Cut Me Free

by J. R. Johansson

  He shrugs. “What can I say? My side business isn’t exactly legit. I like to know I can protect myself.”

  “Okay.” So some kind of fighting place? I squint and tilt my head to one side. My mind tries to put Cam into a box that includes violence, but he doesn’t fit there easily. “But Lily wants me to work here?”

  “She will.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.” He grins. The slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth tells me he’s lying, but I don’t call him on it as he continues. “Come on. I already know how you feel about being punctual. Who doesn’t want that in an employee?” He winks, and in spite of his teasing, I find myself nodding without any further thought. When his grin widens and I see a flash of a dimple, I can’t even bring myself to regret it.

  “I do care about being punctual.”

  “Yes, just apparently not when it comes to meeting me.”

  He kind of has a point. I was late once, and when I was supposed to meet him with the money I hadn’t even shown up. I move my lips to speak, but when I can’t decide how to respond I just close them and wait.

  “Great. I’ll ask Lily to check the schedule and let you know when you can start training. Do you want to have dinner or should I walk you out?” He extends a hand to me, and this time he waits as I hesitate. His eyes are a challenge, daring me to take it. A fiery burst of anger flares inside me and I glare back as I slide to one side and slip off the bench without touching him.

  “Don’t.” My one word is a low growl, a warning to back off, to keep his distance.

  People only cause pain, and I’m no different, even now. Hurt shines in his eyes as he drops his arm, and part of me wishes I could take it back. He turns away with a shake of his head and walks out of the waiting room. I’m left alone and I stretch my hand out before me, wondering what the heat from his touch would feel like. Longing for that tiny connection with humanity aches, and only fear helps me resist the urge to call for him to return.

  Less than a minute passes before he leans back in the room and the guarded smile has returned. He lifts a hand to show me a bag with a to-go box tucked inside. “You can take this with you. The marinara will blow your mind.”

  6

  I’m beginning to seriously consider the merits of sleeping pills. It’s pretty difficult to sleep with a little boy’s voice talking nonstop in your head. The only way I got any rest last night was to give in to Sam. I promised I’d go back for the girl today. That I would not leave without her again.

  No clue how I’m going to keep that promise.

  The shade of the tree behind the man’s apartment is quickly becoming my regular hangout. He is home, the girl probably locked beneath the stairs. I wait. The leaves above me rustle and I tingle with their restlessness. I stretch my fingers and rub them along my jeans over my knees and down to grip my ankles. The need to move, to be free to act, is overwhelming. She is so small and so helpless in her miniature prison.

  I know exactly how she feels, how easy it is to be trapped in this world filled with monsters. But now I am free. Now I can move, and still I must wait.

  I hate waiting.

  The man moves through the apartment with no fear. I want to make him tremble with her fear the way I do. To feel the pain and terror he so enjoys causing. But I won’t let myself give in to those urges—this is what separates me from him. Instead, I watch him from the shadows as he drinks another beer and makes a phone call.

  He disappears from the kitchen for fifteen minutes. I keep checking my watch, wishing he would go away. When he comes back, his hair is wet and he’s wearing black pants and a clean shirt. Now he doesn’t look like someone capable of keeping a girl locked in a cupboard. He appears so normal I almost doubt myself, but I know better. The Parents seemed extremely normal—it meant nothing. They were monsters, too.

  Tugging on a jacket, he sticks his phone in his pocket and heads for the front door. On the way out, he slams the palm of his hand against the door the girl is trapped behind. He mutters a few words and then leaves. I tug on the weeds and let them fall through my fingers, counting one hundred of them before allowing myself to hope. He’s gone. This is my chance.

  My heartbeat almost deafens me. For once, Sam is silent. I glance at the buildings around me. They’re tall, dark, and still. They keep watch. The city sees what I’m doing. It knows everything, but the people don’t. A few men sit on a porch at the end of the alley, but they’re occupied with their own business. Several motels I’d stayed at across the country were in neighborhoods like this one. I’d learned quickly that no one would ask questions. When someone is hurt in these types of places, people close their curtains and turn their heads instead of running to help.

