Darkest Before Dawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  He waves me off and flips the channel to some horrible movie from the ’70s. “I won’t touch your purdy little girl.”

  Shaking my head, I push the screen open. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

  “Boy, I’ll choke you in yer sleep.”

  The door slams shut behind me and I climb into my car, driving the forty miles to town to buy my soon to be ‘pretty little girl’ some clothes.

  I found myself worried with what she would like when I was shopping. That’s a first. And it is a warning sign I don’t dare ignore. I’ve spent the better part of the drive back to the house convincing myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t feel guilty: Lila…the ironic fact that Ava’s father took my family from me. In a way, I should see this as a form of fateful retribution—shouldn’t I? He kills my family, I destroy his daughter, but for whatever reason, I’m finding it all hard to digest.

  The sun has nearly crept below the horizon when I pull back into the driveway. Barbara’s piece of shit Mazda 626 is parked in front of the porch. “Fucking Earl,” I mumble. “Shit!” I wipe over my brow.

  We had a bit of a catastrophe a month ago with one of the girls getting out, nearly had to kill that one. After that we agreed to no visitors. Of course, Earl can’t keep to a simple fucking plan. At least it’s just Barbara. She’s always so fucked up on meth, completely out of her gourd, even if she were to stumble down to the cellar and into that room, she’d have no clue of it an hour or so later.

  I grab the shopping bags and the takeout from Olive Garden and climb out. It’s freezing out tonight and my entire body tenses from the frigid wind blowing through the trees. The chains to the old swing on the front porch creak when another gust picks up, howling around the corners of the house. Bear and Rufus are huddled together asleep on the porch. I drop my keys when I reach the top of the stairs and Bear lazily lifts his head, eyeing me before deciding he’d rather go back to sleep than bother wagging his tail.

  I jab the key into the lock and can already hear country music blaring through the speakers, the sound almost drowning out Barbara’s and Earl’s rough laughter.

  “Come on”—I nudge the dogs as I open the door—“get your asses inside.” They both hop up and run into the living room, wrestling with each other. The entire foyer is filled with a thin cloud of smoke and the faint smell of burning plastic. Low grade meth. When I round the corner into the kitchen, there’s five fucking people—Earl, Barbara, Bubba, Jeb, and Judy—all in laughing fits, eyes glazed over and bloodshot. The very minute I glance at Judy, her eyes lock on me and I groan, heading toward the hallway.

  “Hey, Maxwell,” Judy coos, batting her eyelashes as she slowly pushes up from the table and saunters over to me.

  Judy is what you call “trailer park champagne.” She’s the best this little town has to offer: looks, blowjobs, bar fights. But as roughneck as I may pretend to be to hold up this façade, that kind of woman stands a better chance in hell than with me. Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I shrug away from her.

  “When you gonna let me show you a good time, sweet cheeks? First time’s on the house.” She smiles, her thin, pink lips showcasing overly bleached teeth.

  I don’t utter a word. Just glare at the lot of them disapprovingly as I make my way into the hall.

  “I’ll wait for you,” she says. I hear the legs of the chair scrape over the floor, and I glance over my shoulder. Their attention is now back to the pipe being passed around, and I’m able to sneak into the cellar without being noticed.

  Ava’s sitting in the same spot she was when I left. She’s braided her long, chestnut hair, and she smiles—faintly, but it is a smile—when I step inside.

  “Brought you some real food,” I say, holding up the bag of takeout. That gets me another, larger smile.

  “I love Olive Garden. Please tell me it’s the Chicken Parmesan?” Her brow wrinkles. I can tell she’s confused by her own actions. That happens quickly in situations such as these. She is enthusiastic over something as simple as food. She heard that excitement in her own voice, and now she is questioning herself. It is all part of the process…

  “I got a few things,” I say. “Didn’t know what you liked.” I place the food on the bed beside her before taking a seat. She grabs the bag and pulls out the first plastic container and set of cutlery. When she opens the lid, she squeals, rips the fork out of the plastic wrapping, and begins shoveling food into her mouth. One bite and she throws her head back, closing her eyes.

