Darkest Before Dawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  “And it’s where all the nightmares live,” she says as tears seep from her lash line, her lips beginning to tremble.

  I back away from her, uncertain of what to think. I’m intrigued because oh, how looks may be deceiving. She is innocence on the outside, but so it seems, the angel I thought had not one crack may be broken on the inside, already crumbling from past destruction. And the thing that scares me with this revelation is that I realize why I am drawn to her—have been drawn to her. She is tainted, by what I am not certain, but only people who are fucked up can understand what that darkness is, and I want to know what has cast that shadow over her brilliant soul. Fear creeps through me like a slow fog hanging over a lake. The one thing I do believe is that it takes another dark soul to understand a broken person, and I now know this is dangerous territory I’m wandering through. Two broken people together—that will either end in something so unreal and raw that all those fractured pieces of the two of us will fuse together or we will only break each other further until nothing is left.

  And when the broken break, nothing in hell can compare to that catastrophe.

  I’m tired of reading. I’m done with pacing. And all there is are these four fucking walls and that goddamn door. That locked barricade. So I sit, twiddling my thumbs. Over and over.

  The lock clicks—and like Pavlov’s dog—I almost salivate. I’m conditioned to find excitement in that noise now because I know Max will be strutting through in a mere second. And he does. He’s in a fitted gray T-shirt and jeans, a slight five o’clock shadow. And I swoon—I shouldn’t—but things like that, like this, like him standing at the edge of the mattress, staring down at me with his intensely dark gaze, you can’t help it.

  He smiles and I feel my cheeks blush. I’m like a thirteen-year-old with a crush on a teacher and I hate it.

  “Got you something today,” he says as he holds out a leather journal to me. I take the book from him. Dark gray moleskin, so I know it’s wasn’t exactly cheap. “I figured as much as you like to read, you know, maybe you like to write or something.”

  And I swoon again.

  He sits on the edge of the mattress, his hand resting over my foot. “Do you?” he asks.

  “Do I what?” I run my hand over the leather, exhilarated by the feel of something new.

  “Do you like to write?”

  “I mean, I used to write poetry all the time…”

  He lies down on the bed, his fingers now trailing over my calf. “Really? What kind?”

  “Macabre. You know, dark stuff.”

  “Huh, figures. Darkness inside of you comment and all.” He laughs a little. “How old were you when you started?”

  “Fifth grade.”

  “That’s quite young.”

  “Yeah, well.” I swallow. “Sometimes you just have to get things out, you know?”

  “I do. Oh, I know, Ava. I do.”

  And there is silence. A tense silence where we both realize we have more in common than we’d like to admit. If I’m honest, though, that is something I’ve known because you aren’t drawn to a random stranger like this if there isn’t something so deep and fucked up and warped that you share. That darkness—it’s like a beacon, a silent, colorless beacon that sucks like people together.

  “Do you write?” I ask.

  One of his brows arch and a one-sided smirk kicks the corner of his mouth up. “Of course. It’s therapy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, we understand each other then?” He laughs and places his hand on my leg before standing and walking to the door. “I’ll see about getting you a different room if you like? An actual room with a bed and dresser.”

  And all I can say is: “Thank you” because I am stuck here. Forever, I’m afraid, but I don’t necessarily know that I mind any longer.

  The lock clicks and I open the journal to the first blank page. There are no words. Not a stray mark. I stare at it, and the funny thing is, for the first time since I’ve been here, there is a sense of freedom. I can write whatever I want. I can lose myself in a world I dream up. I can keep myself from going completely mad, simply by escaping into what should be reality. Perhaps this is how de Cervantes felt when he was imprisoned, maybe a revelation similar to this is what drove him to write the first lines of Don Quixote. Taking the pen, I don’t even think. I just write:

  When I talk to myself, I fear I may be going mad, but when I write to myself—there is the hope that these silent words will eventually reach someone. I’m Ava Donovan: captive, hostage—and that is how I will be remembered because to the outside world, I no longer exist. I only exist in here. With him, and sometimes, when he looks at me like he could love me in way no one else could, I’m okay with that. Maybe I am mad, or maybe I’ve just found the place I belong.

  I stop writing. Chill bumps spread over my arms when I read back over what I’ve written. Writing is an art, and true art comes from inspiration, which makes me wonder what kind of fuckedup lives some of my favorite authors have led. Surely there are pieces of them in each horrid tale. Maybe it is their subconscious writing—are people even the authors? It more likely is the hurt and anger and fear, I want to believe it is the emotions that bleed words onto paper.

  Because surely I’m not this far gone.

  Surely I don’t love him…

  Day 59—five and a half weeks later

  I flatten out the comforter and glance around the room, my nerves on fucking fire. This is phase two: bringing comfort and familiarity to a situation that should be anything but. For all intents and purposes, this is an actual bedroom—never mind there’s a double deadbolt on the outside of the door.

  Everything is ready, except for me. I’m not ready for this shit.

