by J. D. Palmer
“I don’t know why you’re nervous now, backing it up is a lot harder.” She laughs her bully laugh and then spits into a cup. She chews packets of tobacco. A habit that I thought I’d find abhorrent. I was wrong. It’s endearing to see a beautiful girl not give a shit about appearances.
I line up the truck and start backing it towards the barn, my gaze going back and forth between the two side view mirrors as I weave a crooked path. Jessica crawls across the seat and grips the wheel with one small hand, steadying it as I back up. She leans in and kisses me and I almost slam on the brakes.
But I trust her.
Here is a woman who sees me for what I am. And yes, she sees my potential as well as my apathy. But instead of pushing me she challenges me. She preys upon my pride to push me out of my shell.
I love her for it.
We stack the hay in a shed in the middle of the farm, just the two of us. She tosses the hay down from the trailer and I haul it inside and try to make orderly rows. Dust motes cloud the air and I can’t stop coughing. My lungs feel grainy and my eyes are watering from the particulates. I have grit and straw in my mouth and down my collar.
Jessica doesn’t seem to be bothered, her small frame tossing hay off the truck quickly and efficiently. She notices that I’m taking a break and gives me a wolfish smile. “Tuckered out already?”
I shake my head. My forearms are burning and I’m filthy and my back aches and… I’m the happiest man alive.
She hops down from the trailer bed and pinches my ass. “You want to shower before we go out tonight?”
I’m exhausted. But I’ll be damned if I don’t find the energy somewhere.
But holy hell my back hurts. The straw prickles my neck, an itch that turns to a sharp sting. My head throbs, an ache that builds…
I wake up remembering the straw in her hair. The way in which she made the world melt away. I cling to it as hard as I can, doing my best to ignore the thumping in my head. The stone beneath my face. The smell of my blanket or my body or both.
I wonder if Jessica is alive and that’s enough to make me sit up. Better to see the hell I am currently in than to imagine the one without.
The girl is lying in the bed, bare shoulders peek above the covers, hands clasped tight together up by her chin. Her eyes are closed but I don’t think she is asleep. Her eyes open, as if she can hear my thoughts, and she stares at the ceiling. I wonder what she thinks about, or if she thinks at all.
I check my water dish, hoping in vain that it will be filled. It’s not. I shouldn’t have drank all of it last night. I knew this was coming. After foraging Stuart disappears for most of the day. He says he is communing with God, divining his will. I think he just goes and finds gifts with which to torment the girl.
I feel like crying even though I can’t. Not just because I’m dehydrated. My soul is simply too tired. Looking at the girl I wonder if that’s my future here. One day I won’t speak, won’t feel, I’ll simply exist for the benefit of Stuart.
It is a hard, hard thing being shown exactly how feeble you are. Your mind driven to its knees, illuminating the true depths of your weakness. Mentally and emotionally. Especially when you spent the majority of your youth believing that you carried within you a fire, a courage that set you apart.
Maybe everyone thinks that. Or maybe I was just better at fooling myself.
Gods, I thought I was stronger than this.
I’ve always believed that we can be weighed and measured by the people we surround ourselves with. I had few friends, but the ones I had were the best. And my family, pillars of strength that kept me propped up longer than they should, had faith in me longer than they should. And Jessica, who saw me for what I was and loved me for it.
But now they’re gone.
Everyone is gone.
If we are defined by the people that we surround ourselves with, then the illness that swept through cities and towns not only killed my friends, my peers, but also stripped me of any strength of character as well.
I want to go home. I want my mother.
The girl slowly sits up. I turn around to try to give her privacy. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Truth is I don’t want to see the bruises on her body, blobs of purple where Stuart dug his fingers into her thighs or the red marks on her back. Marks of our impotence.
She dresses herself in a new dress that Stuart laid out for her the night before. Minnie Mouse’s face patterns the red cloth. She smooths the dress as she sits down in her usual position, vacant eyes staring out the window.
“My name is Harlan.”
In case she didn’t hear me yesterday, or the day before.
Stuart’s sermon that night is filled with more passion. His pupils are barely pinpricks in wide eyes and he flits about the room with energy. He must have loaded up on pain pills.
“And he who was seated upon the throne, that’s me you see.” He looks at the girl, a smile on his face. “He said Behold! I will make all things new! Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”
He hurries over to the bed and grabs her hand. “We have been picked. I have been picked. The world before was filled with so many flaws. Everyone was blind, blind!” Globs of spittle leap from his mouth as he works himself into a frenzy. “Except for me. Me! I saw the way. But like most saviors I was misunderstood. Shunned. But then God laid a heavy hand down on the… on the unchosen. And he swept them aside. And now he trusts me with making things new. He trusts me to do it the right way. Don’t you see? Of course you see.”
There’s only so long that he can speak to a silent room. Not that he doesn’t relish every moment, seeming to fire himself up with ideas and other times arguing with unseen aggressors. He raves and paces until his shirt is coated with sweat and his hair is plastered to his forehead. Then, pleased with his efforts, he forces himself on the girl while I face the corner of the room and try to think of ways to escape.