  “Mmm.” She exhales as she swallows. “I forgot what actual food tastes like.”

  And that makes me feel bad. Fuck!

  She takes several more bites of food before looking up at me. “Aren’t you gonna eat?” she asks, using the back of her hand to wipe sauce from her lips.

  “I already ate.” I drop the bags of clothes to the floor, lean back against the wall, and watch her.

  She scarfs down nearly two plates of food, completely ignoring me in the process, before she places the bag on the floor, and all the while, I study her. The shape of her face, the dip in her lips. Her hair. Her eyes. Her mannerisms. Unlike the others, she was ripped away from a life of privileged, a life with promise. And I cannot convince myself this is a better life for her, so I remind myself that her privilege came from bloodshed. She is the daughter of a criminal and with that birthright comes shit like this.

  “I am sorry,” I say, reaching over to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Such a simple touch, but the soft feel of her warm skin under my fingertips, well, it’s really not enough. I want more. I swallow. “I’d much prefer to not have you in this situation.”

  “Then let me leave.” She forces away the tears threatening her eyes.

  Ava may be strong, but no one is this strong. If I had to guess, the only reason she is fighting those tears right there is because she doesn’t want me to view her as weak. In this world, weak people are easily disposable.

  “Please,” she says barely above a whisper.

  “I can’t.”

  “He’d give you anything you want. As much money as you want…my father would give you anything. He’s wealthy. He’s very wealthy…” She inhales and sniffs back a few sobs before anger settles on her face. “And he’s a very dangerous man. He will find me and he will kill you. Slowly. Brutally. Without any remorse.”

  I stand and head to the door. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

  Panic darts through her eyes. She jumps up from the bed, wedging herself between me and the exit. “Tell me why I’m here!”

  “Don’t ask me that again.”

  That panic flicker morphs into anger. “How many people’s lives have you taken?”

  What the fuck does she thinks she’s doing with these questions? “Only people who fucking deserve to have their lives taken.”

  “Oh.” She snarls. “A vigilante? Is that it?”

  I shrug.

  “You think you’re some fucking savior? A hero?”

  “Never said that. All I said was that I only kill bad people.”

  Her gaze narrows. Her jaw ticks. Her tiny nostrils flare with anger. “I don’t believe you. Look what you are doing to me, look at what you fucking do,” she shouts. “You’re a bad person, a very bad person, Max.”

  I almost feel as though I’ve just been scolded, and out of instinct want to feel a hint of shame, but I don’t. “Depends on your definition of bad,” I say.

  “Look in the mirror. You are my definition of bad.”

  “Why, thank you.” I smirk.

  “And I hate you.”

  “As you should.” I grab both her shoulders and move her away from the door.

  “Please don’t leave me…” And just like that, she’s again swung from hatred to need. She drags in a breath. “I just…I just—I can’t take the silence, the being alone. Please, just stay. For a minute. Let me pretend something is normal.”

  Our eyes lock for the briefest moment and all I can think about is kissing her. And
that’s a terrible thing. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m cupping her cheek in my hand. Her breath catches and she freezes. A low groan makes its way up my throat when I brush my thumb over her plump bottom lip. The things that run through my mind at this moment: I want nothing more than to grab her by the hair, tilt her head back, and kiss her. I want to know what her soft skin feels like pressed against mine; I want to know what it feels like to have her—to take her in the most primal of ways… I close my eyes in an effort to regain control. I tell myself this is wrong.

  When I open my eyes, I lean against the door. “I will stay. And do you want to know why? Because whether you want to believe it or not, I’m not a bad person.”

  And really, at the core of it all, I am no different than her father.

  And she loves him.

  Bracing his body weight with his arm, Max lowers himself to the floor. After he sits, he leans against the door, his stare aimed at me as he casually rests his arms over his bent knees. “I’m not a bad person,” he says, almost offended that I would think of him any other way.

