Behind These Scars

by Lilah Grey

  “Oh shut up you haggard fuck!” the other man in the cell slurs.

  He’s rail thin and couldn’t be much older than twenty-one. His thinness is accentuated by the baggy clothing that hangs from him like sheets on a clothesline. Two beady black eyes glare across the room at the old man, who seems unaware of anything but the conversation he’s having with himself.

  “Jesus fucking Christ…” the man breathes, bringing his hands to his head, massaging his temples.

  I snort and shake my head.

  “The fuck you laughing at?” he snaps at me.

  His eyebrows form a thick black line across his forehead as he stares at me, snarling.

  I shrug, repositioning myself so that my back faces him. The last thing I need right now is another altercation. It would only complicate things. What’s a silly kid to me?

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I smile creeps onto my face. I’m beginning to like this kid. A little overconfident, but that’s better than being timid. Unfortunately for him, he needs the bite to back up his bark. Judging by his frame, he doesn’t have it. If he keeps up with that mouth, he’ll have a tough lesson to learn in the form of a swift punch to the jaw. I won’t be the one to teach him, though.

  I remind myself that I’ll be out of here and with Libby soon, and no one was worth risking that.

  Not much later, I hear the steady thump of rubber soles against the concrete floor. The thumps turn into thuds as the guard gets closer. He’s a heavyset gentleman with mustard-stained lips and sausage-link fingers, which are right now having difficulty opening up the door to the cell.

  Come on…

  “Luke Masters?” he calls out after his brief struggle. “Come with me. You’re free to go.”

  I follow my corpulent friend in blue as he guides me down the narrow corridor and through a few sets of doors until finally dropping me off in front of a window to collect my things.

  “Name?” the lady behind the window asks.

  Her auburn hair, pulled back behind her head, is striped with thin streaks of gray. She wears thick, horn-rimmed glasses and looks more like a librarian than a police officer.

  I flash a smile. “Masters. Luke Masters.”

  The officer rolls her eyes and disappears for a moment to retrieve my things.

  I rap my knuckles against the counter as I wait… and wait… and five minutes later she still hasn’t returned. There’s a line running across my forearms from where they’d been resting on the edge of the counter. I sigh, lacing my fingers together behind my head as I pace in a small, meandering circle.

  I glance at the metal door to my right. It leads to the lobby, right to Libby. I’ve hardly been in jail long, but it feels like an eternity since I’d last seen her. Elation wells in my chest and bubbles up my throat as I think about the person standing behind that door.

  In a few minutes, we’d be leaving this wretched town behind us. I'd have Dave cut Wade a check, and Libby and I would be done with this town for good. I don't know what the future holds for us, but I was excited to find out.

  If only…

  I hit the bell on the counter. A sharp ring echoes in the empty hallway, and a few seconds later, the officer returns, chocolate donut in one hand, coffee in the other.

  Fantastic…

  “Can I help you?” she asks, setting down the coffee.

  I grit my teeth, taking a few moments to collect myself.

  “Luke Masters,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice calm and level. “I’m being released.”

  “Right…” She nods, takes a bite out of her donut, and then disappears again.

  She returns a few seconds later with my watch and wallet.

  That wasn’t so difficult, was it?

  “Sign here,” she says, shoving a clipboard in front of me. I flick away the chocolate crumb sitting at the top of the form. It leaves a dark brown smudge on the paper, but I focus on the text. For a few seconds. It has far too many words, and I don’t care enough to read them, so I sign on the line and pass the chocolate-smeared form back to the officer.

  Moments later I’m out the door, but instead of seeing Libby’s smiling face, I’m looking at a room of empty chairs. She’s not here. No one’s here, not even Olivia or Dave. Maybe they’re outside. I know I wouldn’t want to wait in a room as depressing as this one.

  I head outside and fill my lungs with fresh air. Man, it feels good. There's a faint sound of sirens in the distance, but otherwise, the night is calm. I take the steps two at a time as I head to the street below.

  It’s empty, hardly a single car on the road. A few cars sit idly in the parking lot, but none that I recognize. Something wasn’t sitting well with me, and the longer I stood on the sidewalk, the more uneasy I began to feel.

  Where was Libby? Dave? Olivia? They wouldn’t just leave after putting up my bail, would they?

  Nothing was making sense.

  I rush back up the steps and check with the officer manning the front desk.

  “I need to speak with Detective Damian Bennett.”

  The officer waves his hand at me. “Not here,” he says, eyes glued to a Dan Brown novel.

  “Where is he?”

  He glances at me for a brief moment, sighs, and returns his attention to the book.

  Whatever. I’ll figure this out myself.

  I leave the building one last time, hoping that I’d overlooked them somehow. I hadn’t. It’s just as dead as it was before, although now the sirens are growing louder.

  With no other plan, I start jogging toward the house. It’s not far. Nothing’s far in this town. Before I reach the end of the street, a line of police cruisers cut around the corner, racing toward the police department. They screech to a halt in front of the building I’d left just minutes before.

  What the fuck’s going on?

  I watch as officers hop out of the cruisers, some rushing up the steps, others standing around. Just as I notice Damian, car tires squeal behind me, jerking my attention away.

