So I tried to stand—and toppled over. Lying on the carpet, hands beneath me, the marauders of pain launched another brutal attack. A wave of pain washed over me like a tsunami. I broke out in a cold sweat.
I moaned and dug my fingers into the carpet, trying to distract myself from the pain. I heard a dispassionate nurse's voice in my head, one of the many that came to assess Mom during her chemo days.
On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you say the pain is?
Twelve! It's a twelve!
Another pill, another pill. Always another pill. That's what I so desperately wanted right now, a magical pill that would shoo away the marauders and render them impotent against the powerful and great white wizard know as Pain Pill.
There were so many wonderful wizards that pharmaceutical companies spent billions conjuring, but none would come my aid without a dreaded visit from Dillon. Slowly, mercifully, after much intentional thinking, the pain ebbed a little.
I gritted my teeth and pulled up my left pant leg. My heart sped with fear. My ankle looked like a purple football. My swollen foot reminded me of the time we had blown up a latex glove in the hospital and drew a face on it.
In high school, I had overheard Surfer Dude recount his accident, thus revealing the reason why he was on crutches. "The water was so cold, dude, you know how cold it can get in Baja." Emphatic nodding from his audience. "The waves were closing out, but bro, there were still some good rides in there. So I went out for one last sesh before I called it a day. And I caught this monster wave. Dude. It was awesome. Saw the green room and everything. Then it closed out and I took a major beating in the pound zone, and when I finally got to shore and stood up . . . bro, like—nothing happened. I just couldn’t stand up. Thank God the water was freezing. I'd've been in a hella lot of pain if my leg wasn't so numb."
Could that be my problem? Could I possibly have the same ailment as Surfer Dude? I adjusted my position to get a better look, and accidentally put some weight on my ankle. Suddenly I felt sick. I carefully lowered myself down and focused on calming my roiling stomach.
My sight went blurry. As I watched splotchy little stars circulate around the room, I realized that my ankle was definitely as swollen and purple as Surfer Dude’s.
CHAPTER FORTY
Dark times. Dark, terrible times . . .
My whole existence had become very bleak. I'd managed to immobilize my ankle with some packing tape and two books I’d found in a box. There was enough pressure to encourage the wheels of healing to start turning. I could only hope the tender pieces of my ankle would meld back together sooner rather than later. Not to aid me in my escape, you see. That was a physical impossibility now. I just wanted relief from the pain. The Wizard of Healing would help me.
Healing wasn't as great of a wizard as Pain Pill, but he was a diligent little creature. Soon Healing would sort me out. Soon, I'd be back to plain old despair.
"Addictive" is the word best used to describe great books, but those reviewers had no idea what they were talking about. Addictive is a deep pining in one's soul, a wholly consuming obsession.
I could feel its little tendrils, snaking around my ankle, my legs, making its way up to my mind. One could claim I had been addicted to Xanax, maybe Paxil and Prozac, too. But nobody really yearns for that bland, drug-induced reality. We just put up with it because we’re afraid to face life alone, unaided. We’re afraid to face ourselves.
But this—this was true yearning. My life had been comfortable and cosseted. My life was the escape. Now, it had become a hard, weary load. Addiction offered me freedom from the crushing weight of reality. This is the only thing I wanted: freedom from the sharp pressing edges of what my life had become.
Virginia and I had tried so hard to escape. But we failed. This was my life now. One where Healing and Pain Pill hovered and swooped, each battling for the win.
I would not give in. I would not weaken. I would not let Dickhead win. Those were my mantras when I lay prone on the carpet, unmoving, scared to trigger the marauders.
But when I tried to stand and rippling pain seared down my leg, I cried out for relief, for freedom. I cried out for Pain Pill.
It arrived, slipped stealthily under the door. And I dragged myself to it, with a new mantra on my lips: Next time, I will not give in. Next time, I will not weaken. Next time, I will not let Dickhead win.
Some time passed in this state of flux, so I guessed. I scribbled out my daily page of poop, leg propped up on a box, and anxiously waited for my little white reward. And soon, Falco found himself bedeviled with a newfangled problem too. Addiction.
