by Marie Delta
“You have the key, Duncan.”
“No I don’t! I went to fucking jail because I didn’t have that key. C’mon man if you’re gonna talk, why not say something that makes sense?”
“You have always had the key.”
“NO. I. DON’T.”
“Just try it.”
“Try fucking what?”
“Take your key next door, and put it in the slot.”
“Whatever. I’ll do it to shut you up.”
Chapter 16
Standing outside of room thirteen, Duncan pulled his key from his pocket and slid it into the door. The green light lit up, and he stood staring at it, dumbfounded. He was confused and curious, but could not open the door. He was trying to remember. Trying to remember how he had gotten access to this room. Trying to remember ever being in the room, but he could not.
He remembered pounding on the door after putting Rodrigo to sleep. He remembered the cops being called, and he remembered the body going missing and being taken to jail. He remembered being in the holding cell, and he remembered accepting the demon. But when did he get access to room thirteen? Why did he get access to it?
He stood there for almost five minutes trying to work things out in his own head. He wondered what would be on the other side of the door. The demon inside him knew, but he would not tell. He would not give Duncan any more tips or clues. He wanted the young man to see for his self what was behind the door.
Duncan put his hand on the knob and turned it slowly, only to find that it had relocked itself. He again stuck the keycard into the slot and was just as surprised as the first time that the little green light flashed on and off. This time, he turned the knob and pushed, letting the door swing open.
As the door opened, Duncan closed his eyes, for a smell so rancid it made him gag attacked him. He stepped through the threshold; eyes still closed and balled his hands into fists. He was afraid to open his eyes. So afraid that he almost stepped back outside and left. So afraid that he prayed that he was dreaming.
“Open your eyes, Duncan. Look at what you have done.”
Duncan, very slowly, opened his eyes, and when they were all the way open, he sucked in a shot of breath so harsh he gagged again. In front of him laid several bodies. Bodies he recognized, and some he did not. His eyes grew two sizes and he entered the room fully, jaw sliding on the floor.
The first body he saw was a woman. She lay there mouth wide open in what Duncan assumed was a scream. Her body was laid out flat on her back and her eyes were half closed. He did not know who she was, but he recognized her face as someone he may have seen before.
Behind her, also on the floor was a large burly man. The man was clothed in dirty jeans and a white t-shirt. His head lay cocked at an impossible angle, and his hands were balled into fists. His body was crumpled on the floor as if he had been dumped and left to fester. His feet were bare, and his toes just barely touched the body behind him.
When Duncan took in the body that lay behind the big man, he became confused. O’Reilly lay there, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. What got to Duncan though, was that there were big chunks missing out of his body. Duncan’s one and only friend was dressed up as usual, but his pant legs were rolled up and the meat of one of his calves was gone. His shirt was cut open and he was missing an entire bicep. Duncan could not think of why that may be. All he knew was that he was sorry. Tears began streaking down his face, and he continued to identify the bodies.
Behind, and slightly underneath O’Reilly was Mohammed. He was curled up into the fetal position, and his head had a large dent in it. The sight brought back memories and Duncan began to sob aloud when he remembered barging into the apartment behind the counter in the front office and bashing him in the head with the first thing he saw, which had been a small lamp. He had hit the man time after time, trying to stop his cries for help.
There were no more bodies on the floor, but Duncan knew there had to be more. He remembered what he did. He was even surprised at the fact that he had forgotten in the first place. He dragged his eyes upward and onto the bed. There lay another body, and this one brought a smile. It was Rodrigo, his father. The old man laid in the bed naked. He had meat pulled from him in various places and a peaceful smile on his face. Duncan studied the chunks missing, and he smiled again. A wet carnitas burrito. Pot roast. He remembered. Remembered it all.
