Daddy's Little Girl

by William Malmborg

  “I can’t reach it.” He sighed, defeat present.

  “Keep trying,” she said.

  “I will, I just…I can’t stay bent over like that for long with my nose.”

  “Better that pain than whatever is going to happen later.”

  “I know.”

  “And your body will get more and more limber each time you try.” She didn’t know if this was really the case, but suggesting it couldn’t hurt.

  He took a deep breath and tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each time ended in failure, one that was either punctuated with a “fuck!” or the sounds of his hacking. Sometimes both.

  It was disgusting and frustrating, yet she didn’t want to lose the hope, not when the key was their only chance, her lips constantly voicing statements of encouragement.

  And then an idea arrived.

  “What about your feet?” she asked.

  “My feet?”

  “Yeah, could you bend your leg inward and open the pocket with your toes?” She moved her own foot while asking this, the darkness making the demonstration pointless.

  Rather than answer, he simply tried, the sounds of his movements reaching her ears.

  She shifted herself while he did this, the smell of piss appearing once again. Her armpits were bad too, and given the way her wrists were lifted up behind her head, her face was unable to get away from the sweaty pit fabric. It was nauseating.

  But at least she wasn’t in that box.

  That had been unbearable.

  Hour after hour, unable to move, body and backpack wedged in, ankles and mouth taped shut, cuffs so tight that her fingers were numb, each bounce of the van jolting through her, mind wanting them to arrive at wherever it was they were going just so she could be released from the tiny compartment, yet at the same time fearing that moment because she knew worse horrors would likely follow.

  And then finally being released, her body screaming as he unfolded it and forced her to start moving, legs unable to support her weight, fingers feeling as if they were on fire once the handcuffs were removed and the blood started working its way back into them.

  He had tossed her backpack onto a kitchen floor once they were inside and then dragged her down some wooden steps into a cold cellar, one that had a girl in it already, body hanging from her wrists, toes unable to reach the floor, eyes watching them from a face that seemed squished between her arms.

  “Misty!” the man had shouted, Abigail wincing as the voice bombarded her eardrums.

  Misty had come down several seconds later, Abigail trying to see her but unable to shift herself in the right direction as the man held her in place.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Misty said. “I was punishing her.”

  “Well, continue it somewhere else,” he said.

  With that, Misty had taken the girl down and helped her up the stairs.

  Abigail had thought she would replace the girl, fear at what the pain would be like as she dangled there dominating her mind, but the man had chained her to the wall instead. Her hands were still over her head, but not to the point where all her body weight was supported by them, the position allowing for her butt to rest on the cold concrete floor.

  He had then gotten her some water.

  The first few sips were great, the moisture barely reaching her throat as the parched flesh within her mouth soaked it all up, but then it turned bad as he forced her to down several glasses, her stomach feeling as if it would purge it back up.

  “Please,” she begged, another glass held before her. “No more.”

  “It’s either this or I put a funnel in your mouth and piss down your throat,” he said.

  She drank the water.

  And then he left her alone, her eyes watching as his body disappeared around the corner and went up the stairs, wood groaning with the weight followed by a heavy door being secured into its frame, her mind left to wonder what was going to follow.

  “I need to get my shoes off,” Norman muttered.

  His voice brought her back. “Can you slip them off?”

  “I’m trying, but they’re too tight.”

  “Can you undo the laces with your—” Teeth was going to be her suggestion, but then the door to the barn opened, startling her into silence.

  It was dark.

  Really dark!

  Darker than outside, which was also really dark.

  No windows.

  Misty hadn’t realized this earlier while in the barn, her focus always being on the two captives and finding things she needed to use like the shovel. But now, looking back, she should have noted this would be a problem given how dim the barn had been during the daylight hours. Light had managed to get in, but not much, and it had been more of an overall glow from the sunlight hitting the outside rather than a source itself.

  She needed a flashlight or a lantern.

  Something so she could see.

  But she didn’t have anything and had no idea where something like it would be.

  Unless…

  Did Daddy bring his hunting bag?

  She had been so focused on getting her own bags together that she hadn’t paid much attention to what he had brought, but she was fairly certain he would have taken that particular bag knowing he would need to hunt again once they were in the new house. Inside it was a police outfit that he sometimes wore to trick the schoolgirls into thinking they were needed to answer questions about a crime they may have been involved in, their looks matching a description from a witness. With that police outfit was a belt with a flashlight, one that she could—

  Wait.

  “Hey!” she called into the dark barn. “Mr. Policeman.”

  Nothing.

  “Hey!”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Policeman,” she persisted. “I have a question.”

  “What?” a muffled, odd-sounding voice asked.

  His nose?

  I must have really hurt him bad.

  “Where’s your flashlight?” she asked.

  One hadn’t been on his belt when she took that, though he’d had other items of interest on there, all of them making the belt really heavy. She had also gotten his wallet, which had been in his back pocket.

  He said something she couldn’t understand.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He said it’s in his car,” the schoolgirl snapped.