  Darting across to the window, I decide to risk a cut from the remaining glass and kick the cardboard inside. Careful to avoid the jagged shards, I reach my hand in, unhook the latch, and slide the frame aside. In less than ten seconds, I’m standing in the apartment.

  It isn’t cold, but I shiver anyway. The weight of the bolt in my pocket lends me strength as I look around. Stacks of mail are scattered on the table. The same name printed on each: Steve Brothers. A sick laugh rises in my throat. A brother to whom exactly?

  I keep my footsteps quiet as I cross the kitchen. My throat tightens and I think of the million different ways I could terrify this child. Crouching before the door, I brush the wood with the knuckles of one hand. The words don’t want to come. “Hi, I’m here to rescue you.” It feels inadequate.

  Just tell her you want to help her, silly.

  Hearing Sam’s voice gives me strength. I know—knew—him better than anyone. Is this girl really so different? I run my palm down the door, but before I can utter a word, I hear her.

  “Hello?” she calls. Her voice isn’t nearly as small or weak as I expect and it takes me by surprise.

  “Hi,” I reply. Mine isn’t as strong and I clear my throat. “Please don’t be afraid. I want to help you.”

  “Are you the girl by the window?” she asks, and I catch the first hint of suspicion in her tone.

  “Yes.”

  “You came back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Now I hear them, the small quick breaths that show the fear even when her voice doesn’t. “Who are you?”

  I take a deep breath and let my body crumple to the floor. Pressing my fingers against my temples, I struggle for an answer to her impossible question. What do I say? That I’m a killer? A fake teenager with a stolen name? A girl who let my brother die and couldn’t do anything to stop it?

  “I’m you.” It’s the only answer that makes sense at the moment. “Only older.”

  It’s quiet for so long that I wonder if she’s decided not to talk to me anymore, and then I hear her slide away from the door.

  “Please hurry.” All the strength in her voice is gone, drained. “I don’t know how long he’ll be gone.”

  “Do you know where he keeps the key?”

  “With him.” She sounds devastated. “Always with him.”

  “Don’t give up yet,” I mutter as I search the room. “I don’t need a key.”

  I find nothing in the kitchen or living room that is of any use. In the bedroom, I open the closet and lose the ability to breathe. Memories pinch, prod, and slice at me with visions of my past. So many ways to inflict pain, the closet is filled with different kinds of chains, gags, whips, nooses, spikes, and countless other things I wish I didn’t recognize. The Father had a closet like this for his tools, too. This one is messier, a reflection of the man who made it. I hold tight to the bedpost and say a quick prayer to anyone listening, hoping Brothers hasn’t used everything in his collection on that poor girl.

  My foot bumps against something metal as I back up. I look down and there it is, exactly what I need to set her free—a baseball bat.

  “Are you there?” I hear her calling from the kitchen, the soft words barely audible through her sobs. “Please don’t lea
ve me here.”

  Swallowing back the disgust that sits in my throat like a ball of glue, I close the closet doors and hurry back to her.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving without you.” I study the hinges and lock on the door, trying to decide the best place to hit. My hands squeeze the cold metal of the bat on impulse, itching to destroy something. “I made a promise.”

  The crying stops. “To who?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” The latch the lock goes through is attached to old wood, the paint chipped and fading. If I hit that part just right, it should work. As I draw back to swing, a small squeak comes from the girl.

  “Go! You have to hide!” Then I hear it, keys jangling at the front door. He’s back.

  “Okay, shh.” Images of every part of the apartment flash through my head. Taking the bat with me, I slide into one of the two hiding spots I’d seen—the small gap between the fridge and the wall. There is no way I’m going in the torture closet. I try not to think of what squishes against the bottom of my shoe as I get in place just before the door screeches open.

  I focus on trying to keep each breath level and quiet. He can’t find me here. If he does, I’ll fight, but the girl and I are probably both dead. I’m endlessly grateful no one else can hear Sam freaking out in my head.

