by J. D. Palmer
What will happen when she gets too old to look like a child?
He keeps her spinning, naked now, the setting sun highlighting the peaks and valleys of her thin body. I watch, trying to catch her eye, to lend her strength. It’s silent, only the sound of her bare feet scratching on the piece of carpet near her bed. If someone could look in on the scene right now, what would they possibly think?
Stuart is aroused. This is his victory. He has subjugated us to his will once again and the power he has over us brings him ecstasy. He lowers the chain, the other hand grabbing an elbow as he prepares to push her onto the bed.
She puts up a hand.
He looks shocked. A smile crosses his face and he pulls on her arm, harder this time. She puts a hand onto his chest. She keeps her eyes down, still subservient, as she gives him a soft push away.
“My love, what are you…”
She shakes her head, her other hand coming up to join the one still raised against him. Her elbows are locked and her face resolute, but I can see the tremors of fear that shake her body at this bold act.
His eyes dart to me and I don’t look away quickly enough. I see his shame at being rejected and I know that, because I was witness, she will pay. There is a moment of silence as he stares at her.
Then he backhands her hard before grabbing a pigtail to jerk her backwards, wrenching her head around so that it rests beneath his shoulder.
“You ungrateful bitch. I’m the chosen one. I am your master, you hear me? I’m your master!”
He throws her down onto the bed and climbs on top of her. She tries to roll over, her knees locked, hands attempting to cover herself. He grabs her by the neck and throws her onto her back, slowly choking her until she stops thrashing. He lets go and she gulps in air, her fingers clenching and unclenching.
He has his way with her, hard thrusts that cause her to grimace in pain. She yells out involuntarily, her voice raspy with disuse. Then she is quiet, eyes closed tight against the torment until it’s over.
He has taken so much from her.
He slinks out of the room as soon as it is over. No words are said, the anger gone, a perplexed expression on his face. Almost as if he were ashamed of himself.
Almost.
She doesn’t move for a long time. I see one bare leg, red fingerprints beginning to swell and a scratch from a long fingernail runs above her knee. The rest of her is still, a dark pile of blankets on the bed. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I would say. To say I’m sorry again would be an insult.
She eventually gets up and makes her way into the bathroom. It’s hard for her to walk. She leans heavily on the wall. I hear the sound of toilet paper ripping as she cleans herself, or cries, or both. It is a long time before she emerges.
Dark smudges mar her neck now as she pulls the dress back on. She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. I think she is crying but then she looks up at me. There is an anger in her glance tonight, a fire in the eyes that I have not seen before. Her fists still clench and unclench, opening and closing with the ebb and flow of a vast tide of anger.
“Beryl. We are going to get out of here.”
It’s the first time I have said it. The words sit between us. They sound feeble.
“We have to try.”
She stares at me, I can almost see despair and hope warring behind her eyes. She has been so broken by this man I do not know if she is capable of an escape attempt. She shakes her head.
“Beryl, we have to. I will get out. When we go out next I will find a way…”
She shakes her head again.
“Beryl?”
She covers her ears with her hands, her face turned to the ground as she rocks slowly back and forth. Abruptly she looks up. She points at me and raises a fist, then puts her hands around her neck. She makes a cup with her hands and slowly tips it to the side.
“I don’t understand.” She repeats the gesture. “Beryl, I don’t know what you are trying to tell me. But I think I have a way.” I gesture to my body. “I am injured, I am too hurt to be a threat. We need him to think that. And then I’ll get away. So don’t make life harder on yourself.” I wince at my own words. She is silent and still.
“Beryl? Just… Be ready for when I come back. Until then… play along.”
I know that I wouldn’t be able to do what I’m asking her to do. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t respond. Dear god she just returned, did I put out the fire?
There is a small thump and a scuff at the door outside. We don’t talk for the rest of the night.
The following day Stuart is all apologies. He comes up the stairs with a big breakfast of pancakes and eggs. He cradles her bruised face and tells her how sorry he is for hurting her. He kisses the cut by her eye.
“The pressures of being the hand of god... I’m so sorry my love. You have to refrain from provoking me.”
We are left alone for the rest of the day and the night. Even Stuart can see the amount of pain that Beryl is in. Days blur as he plies her with gifts of teddy bears and chocolates and dolls, pleading with her for forgiveness on good days or remonstrating her for being ungrateful on the bad.
I am ignored.
Beryl gets her period a few days later. There is blood on the dress and blood on her sheets. She cries almost angrily as she clasps hands together, knuckles white and face contorted, looking to the sky as she says a prayer of thanks.
When Stuart enters the room and sees the stain on the dress he freezes. His face goes dark and he stomps from the room, his uneven tread clomps down the stairs and he slams the door. He returns an hour later with a new dress and new bedding. He sits down next to Beryl and touches her hand, then touches her dress.
“This will have to be burned. Same with the bedding.” He looks into her eyes. “I’m not mad. Not at you. It is hard to lose something. But we will try again as soon as you are well.”
She surprises him by grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. Joy erupts across his face and he brings her in for a tight embrace.
“Loss brings people closer, I’m told. This might be what I have prayed for.”
