by A. M. Wilson
“Then let it happen. No matter what she has you do, just do it. The only thing that matters is for you to get out of here alive.”
I snort. That’s not even in the realm of possibilities. This basement will be the last thing either of them sees.
“You need to get out too. I won’t leave this place without you.”
I almost gag at the pathetic way the princess pleads.
“Fucking listen to me, Dani. We both know at least one of us won’t make it out of here. I can’t—” He cuts himself off and clenches his eyes closed. They spring back open a minute later. “I can’t do this until I know you’ll do whatever it takes.”
Running out of patience, I move the gun an inch to the left and pull the trigger. The concrete beside her head explodes, and the resounding echo of the shot pierces my ears. Princess yelps and drops to her knees.
“You’ve got five seconds to lay down in that box, or so help me, the next shot will have her brains splattered all over the wall.”
If there ever was a time pretty boy could kill me with his eyes, it would be now. I’ve seen hatred directed at me more times than I can count, but what I’m seeing now goes beyond mere hatred.
Pure bliss lights in my veins at the look. What makes what I do so much fun is knowing the people I capture are forced to hurt themselves. Their pain doesn’t come from my hands, but their own.
Pretty boy drops to his knees before he lies down flat, taking himself out of my line of sight. I look over at princess.
“Come close the box, then put the locks in place.”
She shuffles over and slowly closes the top, her face draining of color as she loses sight of pretty boy. Her hands fumble with the locks, and at first, I think she’s doing it on purpose, but then I notice them shaking.
“On the bed,” I tell her once she’s done.
She backs away and sits on the bed, tucking her knees to her chest. I approach the box, running my hand over the smooth surface. It took me hours to build it. Each nail I hammered in heightened my excitement.
“Is pretty boy comfortable?”
“Fuck you!” his muffled voice sounds.
“Not even with a ten-foot pole.”
“Now what?”
I look over at princess’s question, and a slow smile spreads across my face.
“Now I get to tell you both a bedtime story, and we’ll see how long pretty boy can last in the dark.” I make sure my voice is loud enough that he can hear me.
Leaning over the box, I rest my elbows on the wood. I set the controller down but keep hold of the gun, aiming the barrel at princess.
“I’ve never been a normal woman a day in my life.” I begin. “Even at a young age, I’d snatch up the neighborhood stray cats or dogs in whatever foster care home I was in and take them to the woods to tie to a tree. In the beginning, I’d poke my new toys with sticks and throw stones at them. It wasn’t long before I stole a knife from the kitchen and really began my torture.”
I prop my chin in my hand.
“My first human victim came when I was thirteen.” I flash princess a wink when her face leeches of color. “I was in the woods, flaying a small dog when I heard the leaves rustle behind me. It was a woman. She was covered in bruises and blood, and most of her clothes were ripped off her. Someone must have attacked her, and she stumbled her way into the woods. Her body was beaten to hell and back so badly that she could barely stand and kept falling to her knees. When she saw me, relief flashed in her eyes, and she reached out her hand, her voice a mere croak when she begged me to help her. I looked at the half-dead dog, then back at the woman, and a thrill shot through me. It took the woman only seconds before she realized her nightmare wasn’t over and was only beginning.”
“You really are a monster,” Princess croaks.
“That baddest of the bad.” I grin. “That first human kill was exhilarating, and to this day, even after the hundreds of people I’ve tortured since, I’ve never felt a high quite like that. You and pretty boy are coming damn close, though.”
Using the barrel of the gun, I scratch the side of my cheek, then rest it back on the wood.
“Did you know, pretty boy, that Aislin had a child while she was held captive by Clem Stewart?”
Silence fills the room, so I bang my hand down on the box.
“It’s rude not to answer when someone asks you a question.”
“No!” he yells in a hoarse voice.
I laugh. “Well, she did. It was a beautiful bouncing baby boy. From the pictures I’ve seen, he was a cute little fella. Of course,” I start tracing the patterns of the wood with a finger, “Aislin thought her baby died.” I pause for dramatic effect. “But he’s very much alive and living the grand ole life with some couple in Mayfield. Guess who’s going to replace you once you die, pretty boy?” I don’t wait for an answer this time. I bang loudly on the wood three times while shouting, “Ding, ding, ding! You got it!”
The box below me vibrates when pretty boy begins moving around.
“Fuck!” he shouts, and I laugh because I know he just stabbed himself with the spikes on the lid.
“You’re fucking lying!” he yells.
“Am I, though?” I ask quietly, enjoying his torment.
“How do you know Clem Stewart?”
At her question, I give princess my attention. “I met him while I was visiting a friend in prison. A friend, who incidentally, was put there by Niko after he drunkenly admitted to accidentally choking a girl to death while they were having sex. My friend, we’ll call him Mr. Rogers, used to tell me stories about the other inmates. One, in particular, intrigued me. He went into detail about how he kidnapped two young girls and kept them prisoner in his basement. He used and abused them in such,” I moan and close my eyes, “delicious ways. Unfortunately, one of the girls eventually died, and the other got away from him.”
The box jostles, followed by a low grunt of pain.
I continue my story.