He crossed the room as carefully as he could to the microwave and opened the door. In the microwave, on the turntable, laid two slabs of meat. He listened, waiting for the demon to beg to be fed, but heard nothing, and he smiled again. Duncan closed the microwave door and set it to five minutes, then he took off around the building, opening every door with his master key. He left them all open and returned to room thirteen, where he pulled out his food and began to eat. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He typed in the numbers 9-1-1 and put the phone on the floor. Then he sat with his dinner, waiting, and waiting and waiting, thinking they should have never let him out of prison.
The Organist
I open the front door and look out into the misty morning. The sky has turned from black to purple and I give the sun another hour to show its face. Stepping out on the porch, I flip my left leg up and grab my ankle for a quick stretch. Switch. I hop up and down and circle my arms, blinking in rhythm with the bounce of my hood over my eyes. Now squats. I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose…out through my mouth. I’m counting down, 15…14… and as I fall into my daily exercises, images of my nightmares fly from ear to ear. As usual, I react; jogging out to the far side of the yard, I focus intensely on the fence. I come in close, reach my arm out, and as soon as the tip of my finger tells my brain it feels something, I sprint to the other side of the lawn. Touch the fence, drop, twenty push-ups, stand up and sprint. I do this over and over until I’m winded, and lie in the grass embracing the pain.
Breathe in through the nose; out through the mouth. Standing up makes my world sway and I throw my hands up on my head waiting for it to stop. I’m ready to go but my body is pleading with me whole-heartedly, so instead I wait, walking in circles around my lawn. Walking around in the dark usually makes me nervous and today is no different. With no moon and no sun to light it up, the lawn sits dark and quiet. The silence is heavy and feels as if there are words waiting to be spoken. Again, I react.
Jogging down the street begins to feel good after about four blocks. I listen to the rhythm of my feet slapping the pavement and breathe. To my left, houses sit unplugged, waiting for the new day to begin. To my right, the street breathes easy without the weight of the day’s traffic. Beyond that, a twelve-foot wall protecting my gated community, assuring each one of us tenants that we are safe. I continue straight, anticipating the bend at the end of the road. My lungs are telling me I just might make a second lap. Slap, slap, slap; my feet on the pavement. Every step echoes off the wall and after a couple more blocks, the quiet hits me. It is never this quiet. Lights should be flicked on, readying for the day ahead. Cars should be starting, warming the engine, interior, and the windshield. There is no wind…just mist.
I run daily to take away the dreams. It keeps me in shape and looking good so I’m asked on a daily basis, “You a runner?” Commenting on how I have the legs for it. And I always reply, “Yeah, I ran cross country in high school.” It makes me wonder; if someone walked up and asked, “You a liar?” would I answer with, “Yes I am! I tell people I ran track in high school to hide the fact that I got my legs from running from my problems every morning!” During the day, I put on a façade like I’m a well-rounded individual. I’m funny, I’m characteristic, I’m attractive and I’m kind. I have a perfect life. During the day, it feels so good. Yes, I hold the feeling over my heart but…
Now I’m running. I’m running like I do every morning. I’m running from my fears and my nightmares and the people who hurt me. I’m running from the killers and the rapists and the people who are like me. I run every morni
ng from the people who are angry at the world. Except…I’m different. I’m angry because of the killing and the raping and the anger and stealing, mistrust and backstabbing. The disloyalty frays the hairs that rise up when I’m scared, or alerted…or cold. Those other people…they are angry like me. But they get angry, and they become the ones doing the killing and the raping. They blame everyone else, and they punish with no explanation. They believe they’re helping the world when in reality they’re hurting. Unless their motive is population control.
They are why I’m afraid. Why I have to run. Why I’m running now. I finish my first lap and try for a second. Passing my house gives me the usual feelings; fear of the danger of those people like me. Fear of failure. Fear of discomfort. Fear of tragedy.
Picking up speed, I shake off the jittery feeling of eyes following me. I round the first curve and try to sprint until the next straightaway. My breath begins to shorten and I will myself to relax. I know my body is fine; it’s my mind that is breaking me down. Fear creeps up my spine and down both arms and I toss my head from side to side searching my surroundings. I promise myself I will be fine; that my body can make it home and only my fear is stopping it. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. I have almost officially convinced myself that I am okay when fear grips me again and I begin to rasp with every breath. I try to calm down; noting that there is nothing and no one around and only succeed in making matters worse.