Her eyes lock with mine as Stuart talks of children and they bore into me, a command and a plea at the same time. Don’t fail. She has committed herself to my plan and we both know the price of failure will be worse than mere death.
We rehearse our macabre play for the rest of the week, the three of us preparing for closing night in our own ways. Stuart is gone for hours at a time during the day. We can hear the sounds of cars being started and the crunching of tires on broken glass. He spends his evenings with Beryl who plays the part of a dutiful wife. She shyly holds his hand as he talks, nodding along to his stories. She gives him smiles. Only her eyes give her away. Fear and hatred and revulsion are in every glance she gives him. He doesn’t notice. He is too sure of his mastery.
I am a good dog now. I try to heal, ignoring the spreading pain in my neck. I eat my food when I get it, hoarding the small strength it gives me. I keep my head down. I keep my eyes down. I keep a smile on my face when he is in the room. I want him to believe that I’m cracked, a smiling moron broken by his heavy hand.
I hope that I’m acting.
He takes me to the ocean every other day. I barely wade into the water. The salt on my neck makes me dizzy with pain and the waves are stronger than I remember. I don’t eat enough to shit anymore. But I piss dutifully, whispering my thanks to Stuart and relishing the thirty seconds of sea breeze this gives me.
I make plans while we walk. I scan see the streets in front of me, marking the houses that lead down to the ocean. I see the blue home with the dead couple that had kitchen knives. That will be my first stop once I escape. The first thing I will need to do is take away his power over me. I’ll remove the collars. The thought gives me so much joy.
Then what? Stuart will suspect I will come back for Beryl. Or I’ll come back to kill him. I fantasize about that moment more than anything. More than bein
g free I think about how I’ll kill him. I envisage running him down as he limps away from me. I think about finding a gun and shooting him. I see myself marching him down into the park and hanging him from a tree. I’ll use the chains he bound me with.
He’ll run for it. He’ll have to, if he doesn’t catch me then he will have to leave. And I’ll be ready for him. I will kill him and Beryl and I will be free. We will leave this city and then we will have the rest of our lives to bury this beneath new memories. I will return home and my greatest revenge against Stuart will be never telling anyone of the horrors he committed.
Chapter 7
The end of the week comes and he fetches me for a foraging run. I limp and hold my side, shoulders hunched as I shuffle down the street with that damn cart. He has cleared the road of the crashed cars providing an open route to start driving. An ominous sign. I flinch, dramatically cowering, when he tells me which way to go. I pretend to not understand. He yanks on the leash and I topple over, skinning a knee.
I didn’t have to pretend for that one.
We enter the home next to the previously raided house. A coral pink building supported by stilts with a glorious view of the ocean. Windows face every direction. A pair of beach wood signs that say “Margaritaville” and “Wine not?” hang inside the parlor. The furniture is sparse, with figurines of boats and palm trees and exotic birds lining the window sills. A photograph of an elderly couple, the sunset behind them, hangs on the wall.
No bodies here. Thank God.
We find two refrigerators, one a mess of spoiled milk and moldy vegetables. The other containing a massive amount of tonic and soda water and Mexican beers.
I load the cart, slowly and deliberately, grimacing in pain as I bend over to deposit the bottles of water. I slip a glance at Stuart. He is staring at me, a frown creasing his face.
“Do you need to rest?”
I shake my head and continue to load. Please let this work.
We begin the trek back to the house. It’s not hard to fake being in pain. Stuart walks to the side and two steps back from me. I start to slow down. I stare at the ground, slowly placing one foot in front of the other. I wait for him to speak.
“We are almost there, Burden. Perhaps if you aren’t able to carry on…” The threat is evident in his voice.
I move faster, giving a tremendous heave as we near the top of the hill.
“Good boy, I knew—“
I let go of the cart and fall to my knees. The cart takes off down the hill. Looking back I see Stuart make a wild grab for the handle. I run, jerking the leash out of his hands.
I veer down a street running parallel to the ocean and let gravity take me down. In a space of three seconds I’m forty feet away. I hear Stuart cursing behind me. I know he’s pressing the buttons to my collars.
I’m too far away you fucker.
I run past the blue tiled house and head for the corner. Waterview Street. The ocean gleams in front of me, large and vast and unfettered and free. My lungs are burning. If I can get to that corner… A gunshot rings out and I duck, causing myself to stumble. My emaciated legs run up onto the pavement and wipe out from beneath me and I slide into a wall.
I breathe out as agony spikes in my knee. I shudder, fires bursting to life on my shoulder, my shin, my ankle.
Get up.
Get up.
I roll over and climb to my feet. Stuart is limping as fast as he can towards me, yelling something that I can’t understand. I turn towards the ocean. Another shot rings out and I hear the bullet thunk into the wall feet away from me.
No no no no no.
I can’t go back. Please. Everything hinged on me getting away. I can’t fail Beryl. I can’t fail Jessica. I can’t fail myself. I take a limping step down the hill, willing myself to run again. A familiar burn spreads out from my neck and I collapse onto the ground a second time.
I am marched back to the house, the cart abandoned. After shocking me Stuart is silent, gesturing me to my feet. He does not execute me.