This heretofore unexplored topic kept my pen moving. But I needed to fight it. I needed to get Falco off the good stuff. I needed to use Pain Pill just as he was using me. I needed help to get out of trenches. I needed help battling the marauders. Then I would cast Pain Pill aside.
Soon, my leg began to heal. Soon, Healing outperformed Pain Pill, and soon I didn't need the latter anymore. Okay, maybe I needed it sometimes. But I was making progress. I wasn't going to lose myself to chemical euphoria. I knew the dangers of drug addiction. I—Eugenia Ward—will win . . . eventually.
I told Dickhead where to find the first draft of "Rebecca." I was a very untidy document. I hoped that he would just put it out for public consumption and try to cash in on Amy Mathews' brand equity.
I hoped my readers would eviscerate it. I hoped my sales would tank. I hoped to drive myself into financial destitution, for that would be the only way to get rid of the parasite.
So I clung to this new hope on the horizon. Amy Mathews was about to stun the world again, this time with her awesome flop. I envisioned a blizzard of one star and angry gif-laden reviews.
My fans wouldn't let me down. They were a passionate tribe, outspoken, and active online. Some even had followings of their own, who could make or break a writer's career. Some of them were very powerful. I needed the powerful ones now.
I hated to do it. I loved them all. I'd gotten to know so many of my fans online. They were all such kind, supportive, and interesting people. I reasoned that if I ever survived, I could announce the incredible reason behind Amy Mathews' stupendous pile of poo. Maybe they'd forgive me. Maybe, they'd even retract a few bombs.
Until then, I needed to behead the parasite.
I needed to get out of this alive.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
One evening, I was laying on my mattress, staring up at the ceiling and counting the joists, when I heard a faint tapping on the small portal window. Must be a woodpecker, I thought, and continued counting. Then then the tapping stopped and, after a few moments, began again.
It almost sounded like pebbles pelting the window, not the steady rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker. I set my pad of paper aside, curious. I grabbed my makeshift crutch, and prepared to stand.
The knocking stopped.
I sat there, wondering if my bland discovery would worth the effort. I'd probably find a rat, or something gross, trying to eat its way into my room, in which case I'd rather not know.
I thought I heard a whisper—"Hey!"—a real live human voice, coming from outside of my portal window. But it was probably the wind howling, my sole companion these days.
It also could be some bad side effects from Pain Pill, the white wizard, who had graciously visited me earlier in the day. The great wizard had materialized under the door, pushed there by Dillon, I presumed. Maybe Virginia. Maybe Casper the Friendly Ghost himself. I didn’t care.
I'd crawled my way over to my little white savior, placed it on my tongue and closed my eyes against the welcoming sizzle as I swallowed the pill dry, numbing my mouth, my esophagus, my stomach, my body, and my mind. Then I'd laid there for most of the day, grateful for oblivion.
"Hello?"
I looked over at the darkened window, where the voice of a real live person had come from. I struggled up to standing, careful to keep my weight on my good leg. Wizard or no, this deserved some investigation a
nd a little dash of irrational hope.
I hobbled over to the dark window, trying to see past my own reflection in the pane and look into the deep night shadows on the other side. Nothing. I swung open the little window and peered into the darkness. A shape moved—a shape in the form of a human. Then the shape stepped into the shadows and disappeared.
I made my way back to the mattress, disappointed or relieved, I wasn’t sure which. I heard some noise, branches rustling, some footsteps on the roof.
I turned and looked. Something stirred.
I hobbled faster to the window, despite the pain, anxious to close the gap. There was a moment of doubt. Could I be pushing through the pain only to find Dillon? Was there a cruel surprise waiting for me outside? I didn't know. But I had to try.
I reached the window portal and peered into the darkness. Someone stood on the other side.
"Genie?" a voice said, a voice that I knew, but had long endeavored to forget. And Ben stepped into the light.
My right leg went weak.
"Ben?" I whispered, wondering if Pain Pill was playing a nasty trick on me.
