Shackled

by Ray Garton

  PART THREE

  Lacey:

  Almost Like Home

  1

  Lacey awoke to the same murky thoughts she had every morning: What time is it? Is it day or night? What day is it? What month is it? What ... will it be ... this time?

  She sat up in bed rubbing her eyes. She'd awakened because someone had come into her small, square room — where the black, bare walls had no windows to let in daylight or even the dark of night — and flicked on the small table lamp in the far corner. The light stood on a small, black end table, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. The lamp was black, too, with a round, squat base and a red, umbrella-shaped lampshade that turned the room the dull shade of diluted blood.

  Even that little bit of light hit her eyes hard after the blackness of a shallow sleep, making her squint for a while. The shape that had come into the room was little more than a blur at first, a white, liquidy splotch. Yes, it was someone in a white robe ... or a gown, maybe, because she could see hair that fell to the shoulders from a head wearing some sort of tiara ... but there was also a beard.

  Oh, no, please, Lacey thought, not him again, no, not again, please ... But by now, she didn't know by whom those thoughts were meant to be heard.

  As her vision cleared, Lacey saw the man spread his arms slightly, palms out, as he moved close to the bed, his sandaled feet making little scraping sounds on the smooth concrete floor. She pressed her back to the wall and curled her knees to her breasts, looking at the ragged, circular wound in each of the man's palms. She hugged her knees to her protectively and the blankets fell away from them as she raised her eyes to the man's bearded face beneath a crown of thorns.

  She was naked now that the covers were gone. She was always naked there beneath the four watching eyes ... the four camera lenses ... one in the center of each wall at the top near the ceiling ... each one making soft whirring sounds as it followed her every movement.

  "You're lost, child," the man said quietly, his voice filled with sadness, with sympathy. "You don't know where to go. You don't know where you're going." He moved toward her slowly, as always, holding his wounded hands out to her.

  Lacey felt the now familiar churning in her stomach, as if a ball of worms were squirming inside her, nibbling now and then, taking little bites.

  "You're a lost lamb," he said, "and I am your savior. I have come to save you, child."

  She hugged her knees tighter, but then her arms began to weaken because she knew it was wasted energy. She knew it wouldn't make any difference. It never had before. Nothing had.

  He reached out and took her right hand between both of his and held it gently, so lovingly. "I have come here to give you salvation ... your only salvation."

  She didn't flinch much when it finally happened. She'd known it was coming, she just wasn't sure when.

  He shot forward and stopped when his nose was half an inch from hers as his eyes widened maniacally, glistening with the dull red light. "The only salvation you deserve, you worthless slutty little pus-filled cunt!" He screamed so loudly that his face turned an even darker red than it already was and a fat, throbbing vein stuck out in his thin neck. "I'm the only salvation you 're ever gonna get because you don't deserve anything else and you fucking know it, you no-good lowlife worthless piece of shit!"

  He stopped, breathing heavily, and grinned, lips wet with spittle. He slid onto the bed, dropped her hand, and put his on her knees. "You know I'm right," he whispered, putting one hand between her legs and making her wince. "You know you're worthless, just a worthless little bitch who deserves nothing. Nothing!” he screamed, making her jerk.

  When it had all first started, she was always crying by now, but she didn't think she had any more tears left.

  He kept grinning but clenched his teeth as he hissed, "But I have come to give you salvation. Your only salvation." He stood, reached behind his neck, and she heard the rip of Velcro. His white robe fell around his feet and he was naked. He put a hand on top of her head, then suddenly clenched it into a fist around a clump of her hair and pulled her face toward him hard.

  "Suck this," he growled, then screamed, "suck this in remembrance of me, you worthless shitty little bitch-cunt!"

  She closed her eyes tightly as he continued screaming at her, and Lacey tried very hard not to be there anymore, to just blend into the nothingness of the flat, black walls ...

  ... as the four dead, black, round eyes above them watched silently ...

  2

  It had been going on for ... well, she wasn't sure how long, but ever since she'd been brought to ... whatever horrible place she was in.

