Sticks and Stones

by Angèle Gougeon

Jack and Daniel’s worried eyes met her after school, her fears followed her, and for the first time in over half a year Sandra dreamed of worn jeans and a dusty cotton skirt and a hole in her neck as she gasped and gasped until she woke herself up, breathing hard, heady with the heavy pounding thud of her own heart.

  She kept remembering being this girl and that girl and the other girl, with his knife in her throat, and their dirty clothing rasping across her aching, wounded skin. She saw it in her dreams at night, but Sandra felt his hands during the day. Sometimes, during class, she’d undergo a crippling blow, hear a toneless voice murmuring in her ears, feel clawing fingers and cold metal and the ropes that tried to hold her down.

  Sometimes she’d come to shaking, hands gripping the edge of her desk or her chair so hard she had lost all feeling in her fingers, the rest of the class unaware and Amanda giving her strange looks. Her schoolwork suffered and, no matter how hard Lem and the boys tried, they couldn’t help her.

  They didn’t have horrible images running through their heads.

  They had no idea.

  “Miss Daron?”

  Sandra sighed and shuffled around, eyes sore and burning. Mr. Murray struggled down the hall, his packed briefcase in one hand and a box in the other with several books balanced on top.

  “Do you need some help, sir?”

  He looked surprised for a moment, and then he said, “Ah yes, Miss Daron, that would be appreciated.” He let her take the box, gathering the books to himself and staring around at the empty hallways.

  “Making it out late today, Miss Daron?” he asked.

  Sandra half-shrugged, just one shoulder, and held the box close to her chest. She was so tired, so ready for this to be over, no matter how horrible that made her feel. She just wanted it done.

  “Hmm,” Mr. Murray said, looking at her sideways as he led her to the side door. “Still having a hard time of it?”

  A little startled, Sandra looked up at him, almost walking sideways into the wall.

  “Are you still worrying over Miss Barsowich?”

  Sandra formed a sad half-smile and a half-nod.

  “You need to keep up hope, Miss Daron. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He paused with his hand on the bar latch. His eyes seemed a lot darker in the lighting of the hallway. Stern. “Your grades are dropping. You’ve become much more withdrawn in and out of the classroom. I can tell you aren’t sleeping well.” Mr. Murray was showing her concern. He was concerned. God, that was so very wrong. The ogre was worried about her. Again. “I have to ask … are you sure this is only about Miss Barsowich?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about, Miss Daron? Are you having trouble at home?”

  A startled laugh escaped her. Are you kidding me? When was the last time a teacher had asked her that? “I’m fine.”

  “As unaware of teenage trials as I am, Miss Daron, I am quite capable of spotting a lie.” His dry tone was accompanied by quirked lips and, finally, he pushed open the metal door to the parking lot. Sandra followed him to his silver car, one of the newer ones in the yard. The lot was already mostly empty, teachers leaving as quickly as the students — further proof that school was, in fact, the instrument of some kind of worldly torture device.

  He popped open the trunk. “You need to take better care of yourself.” And then Sandra placed the box down and his hands plowed into her back.

  The last thing Sandra saw was Mr. Murray’s smile before the trunk lid closed.

  ~

  Time flashed. Like one of her vision-dreams. Except, this time Sandra didn’t wake up. The world went dark. Then there were faded lights, like old lamps, warm smudges peering out from behind lingering shadows. Sandra moved her head weakly, head full of spider webs, aching, with a funny taste in her nose and mouth. Nausea curled in her belly as Mr. Murray leaned low over her, saying, “Shhhh.” Fingers petted over her hair and he was a shadow, too, large and mean like in her dreams. “Shh,” he said. “You’re alright.” He held a glass to her lips but Sandra turned away, a whimper in her throat.

  He gave her head another pat, chuckling low. And then his fingers forced a wad of fabric into her mouth, tying it tight behind her head, the knot catching in her hair. The light shifted, flared behind his back, and then he was moving up and away and Sandra heard the deep thump of shoes on wooden stairs. A door creaked, a latch closed, darkness fell into place.

