-shirt. I have to use a shoelace to keep my shorts on. My dad still refuses to buy me new clothes, even though he can afford it. He says buying new clothes is a waste, since I’ll outgrow them. One time, he was being nice and bought me some new sneakers. I wore them for a year, until the tips of my toes bled and my feet started to cramp every time I took a step.

  He beat me for that.

  I slip the small knife into the slit I’ve cut in the waistband of my loose basketball shorts. I brush my teeth and wash my face. After, I throw on an old pair of sneakers. I know they’re girl’s sneakers. I hope no one notices.

  As I tiptoe downstairs, I hear my dad on the phone. He’s wearing a suit, and I admire him for a second before making my presence known. He snaps his fingers loudly and points to my place at the table. Quickly, I walk over and sit down, scarfing my meal: eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice. He must be in a good mood today. Normally I have to make myself breakfast because he’s too busy.

  He’s on the phone for another thirty minutes. I can’t leave until I’m dismissed. Finally, I hear him end the call. He walks over slowly, his dress shoes going clack clack clack against the wood floor.

  “Why didn’t you eat all of your toast?” he asks, coming around behind me. I feel his hand land on my shoulder. I try not to flinch. He doesn’t like it when I flinch.

  “I was full, sir,” I say casually.

  “Eat,” he commands, walking around to his seat and sitting. His eyes don’t leave my face as I eat the rest of my toast. My stomach feels like it’s going to explode. “Good,” he says finally. “I’m going to work. Be good today.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  I haven’t been dismissed. I wonder if he’s going to keep me here all day. He’s done it before. But I really want to go to school today. Nina is bringing her baseball cards and she’s going to let me choose one to take home. I’ll have to find a way to hide it from my dad.

  “You’re dismissed,” he says as he walks over to the door and holds my backpack out. He’s been walking me out for weeks now. He doesn’t trust that I won’t run away. I see the black limousine that follows me to school every day. I know he’s watching me.

  The bad men in suits have come every few months for the last year. The problem is, whenever they ask me questions in private, I glance at the bugs hidden in every room. I’ve seen my dad check them. I know if I tell the truth, he will beat me. I know if they take me away, he will find me.

  I have a feeling Nina told her dad, who in turn called them. I’m grateful, but it makes my life worse, so I’ve been lying ever since. She thinks it’s better than it actually is here.

  It’s not.

  I hide most of it from her—for my sake, but mostly for her sake. She’s too good. I don’t want to taint our friendship with tales of my depressing home life.

  When my father ushers me out and says a quick goodbye, I turn left and walk down the sidewalk, eager to get to Nina’s house. We walk to school together every day, and most days I meet her at her house. Once or twice we’ve walked from here, but it’s rare. I want her to avoid my dad. I want to shield her from him.

  And I always pretend I don’t see the black limo following behind me—behind us.

  I finger the knife in my waistband.

  Soon.

  Soon, my real life starts.

  E I G H T

  Ben—Seventeen Years Ago

  Denver, Colorado

  IT’S MY TWELFTH birthday today. Instead of stuffing my face with cake and opening a present, I’m locked up in our basement with only the black mold to keep me company. I regret nothing though. The reason I’m here is because my father is finally scared of me. Today, I showed him I’m just as crazy as he is, and he realized that someday I will kill him for what he did to me and my mom.

  Sure, flashing my knife in broad daylight was probably stupid. He was berating me again—I honestly don’t even remember why because it happens so often. And then he mentioned Nina, and I lost it. Instead of sitting diligently as he yelled at me, like I always had, I stood up and brandished the knife. I told him that if he ever says her name again, I will sneak into his room and slit his throat.

  That shut him up, but it got me locked in here. It could always be worse. That’s what I tell myself. Nathaniel Hopkins, a boy in my grade, lives at the homeless shelter. Sera Andrews, as mean as she is, just lost both of her parents in a plane crash. I feel for her. I feel for Nathaniel, because he goes to bed hungry every night. I am strong. I will get myself out of this situation.