  No, no—not again, Piper. No more being stuck with bad people. No more. We have to get out of here.

  I tighten my grip on the bat as he moves through the apartment—breathe in, breathe out. My fingers are so damp I’m afraid it may slip from my grasp. He’s in the kitchen now, so close I can hear him breathe. Can he hear me?

  He fumbles with his keys as he unlocks her cupboard door. From my position I can’t see them, but I hear a whimper from the girl and a low growl from Steve Brothers.

  A shuffling noise moves away from me, out of the kitchen, and I risk taking a peek. His arm is wrapped tight against her throat, her feet barely touching the ground. I see terror in her eyes as they meet mine. My hand flies to my mouth just in time to stifle my gasp.

  Brothers is taking her to the closet.

  Stop him, Piper. Do something.

  Chains rattle in the bedroom, then a sharp metallic scrape echoes down the hall. My eardrums vibrate with the noise even after it stops. Sam pleads in my head as I inch out from behind the fridge and grip the bat with two hands. A small scream comes before it’s quickly muffled, and I know he’s using one of his gags.

  Sliding along the wall, I move to a spot where I can see into the room. The girl’s hands are chained above her head with her back to me. A strap from one of the gags stretches across her face and around her head.

  Brothers stands behind her. He grips a small but vicious-looking knife in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The knife has four blades coming from a single handle, and I see in my head what it will do to her skin. The image makes me light-headed. His stance is calm and powerful. This is where he’s in control, and he enjoys every second of her pain. I see his face in a mirror on the opposite wall; a cruel smirk curves his lips as he watches her. There’s a hunger in his eyes that makes me want to throw up—I’ve seen it before in the eyes of the Parents.

  But I stopped them and I must stop Steve Brothers.

  Sam is humming in my head. I fight not to react as flashes of pain and blood from the past haunt us both. A powerful need washes over me. I’ve felt it before. It scares me. I’m trapped, ensnared like the girl. The fear of what I know I can do battles against the understanding of exactly what he will do to her if I don’t.

  Familiar fury pumps through my veins and I resist the urge to pounce. I don’t need my bolt anymore. I feel my strength pulsing with every heartbeat, and that’s what scares me. My goal is to save her, not to destroy him, no matter how much he deserves it. I don’t let myself move an inch until I can draw in one slow breath after another. Brothers has an entire closet full of weapons within his reach, I have a bat. If I’m going to get the girl or myself out of here alive, I can’t lose control—not this time, not again.

  But I will hurt him if it means saving her.

  Taking two steps into the room, I move in silence. I’d perfected moving without sound back in the attic. It is instinct now. Brothers walks closer to the girl and I freeze. He lifts her shirt and my eyes close tight when I get a glimpse of her back. So many healed slices, burns, and cuts, there is no skin without scars. Sam hums louder and I can’t hear anything else. I focus on breathing until I can calm down.

  He is bad, Piper. Stop him.

  When I open my eyes again, he’s still watching her, and I know I must make my move soon. He’s dropped the knife back to his side and takes a long drag on his cigarette. Two steps closer, I lift the bat over my shoulder. I try to convince myself I can save her. I can stop him. Still, in my head, I see the blood. The Parents and all the blood—I didn’t care about killing the Parents, but I hated the blood.

  My hands shake. The bat wobbles. I glance in the mirror and every piece of me turns to ice. His eyes, dark and hungry, are staring straight at me.

  And he smiles.

  I yelp and try to swing the bat, but he’s ready. He moves his arm to block it and turns with his knife, catching me across the side and slicing my skin with the blades. It burns like a red-hot poker, but I don’t cry out.

  “You’re a pretty one.” He breathes as he grabs my hair with one hand and brings the knife toward my neck, but he doesn’t cut me. He wants me to be afraid. Fury boils in my veins, and I know he’s made a big mistake.

  Because I am done letting people feed off my fear.