How?
How do I get out of here?
You could die.
It scares me how often I think about suicide. If just to spite this horrible man.
The days blur together, each day settling deeper into my bones as my mind and flesh become weaker. I rarely try to talk to the girl anymore. Instead I use the time alone to try to rest, or to think about home, or more often I allow myself to drift off into a stupor in which I float in a sea of nothingness.
It’s getting easier.
Chapter 3
The sock is dead. Too many holes, frayed and torn and stained with my sweat. The heel went first, and now the toes have disintegrated.
I lay it gently onto my pile of blankets. It’s trash, but it’s mine. A possession. Something that shows that I was here.
You’re cracking.
My cowboy boots aren’t in better shape. They weren’t in the greatest of shape before, I wore them constantly. But now the toe of the right foot is split open, the rubber bottom flapping open like the face of some laughing jester. I rub my hand over the leather, squeezing the gap shut, wishing I could press it together and somehow it would fix itself by strength of my will.
I love these boots. But I hate them, too. Hiking up and down these hills in cowboy boots is hell on your knees. Not much for gripping pavement, either. I’ve fallen a lot.
But they’re my tether to home. A reminder of Montana. Jessica always laughed at me for wearing them. “You’re not a cowboy,” she’d say, but then she bought me the ones I’m holding now. Black stitching on brown with a dotted white line zig-zagging around the piping. White scuff marks mar the vamp from when she took me out dancing, and there is dirt from stacking hay. I try to ignore the darker colors, the reds and browns and blacks. Stains of my new occupation.
Stuart is late this morning. He stumps up the stairs, cheeks rosy with exertion. Or excitement. He has his usual gift hidden behind his back. The plate of food is deposited on the bed. He doesn’t make her take any pills. Must be too excited.
He drops to a knee in front of the girl and bri
ngs out a bundle of roses. “These were very hard to find.” The girl doesn’t say anything, impassively taking the flowers and holding them to her chest.
I get up, prepared to head outside. Instead Stuart stays on his knees, his hand making little designs on her cheek and neck.
“I’ve been thinking about something and wanted to talk to you. Tomorrow will be our anniversary, one year...”
One year with him?
“Don’t worry, I marked it on the calendar, I’m sure of the day. I know how important these things are to you women.” He gives his laugh, eyes watching her intently. Hur hur hur. She remains frozen, eyes blank, her mind retreating farther and farther away from the present.
“I think I have proven to you that I am a good provider. Even before God killed the unchosen and left me to make order of life.” He takes on a stern look. “Since then it has been very difficult, but I have done it. Even though you don’t seem to thank me. Why is that? Why don’t you ever thank me?”
He stands up, agitated, and I hurry to lower my eyes. He stares down at her, fists clenched. He won’t hit her, or at least he hasn’t yet, but it could be hell for me if he loses his temper.
The girl slowly traces the lettering on the book before looking up at Stuart. There is nothing there. No response that I can see, no acknowledgment of his gift or of this most horrible of anniversaries. But it calms him. He sits next to her and clutches her hand.
“Of course you’re thankful. Forgive me my love. But this is also a sign, I believe, of how good we are together. So quick to forgive and love each other again. You make me so happy.” He pauses, his eyes darting towards me to make sure I’m not watching. “So no more pills, my dear. No more delaying that which God has chosen us for.” He lifts her hand and kisses it, then leans his body in so that they are cheek to cheek. “It is time to have a child.”
The girl had found a refuge within herself. A room in the far corners of her mind in which to pretend everything is okay. She is ripped back to reality by this statement. Her eyes widen and I see the panic, the animal fear. Her free hand clutches her belly and she moves back from him.
“You are surprised. I see that. But you are so young, and the young never think about these things. But I’m getting older.” Hur hur hur. He laughs that damn laugh of his. “And I think now is a good time.”
The girl begins to cry. I’ve been here for three weeks and I’ve never seen her shed any tears. This is more frightening than anything he has done to me.
The mention of a child makes me think of Jessica. I wonder if she is showing yet. I wonder if she is chained in some room with a madman. I wonder if there is some other man staring at her, shamefully grateful that this is some other woman and not the one he has grown to love.
Why am I not home?
The girl weeps, incredulous tears that Stuart’s warped mind interprets as happiness. He wipes them away and makes shushing sounds and moves in to hug her. Over his shoulder her wet eyes meet mine for the first time. She is there for the first time. And I look away. I have yearned to make a connection with her while in this prison, but now I shy away from it. Hers is a helplessness that I cannot face.
The foraging run takes us down the same streets past the same houses we have already scoured clean. Stuart is in a good mood today, humming as we walk. He is practically skipping along.
The house we enter is unlocked and devoid of corpses.
“I knew today was going to be a good day, Burden, everything is falling into place.”
All we find is jugs of water and some condensed milk. Stuart counts it as a victory. “An easy day, Burden, and a good find.” He pats me on the head and we head back to the house early.