  She’s standing in the corner, a huge smile on her face as she runs her hand over the items on the bookshelf. I moved all of her books in here, but aside from that, every single thing in here, those have been here for all the other girls. Each girl is made to believe this room was prepared especially for them, they think it is a sign that I love them. That I care deeply for them because why else would I go to the trouble of all this? Of the dainty furniture, the freshly laundered sheets?

  “You did this for me?” She smiles.

  It never bothers me that they think that. But Ava thinking it, it causes a knot to form in the pit of my stomach. I can’t tell her yes, so I nod.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” I shift my gaze to the floor. “You’re special to me.” And that is not a lie. She rushes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and holding me tight.

  “Thank you, Max.”

  I can’t do this any longer, so I excuse myself, locking both deadbolts behind me. When I turn around, I find Earl propped against the wall, his legs stretched out blocking the narrow corridor.

  “She’s been here a good while, ain’t she?” he asks, a sick smirk plastered to his face.

  “Well”—I brush past him—“she wasn’t a fucking whore, now was she? What do you expect?”

  “Don’t know.” He follows me up to the kitchen.

  I go to the fridge and grab a beer, popping the can and immediately chugging half of it. His beady fucking eyes never leave me, and the harder he stares at me, the more I want to knock him the fuck out. “What the fuck are you staring at?” I ask.

  He laughs. And when Earl laughs at me, my blood pressure shoots through the damn roof. “You’re in deep shit, boy.” Another chuckle. “Deep, deep shit.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering and shrugs. “I’m sure you know what it means.” He crosses the room, opens the fridge, and stops, staring over the top of the door. “She’s stolen goods, boy. So whatever you’s thinking, better get rid of it. You can’t keep her.”

  I polish off the beer and crumple the can in my palm. “Fuck off, would you, Earl?”

  “Ah, don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch.”

  I don’t
even look at him when I walk out of the kitchen and up to my room, slamming the door closed behind me. I pace. I pop my neck. And when that does nothing to ease the tension, I slam my fist through the wall like a fucking teenager. This is not fucking fair. It’s not right. Honestly, I don’t think I can let her go. How in the actual fuck am I supposed to break her, have her tell me she loves me, and then give her to another man when I can only see her as mine?

  I take a seat at the desk and turn my MacBook on. This has become habit, reading the news every night, checking her Facebook to see what people are saying. Everyone is looking for her. She is not a prostitute or criminal; she is not one of the easily forgotten, as are the other women that have come through here. And the repercussions of this will be severe.

  Trust me, I’ve thought about possibly taking her and running, just leaving in the middle of the night…but if I set foot out of this fucking place with her and I’ll be in jail, or fucking dead, within a matter of hours.

  I read article after article. The fact that they have no leads, well, it does settle my nerves a touch, and just when I think maybe I can let her go, I read an interview with her piece of shit brother.

  My sister, Ava, was the most important person in my life. She was so happy and vibrant, bringing life to all of those around her. Whoever took her has no idea what they have done to our family. All I can ask is that they bring her back. That is all we want, to find her alive and safe.

  Lying motherfucker! I shove away from the desk, gripping the edge with my hands. My eyes land on the nightstand, and I nearly knock the chair over when I stand to make my way to it. I yank open the top drawer and grab my gun, pulling the slide back to make sure it’s loaded. Tucking it inside the waist of my jeans, I leave. I get in my car and I leave, making the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Birmingham, Alabama.

  Some people don’t deserve to fucking live—to breathe my goddamn air. And Brandon Donovan is one fuck that I’ll gladly watch draw his last breath.

  Day 59—date unknown

  Every day when Max comes in, he tells me what day it is. Today is day 59. The days and nights blur together… Actually, I don’t even know what those things are any longer. I sleep when I am tired. I pace when I am awake and alone. But when Earl is gone, Max takes me upstairs. He’ll take me for walks through the fields, only if it’s night though, and we talk. It’s almost like we’re in a relationship—a twisted, messed up relationship, but he cares for me. I know he does and in a world such as this, labels do not exist. Friend or foe? None of that exists because he is all I have, and when all you have is one person, well, there is no need for definition.

  More often than not, I find myself fantasizing that one day he will fuck me. It sounds crazy, but he goes out of his way to make me comfortable, to spend time with me, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me that makes me believe—I’m not even sure—maybe this is love… As fucked up as that is, there is something deep and electric, like a pull, between us. That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? Murder. That is what our connection is—our fathers. And what a connection to have, one of hatred…

  I lie here for the hours I’m alone and think that maybe this is fate. Maybe he is my person and the only way we would find each other is through this nightmare. Because then this is all worth it, right? Love. Something that is worth any cost, any sacrifice?

  I play out the scenarios of how I can save him, how maybe I’m the girl who will ignite the conscious I know lurks somewhere deep within him and then he’ll save me. And even though he’s a bad person, even though he has done me wrong by keeping me here…it is, after all, only a job. He’s following the rules, and if I am the one who makes him break those rules—well, isn’t that the type of thing romance stories are based on? Isn’t that what every woman dreams of? Having her love be something so special and pure that it can turn a beast into a man?