  Sandra couldn’t sit. She couldn’t stand, either. Her arms were tied to something behind her head, pulling them taught. Her ankles were bound together as well, so tight that her ankles ached. She bucked and writhed, but there was nowhere to go.

  Her skin felt raw already.

  The cement beneath her was cold and Sandra thought she smelled blood.

  She was lying where they had lain. She was—

  Sandra’s chest heaved. The air was thick and she couldn’t get it in. The girl in her vision had been wearing a brown sweater.

  She was wearing that same brown sweater.

  She tried to scream.

  Chapter Five

  Sandra’s shirt had ridden sideways beneath her ribs, but she couldn’t feel the cement.

  Nikki Trite was crying. He’d pried her shirt up. Her jeans were still on, but she was hyperventilating. Blood was pooling and the cold metal bit down and into and deep and she was bleeding and the knife was inside.

  Lydia Barsowich wasn’t crying. She was screaming. And he’d forgotten the gag, so she was screaming loud. She wasn’t crying yet, but she would be. Because Mr. Murray liked her skirt. And he liked lifting it up. And he liked pulling her underwear down.

  Lydia cried.

  She stopped screaming.

  And when he was done he made damn sure she could never scream again.

  The cement talked about how he came home smelling of smoke. The soot on his skin slipped down the drain, and the blood on his knife was cleaned diligently, and at night he dreamed of them, all milky flesh and bruised thighs and unwilling wet heat and flesh parting on his blade.

  And the police didn’t know. They would never know, because Mr. Murray had a clean record, nothing extraordinary or horrible about him, except all the things that were. And maybe he hadn’t always been like this, but he was now.

  His eyes had gotten darker, something growing inside of him. He’d gotten meaner, became surly and sharp like broken glass.

  Monster.

  The cement whispered it over and over and Sandra watched shadow movies in the lamplight and cried and screamed until she nearly made herself sick.

  In her dream he pushed into her, and it hurt so badly, while in the real world Sandra waited, arms tied down to the cold cement with her lips slowly turning blue.

  “Do you think they’re looking for you, those parents of yours?” Mr. Murray asked, when he returned.

  Inside her head, Nikki screamed and Sandra shuddered.

  Mr. Murray offered water again and this time Sandra swallowed it down. It tasted coppery, elements and minerals all mixed together. Her mouth was cracked but it tasted so good.

  “Careful,” he said, happy all over again.

  No, Lydia pleaded. No.

  Lydia cried, but Nikki only silently screamed because she had the gag in her mouth and they were her and she was them and—

  “Stay with me,” Mr. Murray tapped her on the cheek, not hard, but jarring and Sandra flinched, then flinched again when the ropes bit into her arms. “Are you with me?” His eyes were black. Sandra thought they had used to be blue.

  The wounds on Nikki’s stomach burned.

  “No going away. Not yet.” His fingers swept through her gritty hair, tugging it out from behind her back and over her shoulders, around her head. Sandra wished her boys would find her. “We’re going to some have fun, Miss Daron.” Tears leaked from the corners o
f her eyes.

  “Shhh,” Mr. Murray said again and worked the gag back between her parched lips. The fabric tasted like dust and dried all the water away. “Lydia got too loud,” he whispered to her, like it was a secret. “She almost gave me away.” Sandra choked back a sob and turned her head as far as possible, unable to stop her wrists from tugging against the rope despite the rubbing pain. When he rose, her gaze followed his shadow across the room, pleading that he’d go back upstairs.

  No no no no, Lydia screamed. Please Mr. Murray. Please don’t. Please no, please no.

  The lamplight flickered, long shadow moving back and forth, morphing the room into long shapes of dark. He moved again, and the dim light seared Sandra’s eyes. There was a glint of metal and she went rigid, fighting hard. Mr. Murray grinned. “We’re going to have so much fun,” he said.

  He turned, clomping up the stairs and Sandra breathed hard into her gag, choking on her tears until everything went black.