I barely have time to wheel the cart into the patio before he is hustling me down to the ocean. He exhorts me to clean myself as quickly as possible. The man is intent on getting back to the house as soon as he can. A groom on his wedding day would show more restraint.
He shackles me in the corner and hurries down the stairs. I look at the girl. Her eyes are red rimmed and she is fretful, standing to pace before sitting again. She doesn’t look at me.
When Stuart returns in an hour he is freshly shaved and he has taken the time to comb his hair. He wears a button up shirt with a dark blue tie and a pair of khakis that are too big for him. He doesn’t bother with shoes.
He produces a bottle of red wine, holding the girl’s glass to her lips and exhorting her to drink. “Tonight we must celebrate, my love, we must celebrate!”
They drink most of the bottle, the girl taking sips as he pushes the bottle to her lips. He makes idle, almost nervous chit chat.
“We will have to think of names. If it is a boy I think he should keep my name. And his child after that. A long line of Stuarts so that the world will know the blood of its savior.”
He takes a moment to think back on his words, a pleased smile creeping across his face as he imagines whatever distorted future he sees for himself.
“If it’s a girl,” and he gives a little wince, “we’ll name her Abigail.” He only pauses a moment before answering the unasked question. “Abigail and I… courted before you came into my life, dearest one. She was very special. Very special to me. But the hardships of this world proved too much for her.” He grimaces and shakes his head, as if he were talking about a childhood pet that he had loved.
And put down.
“I think it would be nice to honor her memory. Don’t you?”
The girl doesn’t respond and Stuart brings the wine to his lips and drinks deeply. Abruptly he puts the bottle down. He stands her up and roughly strips the small child’s dress up and over her head.
She doesn’t fight him as he has his way with her.
When I first became his captive and he did this I begged him to stop. He simply put a collar on me and would hold the button until I passed out. To my shame I haven’t tried to stop him again. I sit in my corner and I try not to watch, or listen, or let the feeling of utter powerlessness drive me deeper into the pit of despair that I now call home.
I think of Montana. I think of what it will be like when I get there. When I finally make it home. It’s always in the fall for some reason. I walk down the thin road that winds its way down and around the slough that borders my parent’s property. The cattails are everywhere and my feet kick and crunch and slip on leaves that cover the road. Canadian Geese honk as they fly overhead, a perfect V with always the one straggler struggling to keep up. I reach the apple tree that marks the edge of the property. Most have been picked. Jessica must be there, she loves apples. I smile and turn to go--
“What are you doing?”
I think he is talking to me and I look around, startled. He is staring down at the girl. She, in turn, is staring at me.
“Why are you looking at him?”
Stuart strikes her across the face before climbing off and heading towards me, uncaring of his nakedness, his body a mixture of white hairs and the marbling of old muscles gone soft. I scramble backwards as he approaches but the chains only allow so much. A balled fist hits me next to my ear and I yell out. I curl into a fetal position and he begins to kick me in the side, the back, the head again. And again. His blows are weak but repetition provides the damage.
It does not take much to tire him, and I peek up to see him retrieving a collar.
No no no no no!
I raise a hand towards him, waving it back and forth to signify that I had nothing to do with this. “Please don’t I— He grabs a chain and pulls me close, using the links to torque my arm behind my back. He shoves me down then kneels on my spine as he attaches the collar.
“You want to look at him, well look!”
I have one glance in which I see the girl, hunched naked on the bed and wide-eyed, looking at me with something like remorse before he presses the button.
Chapter 4
I swing from a tree that stands in the middle of a trail. The path splits and curves around the tree, man having bowed to the
age and strength of the oak, forgoing the need to keep the path a straight line. The noose is tight. Excruciating pain thrums with every beat of my heart as the rope cuts into the side of my neck. My mouth gapes, my swollen tongue flopping out over my teeth as I struggle to take a breath. Just one breath.
I can’t die like this.
I can’t die like this.
Bound hands struggle with invisible bonds behind my back as my feet kick in the air, desperately searching for some purchase.
I have something to say. Something to tell someone. I know it’s important though I can’t seem to remember what it was. But I need to hold on. Someone will come along the path, take my words, and then I can die. But not before.
Not before.
I wake up. My hands are hooked into the small gap allowed by the collars at my throat. I think I might have been yelling, my throat feels raw and it hurts to swallow. I take deep breaths, doing my best to slow my racing heart as my body makes every spot of pain known to me. I slowly drag myself to my water bowl and drape my head over the edge, lapping water like the animal I have become.
It’s dark in the room. I was only out for a few hours. The moon is high in the sky, light filtering in from the window. I see two glints of light in the darkness and realize the girl is watching me. Slowly her form takes shape, her knees drawn up around her as she keeps vigil. I try to smile before I’m swept back into oblivion.
Whatever the look meant, real or imagined, it impacted Stuart in all the wrong ways. He preaches about faithfulness now, often screaming at the girl. Often threatening her. Any transgression of mine, real or imagined, is immediately punished. I am forced to walk barefoot on foraging runs. I am blamed when we do not find food or water. I am blamed for not having the strength to pull the cart up the hill.