  The car.

  It was still on the road.

  She didn’t want to walk all that way, but knew she needed some sort of light. She also still needed to move the car so that it didn’t act like a beacon to other police officers. Only she didn’t know how to drive.

  Did the girl?

  Could she risk taking her out of the barn and bringing her to the car?

  She had the police officer’s gun, and if she put Bitsy’s collar and leash on the girl, she could control her with that hand while holding the gun with the other.

  Bitsy’s collar and leash.

  Thinking about them brought back the questions on where Bitsy was and whether she was okay.

  Was she scared?

  Especially now that it was dark out?

  Misty wanted to find her but didn’t know how. She wanted to bring her inside the barn where it was safe and cuddle up with her. She wanted to apologize for the way she had reacted the other night.

  No, not in the barn.

  Not in front of those two.

  Going inside the house would be better.

  That way they could maybe find a bed and lie down in it together.

  Bitsy liked it when they did that. Misty was sure of this because whenever they were in bed together Bitsy would put her arms around her and curl up with her face on her chest and fall asleep with a smile. Plus, whenever she didn’t allow Bitsy to sleep with her and put her in the toy box for the night, she would find dry tear crusts on her cheeks. She never heard her though, Bitsy always making sure to keep her sobs quiet so that s
he would not disturb Misty. It was nice and something that Daddy’s schoolgirl toys wouldn’t do. Whenever he tried to sleep with them, they would not only keep him awake, but her as well, and probably Bitsy, Daddy eventually having to put them back in the cellar.

  “Hey,” Misty called. “Schoolgirl?”

  “My name’s Abigail,” the schoolgirl said from the darkness.

  “Abigail,” Misty said, testing the name. It was the first time she had heard the name of one of the schoolgirls, and while she knew they all had names, it somehow felt odd to now have a name implanted in her mind while thinking about her. “That’s a nice name.”

  Abigail didn’t reply.

  “Do you know how to drive?” Misty asked.

  Nothing.

  “Abigail!” she snapped. “Do you know how to drive?”

  “Yeah,” Abigail snapped back. “I know how to drive.”

  Misty considered this and then without really thinking said, “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait,” Abigail said, voice carrying a nasty edge to it.

  The statement stung, but then Misty realized the schoolgirl was probably irritable after everything that had happened since leaving the house. Probably hungry and thirsty too. Once she was back with the collar and leash, she would need to feed her, or at least give her some water.

  But first, she would need some light so she could see what she was doing.

  And to get light she needed to go to the van, and if Daddy’s flashlight wasn’t in there, she would need to go to the police car.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  All because she hadn’t planned well for the darkness.

  Daddy would have planned better.

  But then he was more experienced with things like this.

  She wasn’t.

  For her, just leaving the house was a rare treat, one that brought with it anxiety because she never knew what to expect. Even with Daddy coaching her beforehand. And this was much different than simply getting to go to a restaurant or the grocery store or the bookstore or the mall. This had been a move. They were searching for a new home. And now since Daddy was dead she was in charge. Nothing he had ever done had prepared her for such a thing. She wasn’t ready.

  Ready or not…

  She liked those words better when she was playing hide and seek with Bitsy.

  Will Abigail help me find her?

  Once they were in the car and she had the leash and gun, Misty could have her drive her around the area, looking for Bitsy rather than simply driving the car up and behind the barn, or off into a field somewhere.

  Had Daddy been alive that was what they probably would have done—would have been doing.

  They would have driven around looking for her.

  Was it too late?

  Would they be able to find her in the darkness?

  Maybe it would be better to wait until morning.

  Being in charge was hard.

  She had too many decisions to make.

  Go get the light.

  And the collar and leash.

  And the police uniform outfit.

  She knew it fit since she had worn it several times while he was at school, Daddy being a short man who she had quickly matched in height during the last year and a half.

  Did she need it?

  Would wearing it help make others think she was a police officer if anyone else came to the farm to see if they needed help, or would they know she wasn’t and simply laugh at her?

  “I think she’ll be gone for a bit,” Abigail said once Misty had left the barn, mind shaking away the questions she now carried on why the girl wanted to know if she could drive. “How’re the laces coming?”

  “I can’t reach them,” Norman said, exhaustion present.

  Jesus.

  If their positions were reversed, she would have been able to get her shoes off without a problem, but with him, his middle-aged joints seemed to be saying fuck you.

  “And you’re sure you can’t slip them off?” she asked.

  “I’m trying,” he said, the sounds of his heels kicking at the knotted laces appearing.

  She waited, shifting several times, the position growing more and more unbearable with each passing second until she finally couldn’t take it and stood up, the wooden stall rail vibrating a bit with her movement while her back and legs popped.

  A spinning sensation hit, forcing her to lean against the stall rail.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Standing,” she gasped, eyes closed against the turbulence, even though it was internal.

  “You okay?”

  She took several deep breaths and then said, “Yeah, fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Another deep breath.

  If I said no, what would you be able to do?

