by Krishna Ahir
Mum told me not to open my mouth again.
How dare I call her a liar.
But she was. She had told Daddy that no one had come to the house today, yet I had seen the man leaving.
I was used to pain, so I stood back up. I told her to stop lying; that I had seen the man come out of the house and drive away. He had waved at her when he left. I saw it.
Before I understood what happened, I was on the other side of the house. I still don't quite know how I got there. I don't remember crawling the distance. One moment I was leaning against the dining room table, and the next I was curled into a ball in the corner of the living room. My arms were held crossed over my head, offering whatever kind of feeble resistance they could.
Mum was still hitting me. Punches rained down, mixed in with slaps and the occasional kick. The shrieking sound of her voice was shrill and full of venom, like an injured animal.
I didn't understand what was going on.
When you were bad you were punished. I was used to that. Even when I didn't think I had done something wrong, Mum would hit me. But I had always known, deep down, that I deserved it.
But not this time.
This time it was her that had been bad. Mum had lied. Yet she was hitting me.
Why?
By the time her hands closed around my neck, I was already half out of it. Lucid thoughts swam through my head and I phased out of consciousness. I felt something warm overtake me, and the pain slipped away.
For a brief moment I entertained the thought that I was dying.
It was a nice thought.
I wondered what it would be like to be dead. To have all of your nerve endings shut down, leaving you with only blackness.
I always liked black. It felt cool and comforting.
When I came to, I felt strangely weightless. My vision was filled with the sight of my Mother looming over something, her arms held out, pinning someone to the floor by the throat. I realized with only minor surprise that it was me.
I'd read about something like that before; an out of body experience.
Intrigued, I stood and watched my own face turn the most beautiful shade of blue. Originally I planned to observe myself; to see if I could witness my own death. But what ended up drawing my attention was my Mother.
Her face was bright red, and sweat was soaking her skin. Heavy breaths shook her body, from the exertion of strangling me. The tendons in her neck were raised and taut, like a length of piano wire, and the muscles in her arms were trembling.
For the first time, I saw my Mother for who she was: Human.
My entire life, she had been a persistent and dominating force. Less a person and more an idea. Like some kind of God. It was by her will that I had come into the world, and likely would be by her will that I would leave it. She had been absolute and infallible.
But not anymore.
I saw the frailty of her. How painfully ordinary she was.
The lie that she had told all of a sudden made sense. She was afraid of being punished, so she had lied. She did it so that she could avoid the consequences; just like I had done in the past.
That was why she was beating me. Why she was choking me.
Because she knew that she was wrong.
I returned to my body when Daddy ripped her off of me.
The pain I had escaped hit me all at once, searing through my body like someone had filled me with hot oil.
My throat was burning, and every breath was a struggle. My right eye was swollen shut, and my vision was filled with a delicious red. A warm and sticky sensation trickled down my chin, and I realized that blood was flowing from my mouth. My side felt like someone had jabbed me with a red hot poker, leading me to believe that my ribs were broken.
Through my crimson vision, I watched as Mum turned about herself and clawed Daddy across the face. She was still shrieking; though her voice was completely incomprehensible to me.
Once she broke out of his grip, she turned back on me and moved to continue the beating...
But stopped short.
An unfamiliar expression passed over her face. Never before in my life had I seen her pull a face like that.
I have since seen that face a lot, and looking back on that moment now, it fills me with such a sense of power that I can't even accurately describe it.
My Mother had been afraid.
It was only for an instant, but it was there all the same.
And the reason why she wore that expression... Was because I was laughing.
I had seen through her. I knew that she was, like me, just another weak human. The revelation left me reeling with thoughts.
Before I had struggled to express myself; to accurately interpret even my own emotions. But the thought of my mother being just like me stirred something deep inside me. It was just so ridiculous.
For a long minute I sat on the floor, covered in blood, and laughed.
Chapter 20
Taking the tight and compact corners of Grand Stone Bay's city centre with practiced ease, Barbara's face was illuminated by the orange glow of street lights. Dots of illumination, from the numerous windows and electronic signs, reflected in her pupils like stars in the night sky.
Overhead, the dark clouds continued to churn and swirl. Thick and foreboding, they blanketed the city and blotted out the light of the moon. Sheet lightning flashed through the gaps in a brilliant white burst, drowning the area in white. Not long after, the rumble of thunder cascaded down from the sky, echoing through the valley in which Grand Stone Bay sat. It reverberated off of the surrounding hills, bouncing back into the city and shaking the streets. Rain threatened to rear its head in a downpour that would have made Noah reconsider his choice of boat. Wind swept the roads and rocked Barbara's car, as it collided with the side, and beneath her hands the steering wheel threatened to be turned off course with the motion of the wheels.
Tightening her grip on the wheel, Barbara toyed with the switch for the windscreen wipers, in anticipation of the rain. Her foot lifted slightly, easing up on the accelerator, and her body tightened in expectation.
A nervous sensation radiated out of her chest, tingling down her arms and heating her thoughts.
