Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  The clamor continues, one deafening pound at a time.

  Then a scraping noise, the top of the box sliding off, darkness above me.

  I’m no longer sealed in the box.

  My eyes stare at a blanket of stars, hundreds of them.

  Bewildered, I blink.

  The Mole shines the flashlight directly in my line of vision. I reach a hand up, covering my face.

  He pushes my hand down, blue eyes glinting. “I see you’ve become acquainted with the box.”

  I gawk at him, unmoving.

  “You can speak, no need to raise your hand.” He pulls my right arm, raising it, letting it fall back at my side.

  Silence.

  “Let me help you up.” He lifts me out of the box and places me on grass that’s tall enough to be weeds. My body tramples a patch as I lay on my back, staring at the ink-black sky. Gingerly I move my limbs, rubbing my hands to force life back into my extremities.

  “Where am I?” I look around, confused. It wasn’t apparent as I laid in the box that I was outside. My sense of smell was muted, the tight quarters making it impossible for me to pick up on scents beyond the narrow space.

  “Okay, I know you get five questions. But first, I have a question for you.” The Mole feels for my pulse, humming.

  I lick my chapped lips, waiting in agony.

  “What did you think of your coffin?” He claps his hands, gleeful. “I made it specially for you. It’s one of a kind.” He raises his eyebrows, the mole standing out against the moonlight.

  Grabbing my throat, I motion for water.

  He ignores my request.

  “I guess you don’t have any questions…”

  I croak, but nothing audible comes out.

  Shrugging, he continues, “Now you know what the box is. Hopefully we don’t have to use it again. Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Next time, I might not leave the air holes open. Can you imagine suffocating to death in here?” He taps on the wall of the box.

  “What a painful death…”

  I roll onto my side, dry heaving.

  “I don’t picture you dying like this, it’s not the way I imagined it in my head, but Mother says I have to do what she tells me. She told me to put you in there.” A slight frown rests on his face as tears silently run down my cheeks.

  He reaches a hand out, softly brushing them away. “Marian, don’t cry.” He taps his nose three times.

  I’m naked, the cool air damp against my skin. He places a hand against my clammy forehead. “We better get you bathed and into bed. It’s been a long day.”

  All of a sudden I feel a sharp throb, then it subsides almost immediately. “Shh…little girl, you’re going to sleep well tonight. Just relax and let me carry you home.”

  He stands, grunting as he picks me up.

  Immobile, I close my eyes, my last cognizant thought before I drift off is how I despise the minty freshness of his breath.

  When I wake up, I’m back in the room, alone.

  I wish I could count down the hours, have a sense of time, but it doesn’t work that way in the room. With no clocks, the only thing I can track are the number of days.

  Sharpie in hand, I think about marking the underside of the mattress, but it’s a ballsy chance I don't want to take. The blinking light of the camera reminds me he’s watching.

  Judging.

  Memorizing my routine, my patterns, waiting for me to screw up so he can punish me. I’m fearful of the box, the mood changes, the deviant personality of The Mole.

  As afraid as I am of him, I have to test if the camera’s real or a ‘dummy’ one. Except it doesn’t work in my favor, and it leads to another punishment phase called ‘branding.’

  I remove my shoes one afternoon, or at least I think it’s later in the day, preferring to be in my stockings. The shoes are too small and pinch my toes.

  Within a short time span, maybe an hour, he’s standing in front of me, mouth twisted in a sneer. “You’re in deep trouble, little girl. Walking around, getting the bottoms of your stockings dirty?”

  Nonplussed, I ask, “Don’t I get a warning?”

  “Raise your hand,” he growls.

  Conceding, I throw up both arms.

  “I told you that shoes are mandatory at all times and you disobeyed me.”

  “They hurt,” I whine.

  “I can assure you, little girl, the recourse will hurt worse.” He ignores my pleas, removing my stockings in one smooth motion. Pulling a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, he presses it to my ankle. Flicking it, the smell of burning flesh fills the air as I wail at the stinging pain.