  And I can say nothing because part of me believes him, and how fucking insane is that? Nothing I do makes sense anymore. I begged him to stay. It sounds crazy, but I just can’t take the solitude, and even though I hate him, his company is better than no one’s.

  Then again, there is something about him that’s almost caring. My mind begins to travel down a dark, warped rabbit hole. The thing about people like he and I—our normal is twisted and fucked up. And as ludicrous as this may sound: some bad people are actually good. It’s all a luck of the draw, much like being born into royalty. You become a prince due to your lineage, and sometimes you’d prefer to be anything but. It’s the same for criminals, well, some of them. I want to believe Max is one of those people who don’t belong in this world, but are in it merely from inheritance. I want him to be lost because I feel he’s too beautiful to truly be tainted. No, I want him to be lost because what terrifies me is the thought that maybe he really does belong to this darkness, just like I do, and if that is the case then there is nothing I can do to stop where we are heading… What the hell am I saying?

  “You okay?” The lull of his deep voice snaps me from my thoughts.

  Taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, I shake my head. “I just don’t want you to leave.”

  “And for whatever reason, I don’t fucking want to.” He laughs and I find myself becoming lost in the way his eyes light up when he does that. “Fucked up, huh?” he says, his smile quickly fading. And here we sit in an odd silence. Our eyes are locked, and pieces of me know I should break this stare, but a larger part wants to keep looking, digging deeper, hoping I will see something he doesn’t let anyone else see.

  He grabs my knee and my gaze breaks from his because I can’t look at him when he touches me like this. The gentle movement of his thumb as it glides over my skin feels too right. It should feel cheap. I want it to feel cheap because this—this, it makes me feel vulnerable.

  “I am sorry, Ava,” he huffs and I look back up at him. “I am…it’s just one of those things I have no control over.” His eyes fall to the floor. “It’s wrong, it is, to take you like this, but in this part of the world it’s business, you understand that? I promise you though, I won’t let anything happen to you. I will keep you safe.”

  And my heart does this little flitter because that sounded so sincere. Max’s gaze sweeps the room, stopping on the bed. “Do you need another blanket?”

  “Um, no.” God, this is fucking insane. Why am I even having this conversation with him? He is horrible. He is keeping me here…but…the way he touches me. He’s nice. He brings me things. He cares. Right? That is caring? Why else would you act that way when you don’t have to? I feel like my brain can no longer make sense of a damn thing. Up is down and down is up. Fuck!

  I’ve lost myself so deeply within my thoughts that when Max reaches for me, the sudden movement startles me. I panic and jerk away from him, and my back hits the cold wall.

  “Chill, Ava. I just wanted to touch you. Just…” His eyes narrow as he reaches out again—cautiously, and swipes a strand of hair from my face. “Fuck.” His head slams back against the wall. “I hate this.”

  He silently stares at the floor for a long minute while I sit here wondering how I can convince this man to let me go. Wondering why in the hell I am attracted to him. Why I want to run my fingers through his thick hair. Why I want to strip down to nothing and have him touch me, have him look at me like I’m something he can’t be without. Why do I want that validation from him?

  A short-lived smile flickers over his lips then disappears. He swallows. I swallow.

  “I have to…” His gaze trails down to my lips and I know that look. He wants to kiss me. And I want him to, so I do what any normal girl does in a situation similar to this, I lean in, close my eyes, and wait.

  “I have to go,” he says. My eyes fly open as he abruptly stands. “I’ll come back though. I promise.” And with that he walks to the door, opens it, and leaves.

  Worthless…

  I sit on the mattress for a few moments, dumbfounded by what just happened. My heart is in my throat, pounding with an uncomfortable force. Closing my eyes, I try to recall the feel of his hands on my cheek again. I crave his touch and I wonder if it’s because, down here, there is no human touch. No, that’s not it, it’s because I want him. I want him to want me. I want him to fuck me. I imagine what it would be like to have his hands on me, to have him rip my clothes from my body and throw me down on a bed. What it would feel like to have him inside of me, and I realize I have lost my mind. I see now how fucked up I really am because the fact that he doesn’t crave me the way I crave him, it makes my chest go all tight. It makes me angry and disappointed all at the same time.