  She opened her eyes, the darkness of the barn replacing the darkness of her lids.

  Behind her she heard him working at the laces again.

  Hands on the rail, she worked her fingers a bit, the cuffs not as tight this time around as they had been during her initial journey in the box, yet still causing circulation issues given that she was forced to rest her weight against the metal links while sitting.

  Could I saw through the board with the chain links? she asked herself, hands slowly working the tiny chain back and forth for a moment against the edge to see what would happen, and then going a bit faster, the metal links digging into her flesh with each pull.

  “Is it true that you can snap open handcuffs with a sudden pull in opposite directions?” she asked, hands fisted in anticipation of giving it a try.

  “I’ve heard of it but never seen it happen and”—deep mouth breath—“wouldn’t recommend trying. You’ll just end up tearing into your flesh.” A horrible gasp for air punctuated this.

  “You’re probably right,” Abigail said but then tried anyway, her hands coming together for a moment into a prayer-like clasp before bouncing out in opposite directions.

  It didn’t work.

  Teeth clamped, she tried again, her thinking being she needed to make sure each wrist pulled against the part of the link that swung open and closed.

  Once again, it didn’t work, and this time a bit of a cry slipped out from her lips.

  “Told you,” Norman said.

  Abigail ignored that and braced herself for a third attempt, her hands making fists once again in anticipation of the sudden pull and pain.

  Focus.

  Deep breath.

  PULL!

  It was the most painful attempt yet, and one that caused the link around her right wrist to tighten rather than open when she banged it against the edge of the wooden rail beneath the one she was threaded through, the sound of the ratchet clicking tighter echoing through the barn as she screamed.

  “Did it open?” Norman asked, obviously misinterpreting the ratchet sound.

  “No!” Abigail cried and then cussed several times. The link was too tight now. Far tighter than it had been while she was in the trunk.

  She could actually feel the blood slamming up against the sudden closure within her hand, like cars on an interstate coming up on a blocked lane. It was horrible. And painful. Too painful.

  “Easy,” Norman urged. He likely didn’t know what had happened, just that something had.

  If “easy” meant body-slamming the rail, she complied with his suggestion, her body hitting it hard enough for the hinges to squeal.

  “Abby, what are—”

  She slammed herself against it again, her mind picturing the wood cracking and then snapping, all while it simply wobbled a bit in its supports, her body doing little to compromise its structural integrity.

  “Stop!” Norman urged. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  She knew he was right but couldn’t give in, not when it meant admitting defeat.

  “Once I get my shoe off—”

  “But you can’t!” she snapped. “The key is in your pocket, but it
might as well be on the other side of the barn for all the good it’s doing us!”

  “Yeah, but hurting yourself won’t”—mouth breath—“do any good either.” Another mouth breath. “Those stalls were designed for”—mouth breath—“keeping animals inside.”

  Abigail knew he was right.

  “It will be okay.”

  “Will it?” she asked, teeth clenching once the words were spoken.

  “Yes,” he insisted. “I’ll either get the keys or someone will find us.” Mouth breath. “She can’t keep us here forever.”

  “What if she decides to kill us?” Abigail asked.

  “I don’t think she will,” Norman said.

  “Bullshit!”

  “Honestly.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I think she’s a victim like us, but just doesn’t realize it yet.” He choked a bit, but this time it didn’t sound like anything came up.

  Abigail squeezed her right hand into a fist to fight the numbness, a horrible chill already spreading through the fingers. It was worse than when she had been in the box.

  Would the girl loosen the handcuff when she came back?

  Would she care?

  “Got it,” Norman said.

  “The key?” she asked.

  “The laces.”

  Abigail sighed.

  “Hang in there.”

  She didn’t reply to that, her only thought being the pain in her wrists and the numbness in her fingers as she opened and closed her fist, her body eventually sliding back down into a sitting position, her weight adding to the discomfort of the cuffs as her wrists were forced to offer some support.

  The walk back to the van was uneventful and much easier than Misty’s previous journeys given that she wasn’t carrying or dragging anything or anyone. The only downside was the darkness, which slowed her, the inability to accurately see what it was she was stepping upon in the old field inducing quite a bit of hesitation with her steps. An odd fear of snakes was also present. They liked fields. She knew this because she had come across many in the fields behind the house, some of them being rattlers.

  “Don’t mess with them,” Daddy had warned when she told him about them. “If you get bit, you know I can’t take you to a doctor.”

  Misty knew that and assured him that he didn’t need to worry. She wouldn’t get close to them, her fear of the slithering beasts and their potential for harm if they bit her making it so she would always keep her distance. Bitsy too. The trouble was, what if they didn’t see one while playing their games? What if they rounded a tree trunk or jumped down from a rock and landed upon one? Would Daddy really deny them medical treatment? With Bitsy, the answer was yes, but with her, she didn’t know. He had said he couldn’t because it would raise too many questions about who she was, but at the same time she doubted he would be able to sit around and watch the poison kill her.