“After that, I knew I needed to meet this person. I began to research him and the two girls. Not long after, I began writing letters to Clem Stewart and told him how much I admired his work.” I cock my head to the side. “Did you know that serial killers and rapists get fan mail in prisons?”
“You mean, did I know there are others just as fucked up as you are?” Princess asks, her voice dripping with disgust. “Yes, I know that all too well.”
I giggle and finger one of the locks on the edge of the box. She has no idea just how many people like me are out there. My computer upstairs can attest to thousands.
“Anywho, where was I?” I snap my fingers. “Oh, yeah. It took a while, but I was finally approved to visit Clem. He told me all about his time with Aislin and Aaliyah. You know, the stuff you don’t read in the police reports. He also told me about Niko and how he never stopped looking for his North Star.” I sneer the name.
I lean up and walk around to the other side of the box, then jump up to take a seat. I cross one leg over the other, dropping the controller in my lap and the gun, with the barrel pointed at princess, on top of my knee.
“The whole story intrigued me. You ever hear the saying that lightning never strikes twice in the same place? Despite the crime rate in Westbridge being so high, what happened to Aislin made national news. Like lightning, crimes of that magnitude don’t generally happen twice in one place unless it’s a big city. Taking Niko’s brother was perfect because no one would think of something like that happening again here in Westbridge.”
“Why Reece? And why me? If you were so impressed with Clem Stewart’s work, why take him and not Aislin or even Niko?”
I know what she’s asking, but I purposely read it the wrong way.
“I see I’m not the only twisted one in the room,” I say, letting my head fall back as I laugh. “After everything those two have been through, you would rather I had taken them and added more to their nightmare? You’re not just twisted. You’re cold.”
“That is n
ot what I meant, and you know it. I would never wish on them what you’ve done to Reece and me.”
“Get this.” I lean forward and flash my teeth in a wide grin. “You weren’t even a part of my plan in the beginning. I was looking for a random woman to pair him with. But then you showed at his place one day, and I thought you were a girlfriend or fuck buddy. After I did some digging, I found out exactly who you were to pretty boy and knew you would be a perfect addition.” I drum my fingers on the box and tilt my head to the side. “I actually wanted to take Niko, but it wasn’t in the cards with him living in Florida. It would have been too risky to cart his ass all the way up here. I could still get to him through his brother, though, just in a different way. It fills my heart with joy, knowing he’s going through the same thing he went through when he searched for Aislin.”
“You fucking bitch!” Pretty boy shouts from the box.
I bang my hand against the top. “It’s not nice to call me names when I’m telling my story.”
“What do you have against my brother? He hasn’t done shit to you.”
I look down at the box as if I can see through it. “Hasn’t done anything to me?” I ask incredulously. “The man he put in jail, the one who introduced me to Clem, was my foster brother. He died last year in a prison fight. So yeah, Niko did a fucking lot.”
“Where’s Aislin’s child?”
I look back at princess. “You having that information won’t do you any good. You’ll never make it out of here to tell anyone.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to lose by telling me.”
I tap my chin in contemplation, then shake my head a moment later. “Nah. I think I’m done talking today.”
I hop down from the box. Princess scoots back on the mattress until her back hits the wall, eyeing the gun warily in my hand.
I bend down to where I know pretty boy’s head is resting, keeping my eyes on princess.
“Sweet dreams, pretty boy.”
Standing, I casually walk to the door.
“Wait!”
Hearing a rustling noise behind me, I turn back as I grab the latch on the door. “Yes?”
“You can’t just leave him in there.”
I wave the gun in the air. “I’m pretty sure I can since I’m the one who makes the rules and has the gun.”
“For how long?” she croaks, her already pale face draining of more color.
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?”
Opening the door, I step through. “For him to break,” I answer, then slam the door shut.
23
Reece
A trickle of blood courses across my right forearm, falling silently over the edge as gravity takes over. Air holes drilled into the lid provide little light and barely enough oxygen. Spikes jet in front of my face and body. Some so close I can’t move a centimeter without getting pricked. Without being able to see, I have no way of knowing which are close and which are farther away.
I just jabbed my arm when I went to subconsciously scratch an itch, adding to the ever-growing list of wounds and scars on my body.
As dark thoughts creep forward again from their shadowed recesses, I restart the process of occupying my mind.
“Favorite old movies.”
“The Princess Bride.”
“Where the Red Fern Grows.”
Dani scoffs. “Could you pick a more depressing one?”
“Old Yeller.”
“Okay, now you’re just being cruel.”
A rough chuckle scrapes up my throat. “Your turn.”
“Clueless.”
“As if,” I mock with a smile, instantly recalling the dozens of times we put that one on during a make-out session. “The Goonies.”
“Back to the Future.”
“Ah, a classic.”
“Sixteen Candles.”
I curl my lip in the dark box. “What about The Big Lebowski?”
“You always wanted to watch that one.”
I wish I could see her face. Thinking it has me repeating the thought out loud. “I wish I could see you right now.”
“You’re doing great.” Something scrapes against the lid.
“What was that sound?”
