Stained

by Cheryl Rainfield

  I was so sure I’d be out of here by now, so sure I was smarter than Brian. But I’m not stronger than wood and nails. I can feel myself collapsing inside, wanting him to come just for the food and water he’ll bring.

  I hear the crunch of tires on gravel, the slam of a car door, then metal scraping against metal, and a thud as the bar is pushed aside. I scramble to my feet and press myself against the wall near the door, waiting.

  The door opens, bringing cool air and the scent of salt-laden, greasy french fries, a juicy hamburger, and rich hot chocolate.

  Saliva fills my mouth so fast I can hardly swallow. I want that food so badly. It’s all I can smell as Brian steps inside, all I can think about. The door slams shut, and like that, my chance of escape is gone.

  I can feel Brian’s gaze on me, and I know he’s watching, waiting for me to react. To beg.

  Well, I’m not going to. I stand still, my legs shaky, my head too light.

  Brian stands so close to me that I can feel his body heat. The smell of those french fries is overpowering. I keep swallowing my own saliva.

  “You hungry, Sarah?” Brian asks, almost pleasantly.

  Damn it, he knows I am. He has to know that he didn’t leave me enough food. “Yes,” I say hoarsely.

  “I thought you might be.” I hear his skin brush against cardboard, smell the wonderful greasy potatoes, hear him chomp loudly, then swallow. “Well, here’s what I’m going to do. You admit that you’ve been manipulating everyone—your family, your friends—into thinking poor little you needs extra attention because of that mark on your cheek, and I’ll give you some fries. Heck, I’ll give you the whole container if I believe you mean it.”

  I want those fries so badly I can already taste them. But the old shame flushes through me, pushing the heat up from my chest to my face. Mikey, coming up behind me, chanting, “Purple face, purple face!” Me bursting into tears. Old Mrs. Barton, standing at the front of the first grade classroom, shaking her finger at me: “Sarah Meadows, don’t think I’m going to give you special treatment. You stop that crying right now, or you can stand up here and let the whole class look at you.” Me, standing with my back to the whiteboard, the chemical stink of markers clogging my nose, Mrs. Barton forcing my head up with the end of her yardstick, kids’ laughter ringing through the room, and through my nightmares for years afterward.

  I take a deep, shaky breath. “When I can fly like Superman.”

  Brian laughs—a short, hard bark. “You’re spunky. But you sure don’t have much sense. I know you’re hungry; you’ve got to be. Admit the truth and you can have this entire meal. Even the hot chocolate.”

  I want that hot chocolate so fiercely I can hardly think. My stomach is eating itself, pain pulling it inward. I know I can’t keep going without food. But he’s trying to fuck with my head. If I give in to him, what will he do to me next? “I’m just as strong as anyone else, maybe even stronger because of the way people treat me. And I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

  Brian clucks his tongue. “Sorry to hear that. It’s bye-bye fries.” He walks a few steps away, and the door grates open, then slams shut. The stairs vibrate. I can feel the emptiness of the room, the stillness, like he’s shut me inside a coffin.

  For a few seconds I can’t believe he gave up so fast. Can’t believe he really took the fries with him, the only food I’ve smelled in days. Can’t believe I let him go. I should have charged the door, but I wouldn’t have made it, anyway, not weak like this.

  “No, wait!” I cry, smacking the door with my palms. “Wait, I’ll say it!”

  But there’s only silence.

  I slide down the door, too faint to stand. I almost had french fries. Hot chocolate. What’s wrong with me? My survival is more important than the truth.

  Tears soak the blindfold. I feel helplessly weak and stupid. I don’t know what is right anymore. I cry until my eyes hurt, until I can’t bear to cry anymore.

  I lean my head back wearily. What if I die here, all because I wouldn’t regurgitate some stupid words? I can’t afford to fight him too hard, not while he’s holding my life in his hands.

  Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs.

  I push myself up off the floor and away from the door.

  “Have you rethought things, Sarah?” Brian asks as he comes in.