I blinked a few times, trying to clear the apparition from my vision. But there he stood, directly in front of my eyes. I opened the window.
He'd aged since I'd seen him last. His cheeks were sunken. There were dark circles under his supernova eyes, which had glowed so brightly in the days we'd spent together. Now they were dark, sad, and resigned. But there was a half-smile on his mouth, hinting at his old good humor.
"I'm sorry about showing up like this. I know it must be really creepy for you . . . me just showing up unexpected like some—like a stalker. But—"
I plunged both hands through the window, desperately grasping for him, regardless of my jittery leg. His touch would give me strength. He grabbed my hands, holding both in his, and stepped closer.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked, looking past my shoulder, peering into the Dungeon behind me.
But I couldn't answer. My throat was so tight with emotion and relief and fear that I couldn't utter a single word. "Ben," I croaked and dissolved into tears.
“Genie?" he asked, snaking his arms through the tiny portal window and reaching for me. I felt like a gorilla in a zoo left for years in solitary confinement, reaching for something—anything—that would break this terrible curse of solitude. I embraced him. Only a wall stood between our bodies and a swinging window pane between our heads.
"How did you get in here?" I asked.
He blinked. "You gave me the code remember? You said you were tired of getting out of the car and punching in pin number like you were at a dingy ATM every time we came back to your place."
I did . . . ? I did. I wanted to kiss myself.
"Look, I’ve done a lot of thinking after that time I stopped by—the time you dumped me over the intercom. I—"
Suddenly, my voice returned. "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean a single word of it. Dillon made me say it. He had Virginia strapped to a chair and he said if I didn't make you go away, he'd shoot her up and kill her with an overdose. So I said it, I said whatever he wanted me to, even though it killed me to do it. I love you, Ben. I love you so much. And—and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."
"Oh, baby," he muttered and pulled me close.
"But you can't stay here. You have to go. Dillon, he—"
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, a touch too boldly. I glanced cautiously over at the door.
"Ssh. Not so loud," I whispered. "He might hear us." I looked back at Ben, and saw confusion written on his face. "We're hostages. Dillon is holding us both hostage. As long as I keep writing books, Virginia survives. If she continues with the Amy Mathews charade, I survive. But he's got her so done up on drugs though, with uppers and downers and God knows what else, she's just a puppet. She's totally out of it most of the time. We tried to escape though, we tried to climb over the back fence, but he caught us and—and then he screwed up my ankle pretty bad."
Ben, for once, didn't have anything to say. At last, he said, "I'm calling the cops. Right now." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. The screen lit up at the touch of his thumb. Relief so stunningly overwhelming washed over me. He had a cell phone, a glorious cell phone that worked! All he had to do was type in the three magical digits—nine, one, one—and cops would come screaming around the corner pronto.
They'd break down the front door and find me in my deplorable state. They'd arrest Dillon on the spot. And soon, so very, very soon, this whole nightmare would be over. Dillon would be thrown behind bars, this time forever.
He dialed the number and held the phone up this ear. The phone cast an eerie glow across his face. He stepped back into the shadows, cupped the mouthpiece with his hand, and waited.
What was he waiting for?
"Fuck!"
I stepped close. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"It's some fucking automated voice system!" And into the phone, he said, "Glenhaven . . . Glen-hay-VEN."
My heart started skittering around my chest. "A voice system?" I mumbled, glancing over at the door.
"Emergency. Operator,” he said.
We both waited for what seemed like one long millennium. Finally, he looked up at me and nodded. My singular leg almost gave out underneath me. He pressed his back against the outside weatherboards and started talking, hand still cupped over his mouth, while I watched the door.
"Benjamin Walker. Nine-five-four, sixty-seven forty."
Then I saw it. A shadow fell on the door gap.
". . . Nine. Five. Four. Six. Seven. Four. Oh."
The shadow shifted. I heard the telltale rattling of the deadbolt.
I poked my mouth out of the little window, heart beating so fast I could scarcely breathe. "Ben, he's here! He's coming!"