Another sound comes, this one like she’s brushing something off the lid. “Oh, I was just making a tally with the handcuff key.”
One tally for one full day. She must still be counting by the food delivery. I heard Bolt arrive not too long ago, but she didn’t stay. She didn’t even taunt me.
I swallow the thick saliva suddenly clogging my throat. “Do you think she’s going to keep me here a while?” Fuck, I hate the vein of fear in my tone. Physically, this punishment is nearly a cakewalk, but mentally, I’m all fucked up. I hate tight spaces. Not being able to see or move takes every ounce of my willpower not to lose control. Only knowing Dani is close keeps me from coming untethered.
Her voice comes out mumbled.
“What did you say?” I ask, needing her to speak louder.
A paused beat follows. “I said I hope not.”
Our silly game becomes forgotten as her words and my location sink in again. The cramps in my body return from being still for so long. The open wound on my back sticks to the wood beneath me, and I swear I can smell the beginnings of an infection. I’m weak from a day without food and lack of fluids, making my eyes and mouth dry as fuck. And if I let myself think about it too deeply, a small inkling of panic sparks in my gut.
“Pick another movie,” I call out as I feel that spark flicker.
“Hmm, let me think.”
I conjure an image of her cocking her hip and tapping her lips. Of course in my mind, she’s Dani of a few weeks ago—whole, healthy, untouched—not the woman I’ve been forced to defile with my own two hands.
“What about—"
The door swings open and cracks against the concrete wall with a bang so loud I swear it shakes the spikes in my coffin. Dani’s abrupt scream beads sweat across my forehead.
“Dani!” Without thought, I shove upward at the lid, impaling my hands with multiple spikes. White-hot pain forces me to yank my hands back. I shove them up above my head and stretch my feet to reach the bottom, banging against both as hard as I can. The lid rattles, and Dani screams again.
“Leave her alone, you fucking bitch! Let her the fuck go!” Self-preservation flies out the window as I thrash wildly. Sharp points tear at my flesh, but I’m beyond caring as Dani’s cries cut off and silence consumes me. I don’t hear the door shut or footsteps leading away. Only the sound of my own harsh panting fills the space.
“Dani, please answer me,” I beg. I thump on the sides of my crypt, refusing to succumb to the thoughts that maybe Dani can’t respond because she’s no longer alive.
Fuck. No. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the pitch blackness of reality.
My breaths increase from pants to full-on hyperventilating. I gasp as my lungs seize and my chest tightens.
No please, no.
“Dani.”
I punch at the panel above my head. Dizziness swirls, reminding me of many nights trying to chase away the memories with too many drinks. I heave in a tight breath.
“Dani!” I shout myself hoarse. Nobody answers. Not even to gloat.
Each breath burns and constricts like a belt cinched tightly around my ribs. I know if I don’t get control of it, I’m going to pass out. I don’t know what happens to me after that. The thought of losing consciousness in this place, besides willfully sleeping, is almost as terrifying as anything Bolt’s put us through. I can only guess what sort of torture she’d concoct if I were fully unaware from the start.
I stop the futile banging. My knees sag to the sides, and my hands immediately fall limp above my head. It takes effort to lower them one at a time, careful not to touch any more spikes and lay them down at my sides.
The effort required to move my thoughts from the current situation to another one is something I’ve never
done before. I almost feel as if I’m betraying Dani by not keeping her in the forefront of my mind.
I recall a woman who came to our school in junior high. She had all the kids lie down on the gymnasium floor as she walked us through a meditation, though she didn’t call it that. A way to calm our bodies. I remember how relaxing it felt, and for many nights that I couldn’t sleep after I betrayed Dani, I’d lie in my bed and walk myself through those same steps.
All these years later, I try to coax myself through a similar sequence.
Start with the toes. I clench them each tightly before relaxing them limp. I stop the digits from moving. They cease to be a part of my body. I move from my toes to my calves, repeating the motions, reciting the mantra, I am not my body. With each body part falling into my subconscious, I feel a blanket of calm wash over me. For the first time in over a day, my heart rate begins to beat a more normal rhythm.
From the calves, I move to my quads, then my glutes. I continue following muscle patterns up my back, squeezing the muscles there and ignoring the slice of pain from the carved letters. I force her name from my mind.
Once my back is complete, I move down my arms. Shoulders first, followed by biceps. By the time I reach my forearms, my body feels foreign and detached. No longer weighted by the anxiety and the pain.
I finish down to my fingers, careful not to rush. The last thing I need right now is to pop myself from the semblance of calm.
Last comes my face—my forehead and my jaw. Cheeks that haven’t properly smiled in weeks and a forehead now marred by wrinkles from worry. As I force my dry and brittle lips to curve, I push away the old memory of Dani happy to see me in the high school halls.
I am not my body.
But I am my mind.
After I properly relax my face, I move to turn off the white noise. As soon as a thought flits into my head, any thought, I send it back to where it came from by counting my steady breaths. Inhale, two, three, four. Hold for one, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.
I am not my body.
Seconds tick by. It could be minutes or hours. It all feels like an eternity in this dark space. On my next breath, I only make it to exhale three before I drift off to sleep.