  “Shut up,” he warns, “or I’ll continue up your legs.”

  Thrashing violently, he brands me, marking every few inches with a singe of the lighter. I lose count, the scorching of my bare skin enough to warrant me throwing a tantrum, my arms flailing as he holds me down.

  He stops on my inner thigh, huffing, his energy zapped from my outburst. “Stop moving.” Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulls, ripping it from my scalp. I stare, horrified, at the chunk of blonde hair now visible in his palm.

  As if branding me and causing hair loss aren’t enough, he pushes me over the bed and lifts up the plaid skirt I’m wearing, this time pushing himself deep in me as I holler, my fists pummeling the mattress.

  Yanking my head back violently, he hisses. “Shut up, you filthy whore,” in my ear. I close my eyes, my fingers grasping the sheets. He heaves against my back, his seed running down my legs. Before he even exits my body, he orders, “Get in the tub.”

  In shock, I’m limp against the bed.

  “Get. In. The. Tub.” Another mark to my skin, this time my left butt cheek. I jump out of bed, losing my balance as I scramble to escape his touch.

  “Don’t just stand there, get in,” he commands.

  Stepping into the metal basin, he hoses me down like you would a farm animal. Spraying me in the eyes, the face, shoving the nozzle between my legs. My tears mix with the cold water, running down my cheeks as my hands try to push the stream away.

  I’m rewarded with a hard slap across my left cheek and the wrath of The Mole.

  “Look what you made me do.” He pounds his fist against the cold metal, his anger radiating through his bulging pupils. He savagely lifts me out, my head narrowly missing the tub as I’m turned over and beaten with his bare hands. My skin is slippery, he doesn’t bother to dry me off before pummeling me, hitting any limb he can grab.

  I don’t know who makes more noise – the sobs wracking my body or his screams about what she’s going to do to us when she finds out.

  Marian, he must mean Marian.

  After his tangent subsides, I’m on the floor, dripping wet and panting. He’s unglued, seated underneath me, his fingers digging into the carpet.

  Stunned, he throws his hands up in astonishment, as if he stepped outside of himself for a minute and has re-entered his body.

  He hunches over, ashamed, covering my eyes with his hand, unable to regard me with anything but contempt. He absentmindedly rubs the bald spot on my head, pushing my face down. Next he murmurs instructions at me to stand in the corner, nose pressed to the wall.

  My body’s on fire, pain has replaced the numbness I feel. Bruises are forming on my legs, welts on my left butt cheek and inner thigh. I don’t have to look to know the burn marks are red and ugly.

  He helps me stand, never removing his hand from my face, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. I close my eyes, picturing myself flying through the air in front of the crowd, the cheers erupting for my perfect basket toss in cheerleading. Water trickles down my back, running down my legs. The carpet is damp underneath me.

  He tells me to stay in position for an hour.

  I wait, counting backwards, but after what feels like an eternity but is only a couple minutes, I hear the door scraping and then a thud.

  The Mole leaves, his aggression and
humiliation following him out.

  Then there’s silence.

  I don’t test the camera theory again.

  To track my time, I at first use a coloring book.

  In the pages, I aimlessly fill in the objects, sometimes drawing outside the lines, sometimes laser-focused, sometimes not. Incorporating a number into the shape, I go through the book in order, assigning every page a subliminal number.

  Every day begins the same.

  Bath.

  Warm water if he’s in a generous mood.

  Cold if he’s in a rush or upset.

  A piece of fruit and juice or milk. Mangoes. Pineapple slices. Kiwi. Honeydew. Strawberries. Watermelon. Tangerines. The list goes on and on, depending on what’s in season.

  My clothing options are old-fashioned, reminiscent of the Brady Bunch era. It all smells the same – mothballs and lingering cigarette smoke. I catch a whiff of Baby Soft saturating the fabric.

  Shift dresses, polyester, plaid, baby doll outfits with large bows and billowy sleeves. Satin ribbon and bright colors.