  I close the book and toss it to the floor before flopping back onto the bed. There’s an actual bed in here with a pretty lavender comforter and fluffy pillows. There’s a ceiling fan and a closet, a dresser with a mirror, a bookshelf. Every week he brings me more books. The last one I read was Dark Places by Gillian Flynn. He said it was one of his favorites, so of course, I devoured it. There is so much you can tell about a person by the types of books they read. I wonder why he likes it so much, is it the murder, the shitty upbringing, the abuse? I desperately want to know what happened that led him to where he is in life—what made him like to kill. Men who are as cold as he should be, you see it in their eyes, there is an emptiness that tells you they will snuff your life out in an instant. But Max’s eyes, while they are cold, and black, and pretend to be empty, there is a flicker of something I believe only I can see. A brief flare up of life and loss and love that I think is quickly dying out.

  And I want to be the one to understand him.

  I want to love him because I think that is all he really needs. Someone to actually, honestly understand and love him.

  A few days ago, he gave me an old radio clock so I wouldn’t have to sit in silence anymore. I didn’t bother to ask him the time. To be honest, I’d rather keep the concept of time as one of those things I really have no notion of. I don’t know why, but just being able to watch the time tick by—I think that would push me over the edge. There’s some pop rock song playing loud enough that I barely hear the knock on the door.

  I smile when I see Max step into the room. “Bought you something,” he says, holding up a book written by two authors I’ve never heard of. I clap my hands before holding them out. He places the paperback in my hand and I immediately flip it over, reading the synopsis to Wicked Little Words.

  “Thank you,” I gush as I thumb through the pages, breathing in the smell of the fresh ink.

  “Yep, sounded like something you’d like. Absolutely fucked up and sick,” he says with a laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Because I care for you.”

  “No, Max. Why are you here in your life? What made you do this—Earl, Bubba…why are you helping them?” He won’t look at me, so I gently take his chin in my hands, much like he has done to me time and time again, and I lift his face. “Look at me,” I whisper. “I want to know who you are, why you are the way you are. I want to understand you.”

  His brow creases for a brief second, his eyes narrowing. “I know nothing else.”

  I feel a soft smile shape my lips. “Your eyes say differently.”

  He glares at me, and I am uncertain whether it’s anger or confusion or something else entirely, but he’s thinking.

  “When you fail those you love time and time again,” he says, taking a breath. “When shit like this runs through your blood like a goddamn virus, you have no choice. Sometimes good intentions are laced with pure evil.”

  “You and your riddles.”

  “I have my reasons, Ava. But even at that, even without Earl and all this shit, I was fucked up long before that. I told you the truth already, I like to kill, and what kind of fucking person enjoys that shit?”

  Goosebumps prick their way over my arms like needles. This man is a murderer. He’s confessed twice that he enjoys taking people’s lives, which should make me hate him, but it doesn’t. “But you kill bad people, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “People that hurt other people?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are locked on mine and I take his hand, bringing it to my lips and kissing it so tenderly.

  “Then your heart is in the right place.” And I know how twisted that sounds, but I do believe it. We all have different convictions, and who am I to judge his? In a world like this, a person’s conscience changes. Right and wrong are not weighted by conventional measures. “You just need someone who understands it,” I whisper.

  “You…” He starts to reach for me but stops, leaning over his knees and scratching his fingers through his thick hair.

  “What’s wrong?” I scoot toward him and gen
tly scratch my nails over his broad back.

  “Nothing.” He yanks away from my touch. “Nothing,” he repeats, his tone growing agitated as he stands and paces the length of the room, stopping to lean against the far wall.

  “Max…” Fear strikes my chest. What if Earl has told him he has to kill me, what if I am no longer an asset to them? My heart hammers in my temples, adrenaline jolting through my body.

  He looks at me, his brow furrowed. “How do you feel… I need to know how you feel about…” Shaking his head, he trails off. I notice him swallow

  The upbeat song on the radio fades out, and then the song “Unsteady” begins playing. An orchestra plays in the background. The pulsing sound of the strings and that man’s voice change the mood to something somber, regretful, grief-stricken—lost. The air grows tense. Max bites down on his lip, shakes his head once more, then crosses the room with determined strides. His stare pins me in place. The intensity burning behind his eyes causes my skin to prickle and my heart to leap to my throat. Dragging one hand through his thick hair, his brow creases into a torn expression as he closes in on me.

  This is it. He’s going to kill me. To this song. In this room with his bare hands. And I thought I loved him…

  I scoot across the bed until my back hits the wall and I swallow. Max stops in front of me, his eyes locked with mine. His gaze drops to my mouth and he closes his eyes on a groan. He grabs my face. His fingers scratch up into my hair, his palm resting over my cheek. Slowly, he tugs my face toward his until his mouth is merely inches from mine.

  No words are spoken, they don’t need to be.

  This is wrong. There’s something about him I know shouldn’t be humanly possible, yet there it is. Those dark eyes of his keep jumping from my eyes to my mouth, and when he leans in so slowly, my heart bangs against my ribs. The chorus of that song blares over the radio and this is one of those moments you know you will recall on your death bed. A pivotal moment where every single unlived breath of your life hangs in the balance.