Barbara had waited in the car park of the Police Station for 45 minutes, and tried calling Christopher three times, before leaving her car and heading through the doors to the front desk. What she was told left her confused and more than slightly anxious: Christopher had never arrived for his interview. Attempting to call him again, his phone had taken her straight through to voicemail. Something wasn't right.
Even as she left the town centre, her father's car battling the wind for control, her system was awash with unease.
Not showing up for an appointment wasn't like Christopher. Neither was him not messaging ahead any change in plans. If there was one thing that Barbara could count on about him, it was his punctuality. She could practically set her watch to him. So when she was told that he never arrived at the police station, it left her more than slightly worried.
So much so that she ignored the turning that led to her own house, and began to make her way towards the road that Christopher lived on.
A concerned and motherly instinct welled up inside her. She had to make sure that Christopher was alright. And if he wasn't answering his phone, then the only way that she could do that would be to go to his house and see him in person. Only then would she be able to dismiss the nerves that were bubbling up inside her stomach. Only then would she be able to sleep easy.
Moving her steering wheel in a steady and practiced motion, she swung the car down Christopher's road and slowed to a crawl. Looking for a space to pull in and park, Barbara's eyes fell on the front of the house.
The first thing she noticed was that the front door was open.
That, combined with his absence at the station, and the fact that Christopher hadn't been answering his phone, left Barbara with a chilling feeling of dread.
Quickly and clumsily pu
lling into the closest space, she got out of her car and hurried over to the open door. The lights in the house were out. Inside the depths of the darkness, a strong and pungent aroma brewed. Like a bag full of copper coins.
Pushing her way into the house, not bothering to take her shoes off, Barbara whipped her head around.
"Christopher?!"
Her voice, normally so boisterous and loud, sounded small and scared. She didn't even recognize it herself.
Her fingers fumbled for the light switch, and the harsh click rattled in her head. The lights didn't come on, leaving her drowned in darkness.
"Christopher?!"
This time the name came through clearer. The fear was still there, but now it was accompanied by an urgency.
Barbara pulled out her phone, and switched on the flashlight setting. Everything was covered in a pale and milky glow.
As her eyes adjusted to the abnormal light source, Barbara took several uneasy steps forward. The sound of them rattled off of the walls and returned back to her, setting her on edge and leaving a chill racing over her teeth.
Another crash of thunder shocked her into a stupor. Her hairs stood on end and her body lurched bolt upright, like she had jammed her finger into an electrical socket.
Stumbling once in surprise, she reached out of the banister of the staircase and just about managed to steady herself.
Her eyes finally acclimated to the light, Barbara advanced deeper into the house.
The living room offered nothing; empty save for the television and the furniture.
Something about the empty house left Barbara with an instinctive feeling of dread. Like she was trapped in some kind of horror film, and was the unsuspecting victim, unwittingly wandering into the claws of the monster. Another chill raced down her spine, as she took a step into the kitchen.
Clear of any unfamiliar presences, the kitchen was a similar story to the living room.
She was just about to turn and check the rest of the house, when something white caught the light of her torch. Small and rectangular, it was set carefully onto the worktop, purposely cantered on the structure.
Her curiosity taking over, Barbara walked over to the counter and picked up what turned out to be a business card.
Constable Drake Gregory
Rosefield Police
Barbara's eyes danced over the text, illuminated by her phone, and settled onto the number, inscribed at the bottom of the card.
Maybe this was who he was supposed to be meeting at the Station... she thought. But then why does it say Rosefield Police, instead of Grand Stone Bay?
Moving to set down the card, Barbara briefly glanced down at the floor-
-and spotted blood on the tiles.
Under the pale light of her phone's torch, it looked black.
Fear knotted her stomach. She audibly took in a sharp breath and stepped back.
Following the trail of viscous black spots, her eyes came to rest on a wide pool. Just around the corner of the kitchen, it began beneath the sloping ceiling belying the underside of the staircase.
Hesitantly following the stains, Barbara leaned around the corner and peered into the darkness of the cupboard.
As she laid eyes on Crystal' mangled, hanging form she nearly threw up.
Fumbling with her phone, she ran back to the counter and picked up the business card.
Without a moment's hesitation, she dialed the number for Drake Gregory.
For the second time in (what he assumed was) a number of hours, Christopher Douglas rose from dazed and distant unconsciousness. This time, however, he was not met with the ache that accompanied the movement of disused joints. No. This time, he was unable to move his limbs at all.
He realized, with vague surprise, that he was sitting up.
Christopher was sat on a high-backed wooden chair, both of his wrists bound to the narrow arms by a pair of leather belts. His legs, also bound to those of the chair, felt weak. Almost like they weren't his own; the amount of time spent in the sitting position having resulted in all of his blood pooling in his feet and numbing the limbs.
His addled mind, foggy though it was, jumped immediately to death. Seeing Georgina in almost the exact same position earlier assured him of that. He was going to die, away from his family. Separated from his mother and father and sisters by thousands and thousands of miles, by fields and forests and oceans and mountains, he would be killed without ever having the chance to say goodbye. That is if he was killed straight away.