  “I made people think I was a victim so they would take care of me and give me attention,” I say.

  “Why?” Brian asks cheerfully.

  Why? For a moment I can’t remember. “My cheek,” I say.

  “Very good, Sarah.” Brian touches my head. “I’m afraid I got bored waiting for you to change your mind. I finished everything off.”

  The tears start again. I hate my weakness.

  “Except for—” There’s a rattle inside cardboard. “Two lone fries. Think you’d like them?”

  “Yes!” I say hoarsely.

  “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, please, could I have the fries?” I say, worried that he’s going to take them away again.

  “Here you are,” Brian says gently, grasping my hand and turning it palm upward. He shakes the two fries into my hand. “You see how easy it is when you just cooperate?”

  I barely hear him. I ram the limp, cold fries into my mouth, feel their once-crisp edges, their soft potato insides, the grease and salt almost giving me a high. Before I can control myself, I swallow, and they’re gone. Gone, and I am desperate for more.

  “Glad you’ve come to your senses,” Brian says. “Nobody’s out there looking for you, you know.”

  “Yes, they are!”

  “Nope. People think you ran away. A troubled, selfish girl, upset about not getting the treatments she was promised, treatments she was relying on to make her life better.”

  I can’t catch my breath. “You’re lying!”

  But even if he isn’t, the police look for runaways, don’t they? I’ve got to keep him from messing with my head.

  “Why would I lie about that? It’s all going as it should. Everyone’s always seen you as sullen, angry, and withdrawn. Bullied at school, insecure, unhappy at home—a high risk as a runaway. Even your best friend sees you that way.”

  “She does not!”

  “Sure she does. Why else do you think she hangs out with you? She feels sorry for you.”

  “You don’t know anything about it!” But maybe he does. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself this whole time. I thought Charlene and I became friends because we both know what it’s like to be outsiders. But maybe I was a pity friend.

  No—that can’t be right. My legs won’t stop trembling.

  Brian touches my stained cheek.

  I swat his hand away and try to bite him before I even think about it.

  “Don’t be like that. You should be thanking me. I’m giving your parents a blessing. No more guilt every time they think of you—just a weight off their shoulders, a relief greater than any they’ve known since the day you were born.”

  He’s obsessed with my port-wine stain. It does something to him—unleashes the darkness inside him.

  I rub my cheek. “Why do I have to have this blindfold on? Is there something you don’t want me to see?”

  “I thought you were smart. You figure it out.”

  Something must fuel his obsession. But he looks so perfect. “You must have a port-wine stain, too—one you can hide. Maybe on your leg or your chest?”

  Brian slams me up against the wall. “Don’t try to make me like you! We’re nothing alike. Nothing!”

  I’m right. I know I am. When something that’s a part of you causes you so much pain—pain others inflict—you obsess about it. I know. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever anybody told you—”

  “Will you shut up?” His lips press hard against mine, sucking away my air.

  I taste salty fries, hamburger, and onions. I am grossed out, yet so fiercely hungry, I want to suck down any particles left.

  His lips keep wo
rking against mine, like he’s trying to swallow me. I punch him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps stroking my cheek.

  I shudder. This is what it’s about. This is what it’s been about all along. I know it deep in my gut.

  Brian brushes his knuckles against my cheek almost roughly, and then he is pushing me to the uneven floor, the wood creaking beneath us.

  No! I fight him, but I am so weak that my punches are like a fly against his back. I almost don’t care. I just want it to be over.

  “That’s good, Judy,” Brian whispers in my ear, his unshaven cheek pricking my skin. “It’s so good.”

  Coldness runs through me. “It’s Sarah,” I say, though I don’t know why I tell him.

  “Sarah,” Brian says, and pushes my hair from my face. “That’s what I said.”

  But I know he’s called me by a dead girl’s name. I jerk beneath his hands.

  He moves against me, and I think I should feel something, but I feel nothing, not even pain, just a dull waiting for this to be over, for the monotony of my life to start up again. Because he means to keep me alive, at least for a while longer, or he wouldn’t have brought me food.