  The only constant are the white granny-looking underwear that stretches up to my belly button. That never changes.

  His hair-brushing technique varies depending on his hostility.

  He sits me in the yellow chair and will gently brush out my tangles, careful to not pull if he’s in a loving mood.

  If he’s irritated or bored, the strokes become rough, the bristles digging into my scalp, his annoyance building as he rips through the strands.

  The worst is when he wrenches the brush through my blonde locks, acting as if my head is a scratching post like cats rub their claws on. Scabs form on my scalp if he’s after punitive measures.

  He like pigtails, ponytails. Straight hair is allowed but he despises buns.

  I’m relieved he hasn’t shown up with a curling iron, sure he would find another way to brand me.

  I read voraciously, the only activity that makes me forget how pathetic I am, the written words reminding me of my father reading to Blair and I as children, curled up on either side of him, safe and protected. He would always lead us in prayer before we drifted off to sleep, my lids heavy by the time we whispered “Amen.”

  The Mole leaves puzzles, most are easy and geared towards children, consisting of shapes or food items. I sit at the small, round table, also child-size, that he brings in. That's where I take my meals.

  In a couple of the books, I notice a dedication to a girl named ‘Sonia’. There’s nothing else written but her name, except he calls her ‘Sonia-Poo, my little darling.’

  I’m scared to ask at first about Sonia, unsure of his reaction, wondering if it’s adulation for another girl or if he has a kid.

  Maybe neither – it could be secondhand and come from a garage or used book sale.

  Sometimes I sit on the floor, against the foam wall, or on the bed. Often times I lay stretched out, daydreaming I’m in my own bed, at a picnic, or sprawled across the grass of our lawn.

  Every day ends the same.

  Routine. Monotony.

  I daydream about my parents.

  My dog Oggie.

  Even our annoying farm cat Isabella.

  What’s Blair doing? P.J.? My friends?

  Every night I pray to a God I had always thought existed, it was second nature to me to believe in a higher power, as natural as rain or tying my shoes.

  Now I wasn't so sure.

  One night, The Mole wanted to sleep in my bed. Lucky for me, he’d been retreating to wherever it is he goes instead of staying.

  “I’m going to lay with you tonight.” He kisses my cheek, his stale breath igniting a feeling of dread in my body. “You’ve been such a good little girl lately.”

  Shit.

  He curves his torso on the bed, tucking me into him, our limbs barely fitting on the narrow surface.

  I close my eyes, cringing at the suffocation I feel, my hair tickling his chin. He laughs, the mole probably sprouting another single follicle of hair.

  “Tell me a secret,” he says, rubbing my arm. “Something you haven’t told anyone.”

  Silence.

  I’ll never open myself up to him.

  He continues. “I want us to be close.” He nuzzles his face into the nape of my neck. “She and I used to be real close. We shared everything.”

  “Your sister?”

  Internally, I shut down.

  My mind races. What can I make up that’s untruthful that he’ll never know about?

  “I accidentally ran over a neighbor’s cat once.” I don’t know why I say it, but it springs to mind.

  “On the farm?”

  I bite my lip. He knows I grew up on a farm?

  “How did you know about the farm?” I stammer.

  “I know a lot about you. I have to, you’re in my space.” He kisses my earlobe.

  My body shrivels inside.

  “You hurt a living, breathing object?” He’s surprised.

  “Not on purpose.” I say. “Sir?” I try and hold my arm out, like I’m raising it to ask a question.

  “Silly, you can relax,” he says. “Don’t move.”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “What about me what?” he hisses. “Have I killed anything or anyone?”

  I meant secrets. Maybe they’re one and the same.

  “I think you know the answer to that.” He threads his fingers through mine.

  “Who is the her you always mention?”

  “Marian?” he asks.

  “Or,” I hesitate, “Sonia.”

  He squeezes my hand.

  “Who is Sonia?”

  “How did you hear about Sonia?” He’s not angry, but curious.