He looked at me, panic bright in his eyes, and returned to the operator. "I've got a hostage situation here. I need the cops to come immediately. My—what?"
I ducked back inside and saw the door knob twisting.
"I'm twenty-five. Look, this is urgent. We need help. I—no, I'm not the hostage!"
I hopped over to the roll-top desk and grabbed the folding chair. Then I dragged it over to the door and wedged it underneath the doorknob. It wouldn't save us from Dillon's imminent rage, but it would buy us a few precious seconds for Ben to communicate the vital details of our whereabouts. And perhaps even, save us all.
From without, I heard Ben's voice, thick with frustration, "Yes of course everyone is still breathing!"
The door slammed open, toppling over my plastic chair. Dillon stood in the threshold, hair disheveled. His stained t-shirt fell around a lump in his waistband—a lump that advertised a handgun. He stepped into the room, ears pricked for any unusual sounds, moving quickly past me like a panther, examining the room for any interloper.
"What are you looking for?" I tried to sound brave. I tried to look believably casual. I tried to calm my quavery voice, shaking from the hot rush of adrenaline coursing through my body. "I was just—"
Ben's hushed voice drifted in from the portal window that I'd forgotten to close. "The name is Dillon. I don’t know his last name. What? Yes—a guy . . ."
Then Dillon spun around and looked at me. "You practicing ventriloquism, Piss Drinker?"
I tried to stop him. But he shoved me aside.
I toppled over and cried out—"Ben! Run!"—as a sharp ripping sensation rushed up my left leg. I'd reinjured my ankle that had so delicately melded back together. How much, I didn't know. I could only hope I was still mobile.
Dillon paused as alert as a Doberman, searching for Ben. He withdrew the gun, fixed on the portal window, and started toward it. I launched myself at his feet. I wrapped my arms around his legs and squeezed my eyes shut, ready for the onslaught of kicks and punches.
He tumbled to the ground, the weapon skittering away from his hand. He looked down at me, clamped onto his legs like a limpet.
"Bitch!" he roared,
and started wriggling out of my grasp. One leg broke free, and he struck my head with his heel.
My vision erupted into jagged white lines every time he made a connection. I clenched my teeth, hunkered down, and tightened my grip.
I'd maneuvered my good leg around him, thus freeing up one arm, while I reached desperately for the gun. My fingertips played on the gleaming steel barrel, each tremulous touch pushing it further away.
But Dillon overpowered me. With one violent jerk of his body, he upended me. I spilled off to the side, and he raised his closed fist to strike me. I cowered.
Suddenly, a phone clattered against his head and fell to the floor, face up, just a few inches away. We both stopped. I glanced over at the portal window and could see Ben withdrawing his arm.
"Sir? Sir?" I heard a small voice saying.
"Helllllppp!!!" I cried. "Help us! He's going to kill us!"
". . . Address. Can you verify . . ."
Dillon grabbed the phone and pressed it against his ear. "We're downtown," he replied calmly. "Downtown in the old warehouse district. 981 Fifth Avenue."
"No—!”
And he hung up. A dark cloud descended on me, a dark impenetrable cloud of stunned hopelessness. Dillon had sent the police to the wrong address, all the way to the other side of town!
Hope swilled away, hope that had burned so bright in my heart and mind. As he stood and loomed over me, gun in hand, I felt all as though he'd opened up a jugular and drained out my lifeblood.
The phone rang again, a bright jarring ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling! It was the operator calling back, trying to keep someone on the line until the cops arrived. Dillon looked down at the phone. There were two giant glowing buttons: green representing hope and red representing all life lost.
He pointed the barrel of his gun at the ringing phone, and shot it, instantly severing our only lifeline to the outside world. Then he strode to the portal window that Ben had thankfully vacated.
As he peered out of the window, I scrambled backwards, across the room and away from him. I heard some quick footsteps across the veranda roof. Dillon stuck his arm through the little opening and fired. There was a metallic screech of the rain gutter peeling away from the roofline. He fired again, twice in quick succession.
I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller Page 18