  The longer I sit and stare at the door, waiting for him to come back inside, panic sets in. With him gone, I’m once again forced to see the filthy room, the locked door I can’t get out of. Death. That is what this is: the holding room for death.

  Sweat pricks my entire body. My breathing grows erratic and every last inch of my skin buzzes with the fear of dying in this room. The walls seem to shrink in on me. The silence so strong I can actually hear it. My senses are overwhelmed by the deprivation.

  No sound.

  No touch.

  Nothing to see or do.

  I am nothing. I am in a state of absolute nothingness—no longer in existence outside of these four walls. And it is in this moment of despair I realize we are always alone. Even when surrounded by people, it truthfully is no different than this right here. Our bodies are prisons. Our minds a captive no one aside from us will fully understand. Oh, shit. I am losing my mind!

  I don’t know why I do it, but I jump up from the bed and run across the room to the door. Screaming for Max, I pound over the wood until the skin on the sides of my palms split open. Blood seeps from the wounds, but I continue to beat over the door. Each hard hit leaves a stamp of blood. I want to feel I have some control in this, even though I know I don’t. I just want him to come back. I just want to see his face. I don’t want to be alone, whether that means sitting with the proverbial devil or not. I beat over the door again and again, screaming until my voice goes hoarse, until I am exhausted and fall to my knees, resting my forehead against the door.

  Out of breath, I give into the fact that I am never leaving, and if by any chance of God I do, my sanity’s already gone.

  Day 17

  I don’t know how long it’s been since Max left me alone. To be honest, the entire concept of time is lost on me now. I don’t need time. It doesn’t matter to someone like me.

  I’m lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, watching the water drip from that goddamn pipe. A rustling sound draws my attention to the side of the room. A tiny field mouse scurries over the shopping bag Max left on the floor. It sits up, running its little hands over its head before taking off again across the room and disappearing be
hind the toilet. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I make my way to the side of the room and grab the bag, digging through the contents. Jeans, shirts, sweaters, panties, and bras. At the bottom is a hairbrush, some toothpaste and a toothbrush.

  My stare remains fixed on those items as I run my tongue over the thick film that’s built up on my teeth. I tear the boxes open, already covering the toothbrush with toothpaste as I hurry to the sink. I turn the tap and brush so long and hard that when I spit the foam is full of blood.

  I bring one last handful of water to my lips and swish it around in my mouth before I spit into the sink and turn the faucet off. The lock to the door clicks and I spin around, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth as I cross the room. The hinges creak and Max walks inside, holding a tray of food. A plastic bag, beige with brown writing that I recognize well: Barnes and Nobles, hangs from his left wrist.

  “You hungry yet?” he asks, setting the tray beside the cot.

  I shrug as I take a seat on the mattress.

  “Sorry, I was out all day. It’s dinnertime…and.” He pulls the bag from his wrist, steps toward me, and extends his hand. “Got you something to help pass the time and all.” His smile deepens, dimples popping on each side of his face.

  Reluctantly, I take the bag and peer inside. Books. Four Past Midnight, Revival, Frankenstein, and The Full Collection of Edgar Allan Poe. My brow wrinkles. These are my favorite books. How the hell does he know?

  “How…” I trail off as my gaze meets his.

  “I checked your Facebook profile.” He sits on the mattress, clasps his hands, and leans over his knees. “You really should have that set to private. And not post your every fucking move…‘Excited to go to WJ Park with Bronson tonight.’” His face lifts, those ink-black eyes boring into me. “Bragging about going parking. Strange how comfortable everyone is, letting strangers into such intimate details of their lives.” He shakes his head.

  A lump rises in my throat. I think back to that post. I regret it. I wish I could take it back. To know something as stupid as that may be the reason I am in this room at this very moment… I take the copy of Frankenstein out. The silver cover blurs behind tears. The fact that Max brought me something I love… I glance up at him. “Thank you,” I whisper, blinking away the want to cry.