  It’s Olivia. Her BMW skids around the corner, peeling out as she floors it. If she had her car, then she’d been to the house. Libby’s with her.

  I run back to the station, watching as Olivia screeches to a stop behind the other cars. Behind her, a group of officers circles someone, leading them up the steps and into the building.

  I call out to Olivia as she climbs out of her car, waving my hands in the air. She spins around a little too fast, tottering on her heels for a brief moment before falling hard onto the road.

  “Shit, you okay?” I ask as I approach her.

  I reach down and grab her arm, but she won’t budge; she sits there like dead weight. Her shoulders heave as she sucks in harsh, ragged breaths. When she finally looks up at me, tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong? Where’s Libby?”

  She wipes her left eye with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of mascara behind.

  I kneel down and rub her shoulder as I hear a helicopter off in the distance.

  “Take deep breaths and relax,” I say, trying to calm her down.

  In her state, it’s a miracle she didn’t crash.

  My mind’s racing as a tempest of thoughts crash through my head, leaving me uneasy. I try not to think of the worst-case scenario, but as I push it out of my mind, the quicker it returns, more forceful than before.

  “It’s Libby,” Olivia croaks, finally collecting herself enough to speak.

  “What about Libby?”

  “She’s… ”

  Olivia covers her face with her hands, sobbing into them. After a few moments, she stares at me. The expression on her face is unsettling, as though she’s looking through me.

  She’s on her feet and back in her car before I have the chance to react.

  “We have to go. Now,” she says, pulling the door shut.

  The engine roars as we peel out on the road, no clue where we’re heading.

  24

  Libby
r />   Where am I?

  The only light in the room filters in from under the door, painting a yellow cone on the floor. The air is stale and smells overwhelmingly of mildew and something sickly sweet. What little I can see of the room doesn’t seem familiar.

  I can't move my arms or legs. They're heavy; they feel like weights have been stacked on top of them, pinning me down. My head feels like it could float away at any moment, while the rest of my body feels like it's about to get swallowed up by this bed.

  Bed. I’m in a bedroom. Where?

  My mind’s foggy. I can hardly think let alone remember how I got here.

  I blink my eyes and turn my head to the left, trying to gather my bearings. The slight movement is enough to send a sharp pain through my skull. I shut my eyes, crying out as the searing pain burns behind my right eye like a brand.

  The pain subsides after a few moments, but a throbbing sensation takes its place. My stomach roils with acid and whatever I ate earlier in the day.

  How long have I been here? What the hell happened?

  Too many questions were fighting for my attention, but I couldn’t find answers for any of them.

  I try to move my limbs again, but they refuse my commands.

  The mildew smell grows stronger, and as I tip my chin toward my chest, I notice it’s coming from my nightgown.

  I don’t own a nightgown, and I have no memory of changing into one.

  My muscles begin to seize up as I hear the floorboards on the other side of the door creak. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. A puff of dust billows under the door as the person reaches the door and begins to turn the handle; the room darkens as they block what little light filters under the door.

  I hold my breath, waiting.

  Light floods the room as the door swings open, and I'm forced to shut my eyes as I wait for them to adjust. Silverware clinks and rattles as I hear the person move into the room.

  I open my eyes, but the light is still too harsh. I see only a blurred outline of a figure before I’m forced to close them again.

  “Sweet child,” the woman coos. “I thought I heard you moaning.”

  Cold air strikes my cheeks as she swishes by me, setting a metal tray on the nightstand.

  “But don’t you worry, Abigail.” She brushes my cheek with the back of her hand. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  I open my eyes, fear settling in my chest as I see Rose hovering over me. The fog lifts as it all comes rushing back to me.

  Abigail.

  Rose’s dead daughter. She can’t…

  No.

  This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

  I repeat the phrases in my head like a mantra, but I know it won’t change anything. When I open my eyes again, I know I’ll have to face reality.

  This isn’t a dream. This is happening. This is my life, and it's slowly slipping away from me one second at a time.

  The throbbing pain in my head begins to sear again. My stomach is cramping, along with every muscle in my body. I grimace, sputtering saliva.

  “Oh, my sweet child,” Rose coos. “No need to fret. Mama’s here.”

  Her usually wild hair is pulled back into a braid. Margaret’s locket hangs from her neck as she bends over and strokes my cheek.

  I twist my head, squirming away from her touch.

  “Now, now, Abigail,” Rose says, placing her hand on my arm. She lowers her head and whispers, “You know what happens to difficult children.” Her grip tightens on my arm as her fingernails dig into my skin.

  “Please,” I cry. “You’re hurting me.”

  She lets go a few seconds later, turning her attention to the tray on the nightstand. “Now, let’s see…”

  Tears roll down my cheeks as I try to figure out what the hell to do.

  Do I feed her delusions? Play the part of her daughter until someone comes? If someone comes…

  Olivia.

  Relief washes over me as I remember that Olivia’s on her way. She’ll find the house empty and come looking for me elsewhere.

  I hope…

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here, and there’s no telling what will happen to me the longer I’m forced to stay.