I expect anger. I expect to be beaten. Instead he seems… relieved? He takes me upstairs, two sets of limping legs, and chains me to the corner. Beryl watches me with wide eyes, seeing the story of my failure with a glance.
Stuart stands over me. I do not struggle. There is no fight left in me. No animal madness drives me to struggle against the chains, to claw and bite and howl at this man before he ends me. My soul is done, exhausted beyond caring.
I regret not making it home. I regret dying at the hands of this man. But I do not fear death anymore.
I hear the door slam. I lift my head and slowly look up. Beryl and I are alone.
We’ve seen each other tortured. Naked. We’ve seen each other piss and shit and cry. There should be no shame to be found between us but I can’t meet her eyes. I failed.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I say it to her, and I mean it. I will not survive this, I know, and I don’t see any way that she will live without me somehow getting free.
Stuart returns, stomping up the stairs. He stops in front of me, looking down and shaking his head. “I wash my hands of this.”
He goes and sits by Beryl. “Look at him. Look at him.” He guides her chin. He is going to make a show of this. “Our Burden tried to run away today. Can you believe it? I’ve done my best here, to give him a home. To help him earn a place in our world. But he is not ready to be saved. He is not chosen.”
He turns to her, grabs her hand and clutches it to him. “I know you appreciate his presence. Companionship. You like him, don’t you?”
She nods.
“He has been a help to us. He has. But what is help when there is no trust?”
She nods along, eyes unable to meet mine.
“I have taken measures to clean up our home. I’ve started a garden in back. We will have tomatoes soon.”
So that’s what he has been doing.
“I don’t see his presence as being necessary any more. We need to talk about putting him down.”
Like a fucking dog.
I expect her to retreat inside herself. To glaze over and not answer. Or maybe she says no to him. Instead she looks at him, then at me. An impassive face as she deliberates on my fate. She looks into my eyes and holds my gaze, then turns to Stuart and nods.
I stare back at her, pained beyond any thought. How could someone who has lived in the same hell so quickly acquiesce? He is going to do it regardless, why not fight for me?
Stuart nods back, “I knew you would agree. We did our best for him. But… We will be faced with many of these decisions. Come. We will eat and then I will take care of this.”
He unshackles Beryl and begins to lead her to the stairs. She pulls back as she passes me, stopping Stuart. Slowly, and looking him in the eyes, she slides a hand into the open collar of his shirt. She pulls a necklace up over Stuart’s head. His brow furrows in confusion but he does nothing to stop her. That she is voluntarily touching him is having a profound effect on the man. I see his hand shaking.
“What are you doing?”
She puts a hand on his face, cradling his chin. A gentle gesture that reduces the man to a shuddering, whimpering child. He clutches the hand and caresses it with his cheek. There is a bulge in his pants as he grows hard at her contact. Slowly she withdraws the hand and walks to me. At the end of the necklace is a key. Her hand barely touches my neck as she unlocks the first, then the second collar. She lays them carefully on the ground next to me.
“Of course, my dear, you are such a gentle creature. We must give the Burden what comfort we can before we do what we have to do.”
She looks at him and smiles, nodding along to his words. She looks at me and makes a cup with her hands. She repeats the gesture from the other night.
“I don’t understand.”
What is she saying? She repeats it again, her eyes boring into mine.
Stuart steps forward, “He is a simple creature my dear, you cannot make him understand the depth
of your sorrow. Come.”
She follows Stuart down the stairs and out the door. There is silence. Not even the sound of a bird or the distant thunder of the ocean. Only me, and my pain, and the dull thud of a vanquished heart. I have never felt so alone, even when I thought I was the only person alive.
Chapter 8
I spend the first few minutes after their departure staring at the floor locked in a spiral of despair. Not only am I alone. Not only do I feel betrayed. Not only am I about to die but nothing will mark my passing. I don’t know if I have family alive to mourn me, but they will never know what happened to me.
Think.
Think.
There has to be a way…
I pull at my chains. That is a dead end long found to be futile. The cuffs around my wrist are too tight…
Think!
I have nothing but the blankets and the buckets and now the collars. I look at the horrid straps of leather, the embodiment of so much pain.
What was she doing with her hands?
What if I put the collars back on? What if I show him I can be good? What if…
I sit down and close my eyes, struggling to hold back waves of panic. Fuck that man for giving me time to despair, time to think about how I will handle my last moments alive. Am I going to beg? Will I cry? Wail? If I do will he let me live?
Stuart and Beryl are holding hands when they come up the stairs. She walks past me without a glance. Stuart kisses her on the forehead as he puts a single cuff on one arm. “I love you, darling.” She gives him a small smile. He is radiant with joy.
With a heavy sigh and a shake of the head he turns to me. The last, dreary task of the day.
“How are you going to do it?” I blurt it out without thinking. He doesn’t have his gun on him.
“I am convinced by my wife’s actions to do something humane.” He pulls out a small case from his back pocket. He unzips it to reveal a syringe and a small bottle. He unscrews the top and pokes the syringe through the plastic hole. “Besides, bullets are precious.” Hur hur hur. He laughs, shaking his head, pleased with himself.