  The last kind face she'd seen had been Carolee's. Even though she was always holding that gun on Lacey, her face was kind, pleasant ... so confusing ... the sightless eye at the end of the gun's barrel staring at her always as Carolee smiled and cooed over her, always wanting to make sure she was comfortable in the basement, where it was sometimes damp and drafty, because she certainly wouldn't want Lacey to catch cold, not there with her and Ron, because, after all, they were supposed to be taking care of her. At least, for a while.

  "Pretty soon," Carolee had said, "someone else will come and get you and then you'll never have to worry about anything again. They'll take care of you. They'll take very good care of you." She'd said it with that warm, motherly smile of hers, all the while holding the small gun at her waist with the barrel pointed upward, directly between Lacey's breasts.

  Carolee brought three healthy meals down to Lacey every day, and between the meals, she would come down to chat, just talk, asking her questions about her past, about her family. Lacey told her, sometimes while fighting tears, about her father and her sister, and about her virtually invisible mother who seemed to float anonymously through the tension-filled house like a ghost. But Carolee always had the gun.

  One evening, as Carolee stayed to talk with Lacey over dinner, Lacey asked very timidly, "Why do you always hold that gun on me?" She had never asked before because she'd been so scared. It was so much like living with her father, that gun combined with that loving face ... so much like the gifts her father used to give her and the way he used to treat her like a member of the royal family, until at night, when he came into her room to play games ...

  Carolee looked confused. She cocked her head and leaned forward. "What gun?"

  "That gun. The one in your hand."

  Without taking her eyes from Lacey's, she frowned and asked in a whisper, "Are you serious, honey?"

  "Yes. Yes, I'm serious. That gun in your hand." She lifted a finger to point at it cautiously. "Why are you always holding it on me?"

  Carolee reached forward with her free hand and put it over Lacey's. Her eyes looked sad, pained. "Oh, baby ... I don't know what to say," she whispered, her voice full of emotion. "Your daddy must've done some awful, horrible things to you. I think he's ... well, maybe confused you pretty bad. I'd never hold a gun on you. I want to take care of you. That's why Ron and I took you in."

  Her eyes never left Lacey's. They didn't even blink.

  Lacey looked from Carolee's eyes to the gun and back again, then she started to cry silently, trying to hold it back. "B-but ... but it's there. I see it. In your hand."

  Carolee thought a moment, then said carefully, "Look, honey, you've been through a lot, and for a long time. You know, it's not uncommon for someone who's been through what you've been through to have ... well, some problems. Y'know, problems understanding things, problems, um, with holding on to the past. You've been hurt for a long time, so naturally you still think the people around you want to hurt you. There's nothing wrong with that, it's perfectly natural." She gave Lacey a big but sad smile and squeezed her hand. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I understand." She stood. "And I'm gonna take real good care of you."

  Lacey stared at the gun and shrank away from it now, pulled back a little as if it were something repulsive like a snake or a fat, hairy spider, because now ... now she wasn't quit
e sure if it was there or not. How could someone with such a kind face hold a gun on anyone ... or even hold a gun at all!

  As she always did before leaving her, Carolee gave Lacey a kiss on the forehead, then went back upstairs.

  The next morning Lacey had awakened to the sound of voices shouting upstairs.

  "... waiting around like ducks in a fucking shooting gallery!" Carolee shouted, her voice a loud growl.

  "You don't think I know that?" Ron shouted back. "What'm I supposed to do? They said they'd let us know when they were coming for her! It's outta my hands!"

  "Well then, if we're gonna hafta keep her for this long, we'd goddamned well better be able to do her! Did you ask 'em? Did you ask if we could do her?"

  "Of course I asked, you stupid bitch, even though I don't have to, I keep telling you I don't have to! That's our fucking tip, dammit, that's what we get!

  "Oh, you think I'm stupid because I wanna ask first? I don't know who these people are, but they're fucking creepy and they make me wanna shit myself every time they come here. You wanna cross somebody like them? Huh? I mean, I'm not sure because they sure as hell don't talk much, but I get the feeling these're the kinda people who, you cross 'em, you end up in cans of dog food or maybe as fish bait. So, you wanna cross somebody like that, Mr. Wizard? Huh?"