  Shyly, I say, “I saw her name in a book.”

  “She used to be here, right where you are.” He hums.

  “And...?” For some reason, I don’t hesitate to keep going.

  “She didn't make it.” A trace of sadness in his voice. “She couldn’t cut it as my little girl.”

  “Why do you like little girls?” I ask.

  “I don’t like little girls,” he chides. “I protect little girls from her.”

  Baffled, I stare at a raised mark on my arm, unsure how to respond.

  He puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh...sleepy time. We have our whole lives to talk about why I like what I like, don’t you agree?”

  I’m not so sure.

  A lock of dirty blond hair falls over his cheek as he peers at me, his blue-green eyes change depending on his mood. They’re more green right now.

  When he’s deep in thought, they turn greenish.

  Blue for when he’s angry or perturbed.

  If he’s in a neutral mood, I see both colors reflected.

  And every day, when he stares at me, another piece of me dies inside.

  23

  Bristol

  When The Mole’s gone, I pace the floor incessantly, my only exercise. Of course, with my stockings or socks covered by shoes. After bath time, he’s okay with my bare feet, and in bed, so it must just be a control issue.

  Sometimes the claustrophobia sets in, my heart racing, as I pound on the door for a breath of fresh air.

  It never comes. What I would give to smell rain, fresh cut grass, even the manure pile on the farm. I miss Blair’s perfume, my mother’s homemade strawberry pie, and my father’s laugh, always slow to come but easy on the ears.

  I picture my room, the sloped ceiling, my bed.

  Every morning I play a game in my head. I make a mental list, checking off each item I miss. I try and keep adding to the list, memorizing my answers and then repeating them out loud. It’s the only way I know how to keep my memories safe without choking on the regrets of a life I’m barely surviving at.

  When The Mole is in a good mood, I raise my hand to ask if we can go outside.

  He pretends to consider this request, tilting his head.

  Then as quickly as he pauses to think about it, he shakes his head
no.

  “Too risky,” he says.

  “But I’d like to go outside,” I complain.

  I’m rewarded with a slap across my cheek and another burn mark, this time on the bottom of my foot. I limp for a day. The other marks have scarred in places, some healing better than others.

  Since I’m seventeen, I can’t avoid the inevitable, my monthly cycle. I used to dread the cramps and bloated feeling in my stomach. Now I’m relieved when my period comes, thanking God.

  When The Mole sees my bloody underwear, he freezes. “What’s this?”

  I’m confused.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” He puts a palm to my forehead. “Little girl, you need to lie down.”

  “No, it’s just my...”

  He cuts short my answer, following it with a death glare.

  “This kind of thing does not happen to little girls, understand?” Before I know it, he’s ripped off the offending underpants and shoved a diaper between my legs, fastening the adhesives over each hip bone.

  “You’ll wear these for times like this.” He points to the bed. “You’ll also be on bed rest. We can’t take any chances that you’ll get more ill. Clearly, you’re sick.”

  When I protest, I’m dragged by my ponytail to the bed, my wrists bound to the headboard, and left for at least a full day.

  He comes back as if nothing happened, untying my sore wrists and humming, appalled that I would lose control of my bladder.

  “Lucky we have these.” He’s cheerful, removing the soiled diaper, pushing me towards the tub which he fills with frigid water. “Mother says you have to be alone right now, you’re unclean.” I settle in the tub and he perches on a foot stool, demanding I tell him about the farm I grew up on.

  “What do your parents do?” He’s curious.

  “My father’s a pastor.” I stare at my ripped cuticles. “My mom stays at home, runs the house, helps in the church office.”

  “Then you know that what we do is not for others to know about.” He gives me a warning with his eyes. “It’s wrong. You should know better. This is why you’re being punished right now.”

  He gives me a few minutes to rinse off, tossing a wash cloth at me. After I dry myself off, he makes me wear a black nightgown to impress upon me the fact he thinks I’m dirty. I’m taped into another diaper, this time with my wrists and feet bound.