  ~

  They’re coming, Sandra told herself. They’re coming.

  Behind her eyes, Mr. Murray cut the jeans off her legs. He sliced ribbons into her skin. He liked her hips and traced the bones. He smeared them red. He liked her all over, but he wanted her to last. He couldn’t trust himself not to take too much too soon. He left her sweater on. But when he did…

  Shhh, future Mr. Murray said. It’s just like going to sleep. There’s a good girl.

  Sandra shuddered with all the blood in her head.

  And then she woke up with Mr. Murray standing over her.

  Lydia and Nikki Trite were silent. Sandra felt empty. Hollow. Those black eyes glittered and Sandra wondered if anyone other than her boys had noticed her missing. Would they think she’d run away, too? Would Amanda give it more than a passing thought? Would anybody care?

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Sandra didn’t bother shaking her head no.

  He left the gag in.

  He used scissors on her jeans. Sandra’s stomach knotted, churning like snakes low in her belly. He went for her underwear and she made her mind blank.

  Sandra thought she still screamed, but everything was far away. It didn’t make it better, but it made it easier. Because she’d already lived through it once – more than once – and she didn’t need to see it all over again.

  ~

  When help came, Sandra was staring at the ceiling, barely blinking, mind numb. She didn’t look at the stairs, and she didn’t hear anyone come down, but suddenly hands were on her. She flinched and fought, but they released her wrists and untied her ankles and pulled her face around. They waited until she focused, until she stopped trying to claw at face and eyes and skin. Then gentle fingers soothed over her stained cheeks, wiped the dirt away and made her look up and oh-

  It was Danny. He looked something awful.

  Sandra wanted to reach up, but her arms weren’t working properly anymore. That was alright, because there was a blanket being wrapped around her. Jack was there. He was angry, absolutely furious. But he was carefully slow as he bundled her up. The blanket was clean and warm. It smelled like their house and them. When Daniel gathered her up in his big arms, she was pretty sure he was shaking, just like her.

  Something noisy dragged across the floor above their heads. Sandra tried to push up, wanted to go, but Danny shushed her and Jack held her shoulder down. Something horrible pushed through the fog in her head, and she almost shook their hands away.

  “Just wait,” Daniel said, face tilted and listening. Jack moved his hand to her back, fingertips riding up above the blanket and the collar of her sweater, pinpricks of heat on her neck.

  His fingers trembled, too.

  When the sounds stopped, Daniel pulled her upright into his arms and carried her up the stairs. Jack was in front of them and, in a strangled voice, he told her, “Keep your eyes closed.” Daniel’s arms tightened. The smell of copper blood was thick and Sandra thought she heard the carpet make wet sounds as they walked. There was a thin-pitched moan nearby. Daniel swallowed hard against her forehead.

  They took her to the truck, settled her in and surrounded her on either side, sitting close, and she wasn’t sure who was comforting who. The world was a blur around her – she couldn’t quit crying – but it smelled like Lem’s truck, of leather and dust and grease and old age, with the feel of the worn and tattered seat beneath her legs.

  It took Lem a very long time to open the door and join them.

  The smell of blood followed him inside.

  Daniel sat stiff beside him the whole way home and Sandra was glad she was in the middle.

  When they parked, Lem’s fingers left red crescent moons behind.

  ~

  Once, a police officer had tried taking Daniel away, when he was eight. There was a bruise on his arm and the policeman didn’t want to believe that it hadn’t been his father but the teacher who had tugged too hard. They hadn’t listened. The man and his partner believed Mrs. Willis and told Daniel it was okay, he was safe, he didn’t have to lie.

  The Sloans had moved quickly from that town.

  An officer had tried taking Jack.

  Except Jack was accused of doing something bad. He hadn’t even been anywhere near the man who’d been robbed and beaten. But Jack and Daniel and Lem were new in town and Jack’s schoolmates didn’t much like Jack at all.

  They’d had to run again.