  “Let me go, Rose,” I beg. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone about this. Just please let me go.”

  The words fall on deaf ears. Rose doesn’t even look at me. She’s focused on the tray in front of her.

  It's hopeless. Pleading with someone who poisons a girl she believes to be her daughter brought back from the dead? Yeah, that person lives in a reality bound by logic and reason. Rose is out of her mind, completely insane.

  She begins whistling as she stirs the contents of a mug. It’s a soft, mellow tune, a lullaby that leaves me more unnerved than comforted.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  I can feel the heaviness in my limbs disappear, replaced by a tingling sensation that emanates from my fingers and toes and runs through my calves, through my forearms. I try to move again. This time my limbs respond, but it doesn’t matter. They’re tied down to the bed, restrained by thick leather straps.

  Panic sets in as I struggle with the bindings. The leather moans as I pull, but the more I pull, the tighter they seem to get. My wrists begin to chafe, and I’m forced to stop.

  I’m in a waking nightmare. This can’t be real. How could anyone do this to another person?

  And if that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna…

  “Now, Abigail, you mustn't fuss. You're not well, and you need your rest.”

  Her thin lips curl into a smile as she wags a finger at me. “Don’t worry, sweet child. Mother will make everything better.”

  Forget begging, forget feeding her delusions. This was beyond fucked up, and I wasn’t playing along with it any longer.

  “Abigail is dead, Rose. You said so yourself. You're not my mother, and you never will be.”

  I can feel my skin warm up as the words flow through me.

  The air between us changes instantly. Her right eyelid begins to twitch as she stops mixing the drink. She turns to me with hard eyes, but she doesn't say anything. Her gaze softens, and then she turns back around, whistling the same tune.

  Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…

  “I’m not your fucking daughter!” I scream, flailing wildly on the bed, adrenaline pumping through me.

  Rose sets the mug down on the tray and places the spoon down next to it. Her movements are slow and methodical, and her face remains impassive through it all. She turns to me, offering a faint, wistful smile. I cringe when she touches my forehead with the back her hand.

  “You’re feverish, sweet child. No wonder you’re putting up such a fuss.”

  “You poisoned me. You strapped me to a bed, forcing me to live in your sick fantasy world. You’re wondering why I’m ‘putting up such a fuss’? Feverish? No, I’m fucking terrified!”

  Rose’s eyes harden as she slaps me across my cheek. “Language, Abigail!”

  My vision flashes white as a jagged pain courses through my skull. The slap isn’t very hard, but it forces my head to jerk to the side, exacerbating my already splitting headache. I let out a low wail as tears well in my eyes.

  “Now, look what you made me do.” Rose coos as she strokes my tender cheek with the back of her hand.

  “You’re sick,” I whisper, eyes still closed tight.

  “It's worse than I imagined,” she says, tutting. “You're not well, Abigail.”

  She pats my arm.

  “No, the medicine just isn’t working. We’re going to need something else to calm you down.”

  Rose stands up, wringing her hands as she looks around the room.

  “I know.” She lifts a finger in the air, turns on her heels, and walks to a large bureau in the corner of the room. “I have just the thing.”

  She begins whistling the lullaby again from the beginning.

  H
ush little baby don’t say a word…

  Even with Rose’s drooping shoulders and slight hunch, she moves with the precision, swiftness, and grace of a dancer. There’s nothing I can do but watch as she rifles through the drawers, tossing blankets and empty bottles behind her.

  Finally, she pauses, turning around slowly as she stares at the two bottles in her hands. One is large, the size and shape of a vinegar bottle, with murky white liquid. The other is an orange, translucent bottle with a white cap. Her eyes flit to mine as a wicked smile appears on her lips. She crosses the room, still whistling.

  And if that mockingbird won’t sing…

  She sets the two bottles on the metal tray and then picks it up by the handles and heads for the door. She glances at me over her shoulder and winks. “I’ll be right back, dear.”

  Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…

  I pull at the restraints again, but it's no use. They won't budge. No amount of twisting or yanking will change that. Besides, my wrists are tender and raw, and I'd only be causing myself more pain by struggling.

  But after a life of pain, what’s a little more?

  I consider screaming, but what would be the point? I could scream and yell until I’m hoarse, but with both houses on either side of Rose’s empty, no one will hear me.

  The warm tears pooling at the corners of my eyes spill out and fall down my cheeks in salty rivulets as I listen to Rose whistling in the distance.

  I’m exhausted. Physically and emotionally. Every muscle aches, and I just want to sleep.

  Just as I close my eyes, the doorbell chimes.

  Olivia! It has to be.

  This is my chance. My one and only chance.

  I fill my lungs with as much air as possible and channel my inner child. I scream as though I’ve been denied that extra piece of Halloween candy. I cry out like I’ve skinned my knee falling off my bicycle. I screech as though I’ve been strapped to a bed by a bat-shit crazy woman who thinks I’m her dead daughter.

  Oh yeah…

  Even though I’ve only been screaming for less than a minute, my throat burns and aches.

  Rose is a blur as she swoops back into the room. She has one arm outstretched toward me, syringe in hand.