  I stand up and peek through the window. It’s still light out, and I can see the snow falling softly. I wish I could hear it. Snow is my favorite sound. Nina thinks I’m crazy that I can hear the snow falling. It’s a light, delicate sound, and it reminds me of my mom.

  She died over a year ago. My dad got the call during breakfast. His face showed no emotion. He only said, “My God, my Vera.” No tears. Nothing. He hung up a minute later and looked at me. “Your mother is dead. She hung herself. God knows how she managed to get a shoelace in that place, but that’s not here nor there. She’s gone. I’m sorry, son.”

  My anger had boiled over. I let out my tears, my frustration. My dad jumped up and punched me on the side of the jaw. “Men don’t cry,” he said.

  I miss her. I know he’s the one who killed her. He may not have provided the shoelace, but he put her in that place. I was too young to remember, but the night before the police came and she was committed, she yelled at him. She told him she knew what kind of man he’d become. He punished her by committing her. She’d done nothing wrong.

  It was an awful place. Nina’s dad, Henry, had taken me one day. He was always helping me somehow. They both were. I wished I could be a part of their family. In a way, I was jealous of Nina. I wanted that so bad—that love between a father and a child. When he took me to see my mom, we had to lie to him. I told him Nina and I had a field trip. Mr. Cosway worked it out with the school so that my dad never found out. He was always helping in that way. He had connections with people high up, that I knew.

  My mom was a shell—a wasted away, pale, lifeless shell. She didn’t recognize me. The doctors told me they used special brain waves on her to make her happier, but it didn’t work the way they expected. They only used it on certain people, and sometimes it backfired.

  It backfired on her.

  I told her about my life, about how I was planning on killing dad. She sat impassively, looking at something over my shoulder. She moved slowly, like they’d given her the medicine my dad used to give me at bedtime. I wondered if she was happy. She didn’t seem happy, but she was away from my dad, so I thought that maybe it was better.

  It wasn’t better.

  She couldn’t hug me. I tried. I inhaled her scent, but it was different. Gone were the roses and baby powder. The scents were now replaced with sweat and something metallic. She didn’t speak the whole time we were there. Nina held my hand as we walked out. Mr. Cosway bought me a McFlurry, and he gave me his number. He said to call if I ever needed anything—if I ever needed help. I kn
ew by now that he sent the men in suits. I also knew they couldn’t do anything if they didn’t have proof, and I couldn’t provide them with proof. I was too scared. Not of them—but of my father. I could never leave him. He’d find me and beat me every day after that.

  I hear the front door upstairs open. My dad took the knife away. He wrestled it out of me. I have nothing to defend myself. I wonder if he’s going to send me to the place that Mama went.

  Heavy footsteps. They stop in front of the basement door. My dad throws the door open. I can smell the alcohol from here. The last time he drank was the day Mama died. Before that, the day she was sent away. He’s always poised, always professional. He only drinks when something is very wrong. That’s how I know he’s about to do something terrible.

  “Come here, son,” he slurs, wobbling down the stairs. That’s when I see the silver glint of a handgun.

  “Dad,” I croak, backing away.

  He always hated me. He never wanted me—that’s what he used to yell at Mama whenever they fought. I overheard him saying that he is an awful father, that it doesn’t come natural to him, that he finds me irritating and a money suck. But Mama wanted me. She used to tell me every night when she sang me to sleep that she prayed for me every day. That I was her miracle, her angel. And now my father was going to kill me.

  “Benjamin, come here boy,” he commands, his voice saccharine. He’s luring me in. He’s drunk. I have to get myself out of this situation. His black hair is greasy and longer than normal. A long section of it is falling in front of his face, giving him a villainous look. All he needs is a black cape.

  I got my red hair from mama. She had the prettiest hair.

  “Yes sir,” I whisper, knowing that if I fight it, I’ll make things much worse for myself. I walk over and stand up tall. I’m only twelve, but I’m only about four inches shorter than him. I’m scrawny, but I’m quick. He takes a step forward. He thinks I can’t see the gun.