  "I told you they said we could do her!" He was practically screaming at her now.

  "All right, so they said so, that's fine, then. Tonight. Hear me? Tonight. Get everything ready."

  Just a few minutes later, when Carolee brought Lacey's breakfast down to the basement, she was her usual calm, warm, smiling self ... with the small gun in her right hand. After their talk the night before, the gun now seemed to Lacey to be growing from Carolee's pudgy hand, a natural part of it, no more unnatural than her fingers.

  "I heard shouting," Lacey said sleepily. "Is everything all right? Were you talking about me?"

  "Shouting?" Carolee put the breakfast tray on the stand beside Lacey's bed and seated herself in the only chair in the room, facing the girl. "There was no shouting."

  "But ... I heard you and Ron. You were — "

  Carolee giggled girlishly. "Oh, no, no. We haven't had a shouting match since we were ... oh, well, much younger than we are now. See, now we just talk things out when we have a problem. Just like we do, Lacey, you and me, just like we talk. No, honey, there was no shouting."

  Just like there's no gun in your hand, Lacey thought, looking uncertainly at the black, staring pistol.

  "Maybe you had a dream," Carolee said, standing. "Don't worry. Nothing's wrong." She went back upstairs, smiling as she carried the tray from last night's dinner ... and, of course, the gun that wasn't there.

  Lacey, as usual, spent her day reading — there were lots of magazines and books in the basement — or just thinking ... or just losing herself and her confused thoughts in blissful sleep.

  When Carolee came down with lunch, she was as pleasant as usual but seemed in a hurry and didn't stay long.

  That evening, when she brought dinner down, Carolee said, "There's something I'd like you to do, sweetheart."

  Lacey was lying on her bed when Carolee put the tray on the nightstand, moving the gun close to Lacey's face. She removed a tiny paper cup from the tray and handed it to Lacey. "I'd like you to take these two pills."

  "Why?" Lacey asked, taking the cup and peering into it cautiously.

  "They'll make you feel much better. You know what I mean. You won't be quite so ... well, confused about things. Take them now." She stood close to the bed with the gun inches from Lacey's face, pointed directly at her forehead.

  Lacey hesitated, her eyes glancing from the Pepsi on the tray to the pills, then the gun, then to Carolee's pleasant eyes.

  "Go ahead," Carolee said gently. "Take them."

  Lacey's eyes rested on the gun for a while, the gun that wasn't there. Then she grabbed the Pepsi, popped it open, shot the pills into her mouth, and drank them down.

  "That's a good girl. Now, you just enjoy your dinner and we'll be back down a little later."

  Lacey was halfway through her dinner when she realized that Carolee had said "we'll be back down." We who? Ron never came down. Lacey hadn't seen him since they'd left the bus station.

  As she ate mechanically, sitting in the chair and facing the tray on the nightstand, she thought about it in that mechanical way she seemed to think about everything these days. As she thought, the fog began to thicken. As she ate, her hand lifted the fork to her mouth a little slower with each bite, until it just stayed there on the tray beside the plate, fork held loosely in her fingers. She could only stare at the food, the food she could no longer even identify. Her brain felt numb, the way her cheeks and lips felt numb when the dentist filled a cavity. Then that numbness began to spread throughout her entire body. Although she felt paralyzed, she could still move, but only very slowly. She stumbled and staggered from the chair to sprawl clumsily on the bed. Somewhere, deep in the bottomless swamp of her mind, she thought, The pills ... the pills ...

  The next thing she knew, she was not alone in the basement. Ron and Carolee were there. They mounted a video camera on a tripod. Carolee still had the gun.

  Then they were taking their clothes off ... then removing her clothes. She could not struggle. Even if the gun had not been staring at her with its threatening black eye, she could not have fought them.

  Naked, white, and flabby, Carolee stood behind the camera, pointing both it and the gun directly at the bed, while Ron got on top of Lacey. He moved her arms and legs himself, all the while telling her what he wanted to do.