As the corners of my mouth turn down promising tears, I run faster. And faster. And faster. Somehow, my brain has forgotten that I can turn down the next street and head straight home, so I circle as I did before. I count the curves in the road knowing home is not too far away, but as I do, the edges of my world begin to fade to white and I stop dead in my tracks. Sucking in forced, harsh breaths of air, I throw my hands up on my head and toss one foot after the other out onto the sidewalk. My legs feel weak and my shoulders twist from side to side beginning the effort of moving them. For a moment, I think it is snowing, though I can feel no icy flakes landing on my face and my stomach is taking a ride in a tumble dryer. Then nothing.
My eyes fly open and I try to sit up and receive a chronic case of whiplash. High-pitched screams ease through my lips before I can even figure out what is going on. I cannot move my arms or legs, or my head. The thought, “hospital” floats through my head and I relax noticing I had been fighting against my restraints, causing them to bite into my skin. My last scream echoes and its silent. Breathe in, breathe out. Just breathe. I have already passed out once today and woke up who knows where. I lift my head the allowed millimeter and look down at my immobile body. From what I can see, I’m still outfitted in my blue hoody and sweats. My shoes are gone; I wiggle my toes.
I tap my fingers on the thing I’m lying on. It’s metal. So I’m definitely not in a hospital. The ceiling is only three or four feet above me, and now I’m really beginning to question my location. I also note the fact that my screams were answered with silence. Turning my eyes left and right only got me so far but I now know that I’m in the back of a van. There’s no windows that I can see but if I tilt my head to the right and force my eyes as far down as possible I can see a hole in the rusty roof, though it took me a few moments to figure out that’s what it is since it seems the day outside is just as gray as the inside of this mobile prison. Which makes me think…we aren’t moving. Whose we? Oh, God!
Rain begins to spatter the roof and the sound is deafening. I urge my ears to hear past the drumming; only succeeding in becoming frustrated and screaming at the top of my lungs. I rip at the straps holding me down and rock side to side trying to capsize the table. It doesn’t budge and I go limp. My lungs expand and contract erratically and I break out in a sweat.
I remember fainting on the street and I remember being afraid. But I wasn’t really running from anyone. Was I? There is nothing in sight that can tell me where I am or who strapped me down or why. The only thing I can hear is rain and my heartbeat. What do I do? Shit, what can I do? I’m tied down! I can’t move! I’m totally helpless and I don’t know where I am. God, if a body could die at will. After that slap of panic, I begin to cry. As I cry, I pull at my restraints like a tightly swaddled infant, sobbing and murmuring unintelligible things. I just want to go home. I don’t know why I’m here. Why am I here? What did I do? Please let me be dreaming. With that last thought, I sputter and feel drops of my own spit freckle my face.
I do not know how long I have been crying. My throat is wrapped tight and the insides of my ears are wet. I calm finally, staring at the rusty gray roof of the van and wondering how long I have been here, how long I have been missing. Breathe in through the nose, deeper. Hold it for a moment. Exhale slowly. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Not knowing what else to do I begin humming a little tune. It begins merry and jolly, as I imagine bunnies hopping in meadows and such. I continue with the song and the visualization following one particular bunny down through the tunnels of his barren. Now the bunny hears the hiss of a snake and darts back towards the exit of the tunnels but can’t seem to find it. I was humming slasher music and killing off a bunny, great.
As I turn my mind to other things, I settle into false security. My coworkers will miss me when I don’t show up. When they look and I’m not in my apartment, they’ll know something’s wrong. People are saved all the time. Someone will save me. I do not have many friends or family in the area. I don’t have a dog or a kid. I had a boyfriend but he left me a while back. But someone has to miss me. I can see my house. My couch. Or better, my bed. The images reassure me again that I will be okay. I’m beginning to drift off. Should I sleep? I can’t imagine sleeping well, here and now but…what else can I do? I close my eyes.