  I drift away from my body, from the room. Dad and Mom will look for me. I know they will. And Charlene will, too. Maybe even Nick. I feel a small rush of warmth.

  I keep my mind on Nick, draw him closer to me, see his soulful eyes, his soft face, the way he looks at me as if he knows my heart and likes what he sees. I make him more real than this room, than the man on top of me. I make Nick so vivid that we must be connecting somehow. I’m sure he can hear me, if only I can think loudly enough at him, the way Professor X can.

  Nick, who loves comics as much as I do, who believes in good and evil, who knows what it’s like not to belong. Who wants to believe in superpowers as much as I do. If anyone could connect with me telepathically and understand what is happening, it would be him.

  Pain rips through me, and Nick’s face starts to fade. But I won’t let him go.

  I visualize Brian as I saw him last, his handsome face distorted, and I imagine sending it to Nick in bursts. Find me, Nick. Save me.

  NICK

  Day 10, 7:30 P.M.

  NO ONE’S SEEN HER. I don’t know how anyone can just vanish, but it happens. It happens way too often, and it’s driving me insane. I wish superpowers were real, wish I could hear her call for help the way Superman always hears Lois.

  I stuff another cookie in my mouth, crumbs falling onto my keyboard. I can barely taste the sweetness, don’t even like it, but still I eat. I eat to numb the feelings inside me. The dread. The fear. The pain. Without even noticing, I’ve gone through half the package of cookies. I push the box aside, feeling queasy.

  She must be so afraid, my Sarah. So alone. I need her found and brought back home. I’ve imagined swooping in like Superman to save her, but I really don’t care who does it or how it happens; I just want her back. Back with her family, back with me at school, giving me little snippets of her time. She’s not dead. I know Old Fart-a-Lot thinks she is. Even the cops do. But I don’t.

  If she comes back, I’m not going to hide anymore. I’m going to show her how I feel.

  I break out my pencils and markers, my comic paper, and I draw Sarah the way I see her—brave and fierce. But it’s not enough somehow. I stare off into space, letting my mind wander—and then I know how to show her the way I see her. The way she really is. I draw her as Diamond, fighting the bad guys, stopping abductions and rapes and things most comics never address. It’s just me and Sarah/Diamond against the world—and we win. We win every single time.

  SARAH

  I DON’T KNOW HOW long it’s been this time. Even with the foil balls, it’s hard to keep track. But he’s back. I just heard his car door slam. I tense, waiting.

  The stairs shake, then the door scrapes open. I charge toward the cold air, determined to make it. Brian throws me backwards. I hit the floor hard, my teeth jarring. I scramble up again, panting, but the door has already grated shut.

  “When are you going to learn that this is your home?” Brian asks calmly, as if what he’s saying is reasonable.

  I hear a thump as he sets something down.

  “Well?” he says.

  “My home is with my parents.”

  “Not that again,” Brian says, and sighs heavily.

  I feel him watching me.

  “And what are those stupid foil balls for?”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  “Well?”

  Do I admit the truth to him or not? “They’re for counting the days.”

  He snorts. “What difference will that make?”

  None. He’s right; it won’t get me out of here.

  I shrug and take a step back, my jeans chafing. Can he smell my period blood? Can he see it? My body has betrayed me, bleeding when I can’t stop its flow. When I can’t even do the most basic thing to keep myself clean, to have some sort of dignity.

  I clench my hands. “I . . . I need something.”

  “You do, do you?” Brian says slowly. “What do you want?”

  I swallow and try to keep the shame out of my voice. “Women’s things. You know. For that time of the month.”

  “Ah,” Brian says. “Of course. And what are you going to do for it? You haven’t showed me that you’ve learned anything.”

  A blaze of heat ignites in my chest. I don’t want to dance to his tune. But I have to if I want to stop the bleeding. “I manipulate people.”