  "C'mon now, you can do it," he said very, very quietly. "You don't wanna get hurt, do you, sweetie? No, no, honey, you don't wanna get hurt, so just go ahead."

  She did what he told her to do without thinking because she couldn't think.

  And then, time passed as if Lacey had merely blinked her eyes and she saw Ron standing behind the camera with the gun as Carolee hovered over her, white flesh swinging and jiggling as she, like Ron, told Lacey exactly what to do, and unable to think or resist, Lacey went along with all of it.

  When they were done, when they had left, Lacey curled up beneath the covers, curled into a fetal position and fell into a sleep deeper than she had ever known.

  When she awoke, Lacey was walking. She was actually walking! She wasn't lying in a bed or lying anywhere else, she was up and walking through the chilly dark of night down a narrow path, then into a pale blue van. She was flanked by two strange men who held her by the elbows as they led her into the open van.

  Once inside, they laid her down on a cushion, covered her with a blanket, and one of the men smiled as he produced a hypodermic needle.

  "Just a little something to keep you from getting car sick on the long ride," he said as he inserted the needle into her weak arm.

  When she woke again, she was here, surrounded by black walls with the small lamp bleeding red light over the ceiling.

  There, she was given her meals — most of which consisted of a bowl of a mush-like substance, water, milk, and a hunk of bread — by a wiry middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform.

  "Where am I?" Lacey asked.

  The woman did not speak.

  "Is this some kind of hospital?"

  Still no answer.

  Finally, after a number of unanswered questions, Lacey gave in to the fact that she would receive no answers at all, so she stopped asking questions.

  There was a bare lightbulb in the center of the ceiling and two light switches by the door. Sometimes, if she wanted to get up and walk through the almost tangible blackness, she could try the switches. Maybe they would work and maybe they wouldn't. She craved the bright glow of the ceiling light; the red-shaded lamp made her sick to her stomach. Sometimes the ceiling light worked, sometimes it didn't. It only worked when they wanted it to work ... whoever they were. Either that, or the ceiling light, like the gun in Carolee's right hand, simply was not there after
all and she had only imagined it. In either case, she often had to go to the closet like bathroom in pitch-blackness.

  The only way she had of telling time was her meals, but they were all so much alike that she quickly lost track of morning, afternoon, and night.

  After her first few meals, the first visitor arrived. It was the pope ... or someone dressed like the pope. He was very comforting at first, very understanding. At least he seemed to be, judging from his tone of voice, because she could not understand the language he was speaking.

  Then he began to scream at her.

  Then he raped her.

  There was a man dressed up as Dracula. He raped her, too.

  So did the clown.

  And the Santa Claus.

  And the man dressed as Jesus.

  And the fat old woman who burst into the room. The woman's wrinkled, flabby body jiggling all over and just below her pasty, swaying belly she wore an enormous artificial penis strapped around her waist. The old woman always slammed the door as she opened her mouth, which held only a few teeth, and barked, "Okay, let'th get to it, cunt! Roll over and thpread yer fuckin' cheeks!"

  And then, of course, there were the four men who came in together and had their way with her in the light of burning candles that they placed on the floor in a half circle. They always left her face and hair sticky and slimy with their semen, forcing her to make her way through the darkness to the bathroom to clean up after they were gone.

  There was the dwarf, whose body was bent and twisted, whose fingers looked like ten big toes with nails that were no more than sharp, dark specks.

  And the transsexual who had large breasts and a penis.

  Sometimes she was visited by a man dressed as a woman.

  Then one day ... or one night, or one afternoon ... her visitor was brought to her by two men who were naked except for black leather masks that had slits for eyes and an open zipper over each mouth. Around the base of each of their half-erect penises, they wore a narrow strip of leather spotted with shiny metal studs, like the kind of collar one would expect to see on a pit bull. The studs were shiny because the two men had turned on the overhead light this time instead of the red-shaded lamp. This time, they wanted her to see her visitor clearly.