If.
The mere concept of the word "if" terrified him. The presence of the word left an entire world of possibilities open to him. "If" meant that there was something between life and death, and Christopher knew exactly what that was. Between life and death lay torture. And torture could last a long time; potentially forever. That was the point of torture, to stave off death for as long as possible, but keep the pain.
Fear leapt up inside him, causing his stomach to lurch. The organ felt like it was going to surge whole up his throat; the painful lump cutting of his oxygen. He began to frantically struggle, in an attempt to free himself.
Tears welled in his eyes, and an urgent note escaped his lips in a high pitched keening. Instinctively opening his mouth to scream, Christopher had to restrain himself from crying out. Screaming was bad. Screaming meant alerting whoever had him that he was awake. That he was ripe for whatever sick game they had in mind for him.
Swallowing the wail, he closed his eyes and tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. The last thing he needed was another panic attack.
Breathing. That was important.
Slow breaths.
The silence around him was agonizing. Suffocating and muffled, almost as if Christopher was submerged in water. The sound of his own breathing came back at him as if through a filter of cotton.
A dark spot on the carpet gripped his eyes like a vice, and he knew instinctively that the stain was what presently remained of Georgina. A lump bounced in his throat and an overwhelming feeling of guilt crashed into him. Anger at himself, that he could have ever suspected her, burned at his body.
Or perhaps that was the beginning of muscle atrophy.
Again attempting to move, Christopher rocked from side to side. However, with his legs bound as they were, he was unable to anchor himself correctly. The strength necessary to tilt the chair never came, and he was left helplessly wriggling and fighting against the restraints.
So preoccupied with his attempt to escape, Christopher was caught off guard as the door ahead of him swung open. His heart leaping in his chest, he sat bolt upright. Bullets of sweat prickled from his temples.
Stood in the doorway of the room was a young woman.
Lithe and unassuming, she couldn't have been much older than fifteen. Her hair was such a dark shade of brown that in the shadows it appeared black, and her skin was pale and without blemish. Her jaw was sharp and defined, cutting the air like the edge of a knife. The blade of her chin pointed down narrowly, giving her face a distinctly heart-like shape. And, set beneath a pair of thin and elegant brows, grey eyes flicked over Christopher's face, beadily alive to his reactions.
The most striking thing about her appearance, however, was not any defining feature that she bore. No. What struck Christopher the most, was that he knew her.
In fact, he had seen her every day.
The girl who stood across the road from his house, every single morning. He had always assumed that she was waiting for her friends. But now he knew different. Now he was sure. She had been waiting for him.
He recalled a scene. The college Arts Day.
A younger girl was stood by the calligraphy booth. Despite the sweltering weather, she still wore her blazer. Discomfort clung to her in much the same way as her own perspiration. And yet she didn't discard it. Rather she was clinging to it, like she didn't want to take it off. Christopher remembered thinking that she looked sad. He remembered the way that she had smiled, when he spoke to her. It lo
oked wrong, almost as if she didn't quite know how it was done. But he could tell that she appreciated it all the same: The fact that he had stopped to talk. Like she needed it.
Smiling in the same curious manner as she had done when they first met, the girl cocked her head to the side.
"Hello Christopher," she said, her voice cracking as if from lack of use.
His mouth lost the words. Information overloaded his brain, wiping out his ability to speak. In Christopher's mouth, his tongue had turned to mush.
"Sorry," the girl continued, laughing in a practiced and calculated motion. "I never told you my name, did I? This is really embarrassing; I mean I know so much about you and you don't really know anything about me."
Kneeling down in front of the chair, she moved her face close to his and stared deep into his eyes.
"I'm Veronica. Veronica Hunt."
He caught her name, but was still too distracted to respond. Now that Veronica was up close to him, his nose caught whiff of a strange scent. Sharp and acidic, it overtook his senses.
"I am sorry that I had to do this," Veronica said, knitting her brows together in a showy display of empathy. "I just... You came home early and- No... No that isn't right. I turned the power off so that you would find my present. I think I must have panicked. Or I got too excited." She began to babble, as if unsure of her own words. Still practically nose-to-nose with Christopher, her eyes gained a peculiar distance to them, as if she were viewing her memories in real time. "I think I just wanted to be alone with you. To take you back to my house. That's what you do with boys you like. That's what Daddy told me, at least."
"You like me?" Christopher finally managed to utter, the words cracking past his lips. His throat was dry from lack of use, his voice coming through half-formed and weak.
"A lot," Veronica replied, her pupils once again finding focus and tuning to his face. "For a long time."
Standing, Veronica turned away from him and closed the door. Fiddling with the light switch mounted beside it, she hesitated before flicking on the lights.
His eyes adjusting to the sudden illumination, Christopher's vision settled on Veronica's attire for the first time. She was wearing a black t-shirt, and jeans of a similar color. Dark stains swiped across the thighs of her trousers, from where she had wiped something off of her hands.