  “That’s the lesson all right, but I don’t hear you believing it,” Brian says, his voice closer than it was a moment ago.

  I try to add more feeling. “I manipulated my parents.”

  He steps even closer. “Yes, you did. And you acted like a victim, trying to get people to take care of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I hear myself saying.

  “Hmm. I think you’re beginning to learn.” He strokes my cheek. “Very well. You’ve earned a reward.”

  Dare I ask him for one more thing while he’s in such a good mood? I run my tongue over my dry lips. “Thanks. And could I please also have some toilet paper?”

  “You’re really pushing it, aren’t you?” Brian says, his voice hard. Then he sighs, “I suppose you’ve earned it.”

  I hear him leave. I find my way to the door, but he’s locked it again. He’s never forgotten yet. I keep hoping he will.

  Brian knocks me back when he reenters, then thrusts something soft into my hands.

  I feel it with my fingers. “What—?”

  “Rags,” Brian says pleasantly. “That’s what you’ve earned.”

  “Thank you,” I choke out, trying to sound grateful so he won’t take them away.

  “And this.” He pushes a soft, round roll into my hands.

  Toilet paper. Gratefulness makes me weep.

  “You’re really beginning to stink.”

  My body burns. “If you give me soap, some deoderant . . .”

  “You won’t be here long enough to bother.”

  He pushes me to the floor, his hands undoing my jeans. I leave my body faster this time.

  SARAH

  I KNOW I SHOULD be grateful. I’ve slept and woken many times, and I’m still not dead. I have food again—more crackers, peanut butter, and bananas. And three jugs of water. But I am so sick of the thick, nutty taste of peanut butter, the sweet pulpiness of bananas, and the salty dryness of crackers that I have to force them down. I dream of those two french fries. I wake up smelling them, and when I realize it’s just peanut butter, it’s hard not to cry. And I long to smell fresh air, to see the faces of the people I love, to be able to walk about freely.

  Wind howls through the hole in the door, raging and wailing, blowing in bits of snow that melt on my skin. I shiver and wrap the thermal blanket tighter around me, then crawl back to my corner under the down comforter. I hope the snow doesn’t bury my prison. I need a way to get out. And as much a
s I hate to admit it, I need a way for Brian to get in.

  He’s been coming by more often. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Except that he brings food and water, and I’m still alive.

  But his words keep circling through my head, telling me that I act like a victim. As much as I don’t want to, I keep remembering times that prove him right, like that time I tried to get a job.

  The little fruit market in our neighborhood had a hand-lettered sign in the grimy window: PART-TIME HELP NEEDED. APPLY WITHIN. No one had ever hired me to do anything, not even babysit. But I wanted to start saving for my treatments.

  So I walked into the shop, steeling myself as the jangling bell announced me. The warm air smelled like a mixture of ripening fruit and mustiness. I kept my head tilted so my hair covered my cheek. A woman with streaks of gray in her thick black hair shuffled up to the counter. Her wrinkled face looked weary. She was definitely a five. Nothing beautiful about her, but nothing ugly, either. Just a regular person that most people didn’t even notice. How I wanted that.

  “Yes, yes, can I help you?” The woman looked at me closer, then leaned over the chipped counter to get a better look. “What happen to your face?”

  What happened to your manners? I wanted to snap, but I sucked the words back.

  “What happen?” the woman said again, her voice loud and insistent. The other customers turned to look.

  My face grew warm. “Nothing happened,” I mumbled. “I was born like this.”

  “Eh?” the woman said, cocking her ear toward me.

  The other customers busied themselves among the bins of fruit, but I could feel them taking peeks at me. I wanted to flatten inward until there was nothing left for anyone to stare at. But if I could pay for the treatments, maybe Mom would let me have them, and then I wouldn’t have to go through this anymore. I spoke loudly enough so they could all hear me. “It’s a port-wine stain; I was born with it.”

  “Ah.” The woman nodded, then looked away, like she was embarrassed by me now.

  I took another breath. “I wanted to apply for the part-time job?”