Bam! Bam! What the hell was that? I jump up. Oh shit, I’m strapped down! I scream and fight against the bands crossing my body. Then I stop. Finally recognizing the gray roof, I strain my eyes in every direction trying to find the source of the noise that woke me up. Replaying the sound in my head, I’m pretty sure someone just closed the van doors.
I tense and hold my breath, listening. The rain has stopped and I can hear a soft huff, sharp inhale, soft huff, sharp inhale. Checking myself to be sure I’m still not breathing I begin to cry again. This time it is silent and final. I have accepted that I’m going to be tortured and killed. Why else would I be strapped to a table in the back of a still van? My body shakes and the chattering of my teeth makes it hard to hear whoever is in here with me.
Huff, inhale, huff, inhale. He never moves. He never speaks. His breathing is uniform and I’m beginning to think he’s asleep. The rain starts up again. Lighter this time, as if aware that I lay in a metal coffin straining to hear the approach of death. One, two, three; I count his breaths, fighting mental images of human dissection.
One hundred twenty-one…
Seven hundred and one…
One thousand.
I start over. Now images flash through my mind of triumphant defeats of my unseen enemy, where I somehow come upon something sharp enough to cut myself out, stab my adversary and run. This time I count past a thousand, now trying to ignore the balloon reaching full capacity in my gut. The numbers fly by, now requiring concentration. Somewhere in the nine thousands, I drift off.
Coming into consciousness, I refuse to move or open my eyes. I lie perfectly still and pray to every god and goddess I can think of. Please let me be in my bed. After a few moments, I bravely peek under the lid of one eye. I’m hoping to see my white ceiling; I’m expecting to see a rusty gray roof. But I don’t. All I see is darkness. Black, like the back of my lids. I blink madly and shake my head, bucking wildly for a while until my neck feels like its breaking.
I will myself to be alert and aware. The huff and inhale is still there. Though, now it sounds ragged and harsh as if he just worked up a sweat. Trying not to think of what he could have possibly been doing, I quiet my own breathing a bit and listen again. A soft murmur hits my ears, the sound of loud music escaping he
adphones. The song is not familiar and from here sound only like a jumble of noise. Again, I wonder how long I’ve been here. Where is here? Why the hell am I here?
I look back on the wrongs I have made in my life. A few stolen candy bars, a broken heart or two. A few too many drunken nights. But what have I really done to anyone? I can’t think of a single thing that would result in this kind of bad karma. What are they going to do to me? I figure there has to be some ultimate goal here. Does he want sex? Pain? Does he just want to torture me? Is he obsessed with me? And why doesn’t this van ever move?
Bam! Bam! The straps bite into my skin as I attempt to jump out of it. Relaxing, I feel a relief pour over my body as a warm puddle spills from between my stiff legs. Frustrated, I throw a tantrum, ripping at the straps and yelling obscenities. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m wet. I smell like piss. I’m freezing and tired and scared. I’m so scared. Boredom could never be an issue with all the crazy things to think about. To worry about. To say goodbye to. I miss my mother…and my father. I miss my brother and my sticky nephew. I miss the bitch next door whose tree hangs over my yard. How long has it been? What time is it? What day is it? Who is in here with me?
I begin softly at first, “Who’s in here?” I repeat the question again and again, louder and louder. Now I’m shouting, “Who’s in here? Who are you?” My voice cracks and I cough, my body rocking as I hack and wet my face all over again with flecks of spit. A soft chuckle emanates from somewhere by my feet. The sound of it brings hot tears to my eyes and rattles my bones. I don’t know if it is echoing off the van walls or in my head but I release more tears in a plea to stop it. A soft whimpering reaches my ears and I realize it’s me. Pitiful sounds tumble from my open mouth dragging drool and spittle from the pool I can’t manage to swallow. My body shakes violently now and the table rattles under me.