  Lem liked the law a whole lot less than his boys. He got still, ready and waiting when a police car crossed his path. His wolf eyes watched, kept them in his sights until they were gone, and even then he was cautious. Danny mirrored him sometimes, willing to follow his father even if he didn’t understand all the reasons why.

  The Sloans looked after themselves and they looked after her.

  Jack had talked to Amanda and Daniel had talked to everybody else. The law hadn’t helped Nikki Trite or Lydia Barsowich and it certainly wasn’t going to help Sandra Daron. But the Sloans would. Most of the kids didn’t care that the weird girl had disappeared, but they were very careful not to say that anywhere Daniel could hear after he left that first boy with a broken jaw.

  No one told the teachers.

  And no one told Mr. Murray.

  He’d felt so safe. Her parents had never shown for parent-teacher meetings. They didn’t ask questions about her report cards or help with homework or pick her up after school. Sandra was a loner, quiet and odd, and Mr. Murray hadn’t thought she’d be missed.

  Mr. Murray had been wrong. He hadn’t looked hard enough. He’d made a mistake.

  From the way Lem was packing the truck and the way the boys were stuffing their belongings into bags fast-fast, Mr. Murray wasn’t going to be making problems for anyone ever again.

  Daniel packed her bag and Jack snuck inside her old bedroom window for the money she’d stashed under her floorboards – everything else she owned was already in their house. “Anything left?” Daniel asked on his third time past the couch, still worried even though she had her own clothes on and her wounds were cleaned and covered and she’d taken the longest shower she’d ever had, sitting with her legs pulled up as the water pounded and pounded.

  Sandra shook her head.

  He went away.

  “You sure?”

  Sandra looked up, found Lem crouching in front of her, blanket thick around her shoulders and her legs and making her feel snug and safe, a numb cocoon. She couldn’t see his hands, hanging down around his crouched knees, but his face was scrubbed clean, stubble still dotting along his jaw, and she figured he must have changed his clothes. Even the neighbors in this part of town weren’t so negligent as to ignore a blood-soaked man.

  “Are you sure you want to come?” he asked again.

  Sandra blinked at him.

  “We won’t force you to leave.”

  “I want to,” she whisper
ed, and it was just another ache to hear how fragile she sounded. She didn’t want to be like this. “I want to leave.” She nodded. “I want to.”

  “Okay,” Lem’s voice was equally soft.

  “My parents won’t mind.”

  Lem closed his eyes, bowed his head forward and Sandra stared at the small spot of red by his ear that he’d missed. “They won’t mind,” her voice wavered and Lem reached forward, placed his hand close to her, not touching, but in view if she wanted to take it.

  He had cleaned them. Even scrubbed under his nails.

  “We found you.”

  “I know.”

  “We’d care.” He said it so confidently, so strongly that Sandra couldn’t help the sound that bubbled up, halfway between a gasp and a sob.

  She shook her head, fast and blinding and she didn’t even know if she was still shaking, but suddenly Lem was next to her, had her pulled onto his lap and he was rocking her as she gasped and said, “I don’t want it! I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to see.” The words were broken, all rushed together, and Lem pulled her closer, arms strong around her like he would never break but he’d allow her to do so.

  “I don’t want to see anymore.”

  “I know,” he said. “I know.” His stubble tickled her head. “You’re not alone. This won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

  “He’s right,” Jack whispered over the back of the couch, nearly falling over from how far he was leaning until Daniel pulled him back.

  “We look after our own.”

  She wanted to believe, but… You can’t protect me, she wanted to say.

  Lem rested his hand on her head, his other smoothing away her tears. “Are you ready to go?” Sandra thought she may have always been ready. She couldn’t wait for the whole town to be a memory, one that could become faded, yellowed at the edges, and eventually forgotten. She wanted to never return.

  As they left, Lem told her to close her eyes and they took a detour past Mr. Murray’s house. The road was quiet, no red and blue flashing lights. Sandra clenched her eyelids and hoped he rotted before he was found. He didn’t deserve anything more.