  I jerk back the bat and slam him in the gut with it. When he doubles over, his head is right there and I don’t hesitate.

  The bat hits his skull with an audible thunk. I whack it again to be certain he will stay down, and part of me wants to keep hitting him, keep hurting him. He collapses to the floor. Taking a deep, shaking breath, I instead say the words that help me be strong, the words that keep me sane.

  “I am nothing like you.”

  There is no movement and no blood. I force myself to release the bat, tugging back one finger at a time until it falls to the floor. His cigarette rolls from his hand and lands on the dingy brown rug in front of the dresser. It catches fire almost immediately but takes its time—like it wants me to decide its fate. The smell of smoke fills my nose and I move to stamp it out.

  No, don’t. Leave it.

  The cold hatred in Sam’s voice is foreign, and I remember, again, that it isn’t really my little brother. He’s a piece of me. A piece that thinks Steve Brothers deserves to burn.

  I withdraw my foot and watch the baby flames. Something about fire fascinates me. It lives alone and dances with no partner. Fire is beauty and destruction, life and death wrapped up in one glowing ball of light. The girl whimpers again and I snap back into the moment. The fire has started to spread. We need to get out of here.

  The torture closet surrounds me as I step toward her and into her world of pain. I wince from the throbbing in my side as I reach up to release the cuffs on the girl’s wrists. All the devices scare me in a way that I didn’t believe possible after everything I’ve seen. Once her hands are free, I work on the strap tying her gag in place. We’ve turned sideways now, and she is like a statue. When I follow her gaze I see her staring at Brothers. She’s only a child. I move to block her view as I finish releasing the strap and drop the gag to the floor.

  With a shake of her head, she steps around me and stands over him. Tears roll down her cheeks, but I hear nothing—no sobs or whimpers, just silence. I can’t help her, not here and now, because the fire is creeping down the rug between Brothers’s sprawled left leg and the brittle wood of the dresser. We have to leave. Hesitating for only an instant, I reach out my hand to her. She is like Sam, she needs me—touching her isn’t like touching others, it’s different. When she stares at my outstretched fingers, I know how she feels and what she thinks. It isn’t safe to touch people or trust them. It hurts.
<
br />   But I want her to feel safe. So I wait.

  Turning back to Brothers, she whispers something I can’t make out and stomps on his hand as the fire spreads to the leg of his pants. I blink as she turns to me, places her hand in mine, and pulls me toward the door.

  I falter and look back at the man lying still on the floor. The edge of one pant leg is on fire now, too. If we leave him here like this … the girl tugs on my hand again. She looks desperate to leave, to escape while she has the chance. Part of me thinks this is wrong and recognizes that we’re killing him. Another part delights in it. I’m torn in two and neither side is winning. Am I the murderer or the savior?

  Sam doesn’t answer in my head this time. I’m not sure I want him to. I walk out with the girl and close the door tight behind us.

  7

  My navy shirt hides my bloody side as we walk down the street. It was a good choice. A white one would’ve stained. Not to mention people would’ve noticed. Red bloodstains on a white shirt are pretty much impossible to hide. I want to touch my ribs, to lift my shirt and assess the damage, but the girl has a death grip on my hand. It reminds me of Sam in a way that makes me smile and want to scream at the same time. Still, I feel like there are eyes on me, on the blood, on us. I want to be faster than we can walk.

  At the next corner, I step out and wave down a cab with my free hand, hoping no one notices how it shakes. My stomach flops as the car pulls over and I try to breathe around the sudden knot in my gut. The idea of climbing into a car alone with a stranger has always kept me on crowded buses and trains. Taxis leave me exposed and defenseless. They’re a risk I’ve avoided, until now. I look down at the girl and know we need to get out of this neighborhood as fast as possible. For her sake, I’ll do it.

  Giving the driver an address on Pine, a block away from my apartment, seems like a smart decision. He nods without even a glance in my direction and speaks into the headset he has on his ear. Perfect, he can talk to whoever is on his phone all he wants. Distraction is my friend right now.