by Bella King
“Okay, now keep your mouth shut, and I’ll let you out when I leave town again. It shouldn’t take more than an hour,” he says, pulling my bandana from my back pocket and placing it over between my teeth like a gag.
I’m certain that I’m pale as a ghost, and that Devin can see it. I can’t even talk anymore, because I’m petrified of being in the confined space.
“Don’t worry,” he says as he makes a knot with the bandana at the back of my head, securing it in place in my mouth. “You’re going to be fine.” His voice is gentler now that he can see how scared I am.
If I hadn’t already gone to pee, I would have pissed myself now. I don’t fight against Devin as he lifts me into the trunk and takes one final look at me.
“I’ll take you out soon,” he says, giving me a sympathetic look before slamming the lid down.
Darkness.
I try to count my breaths, slowing them so that I don’t hyperventilate. This is a nightmare for me. I always avoid tight spaces, and I haven’t had to deal with them in years. My father hadn’t been abusive like my mother had been. After their divorce, when I was fifteen, I began to recover, but I am still terrified of small, dark places like this.
I try to block out the memories, squeezing my eyes shut tightly to trick myself that it’s only dark because they’re closed. It’s mid-afternoon, and the sun is shining nice and bright. I’ll be fine. I am already one minute closer to freedom.
It’s hot in the trunk, but not as hot as it is outside. I’m thankful for this because I don’t particularly want to be cooked. Maybe that was what Devin had been talking about after all when he said he needed to get something to eat. Maybe he is a cannibal.
I laugh at the thought, but I’m still scared. Even thinking about Devin isn’t stopping the bad memories from leaking into my head like an oil spill. The thoughts are wrapping around my brain, constricting, squeezing, and weighing me down, back into the past where my fears were first created.
Chapter Eight
It’s a warm evening in August, and I’m outside playing on the swings in the backyard. My parents let me play outside until the sun goes down, and I can swing for hours in the summertime. My mother doesn’t like me to have many friends, so I play alone most of the time. It’s okay, though, because I don’t need anyone else to enjoy the swings.
My hands grip the chains that hold up the flexible plastic seat as I swing high in the air. My small hands are sore from gripping the chains for so long, but I can keep going. I’m not afraid to fall.
I swing higher, kicking my legs as I go. I’ve always wanted to swing so high that the chains wrap around the top of the swing, and I do a full circle. I’m not sure if it’s even possible, but I want to try it. Today seems like a good a day as any.
I swing back, gliding through the air. I like to close my eyes when I swing because it feels like I’m flying. I shut my eyelids against the setting sun and swing forward, kicking my legs out again to bring me even higher.
The seat jerks as I come down again. Once you lose momentum halfway up, you fall down a portion of the way before the chains snap taught and catch you again. That makes it difficult to get up much higher.
I’m trying, though. I’m trying so hard to get up. I kick my legs up in the air, this time harder than I ever have before. I’m brave. I can do it. I’m going to make it this time. I’m going to swing so high that my feet scrape the sun.
But just as I think that I’m going to make it, I begin to fall down. I’m not gripping the chain as tightly as I should because I don’t expect the jerk as the chains pull taught, and my fingers slip from the warm metal.
I fall from the swing backward, coming down hard on my back. I feel like I’m falling forever, and then, I slam against the ground. The force moves through my torso, knocking the wind out of me. My lungs are crying for air, but they can’t get any. I feel a pain in my back, and I think I’ve landed on a rock.
I roll over, gasping for air with my cheek pressed against the soil. I suck in a few flecks of dirt and cough, regaining my ability to breathe. I get up, rubbing my back after the sharp pain. I look down to see a small stone on the ground where I fell.
“Dumb rock,” I mutter, kicking it.
I’m not seriously injured, so that’s good. My father is still at work because he’s been working late, so it’s my mother who is supposed to call me in for dinner. She gets angry if I hurt myself, but then she hurts me when she’s angry. It makes no sense.
I look up at the sky and see the deep orange of the sunset. Dinner is going to be ready very soon, but I want to get back on the swing and try again. I was so close this time. I know I can do it.
As I’m walking back to the swing, I hear my mother’s voice from the house. She’s calling me to come inside, but it barely registers in my head. I don’t want to hear her. All I want to do now is swing.
“Marybeth Kennedy, get over here right now, or you’re not getting dinner at all.”
I don’t like her cooking anyway. My father cooks much better, and he even makes french-fries at home. I love the way he does them. My mother usually ends up making me eat too many vegetables. I don’t like broccoli, but she always gives it to me anyway.
I turn around and groan. “Can I just stay out for five more minutes?”
“No,” she snaps. “Get over here right now.”
I frown as much as I can and drag my feet back toward the house. I don’t like being told what to do. When I’m an adult, I’m not going to let anyone tell me what to do, ever. I’ll be the boss then.
“What on earth have you been doing? You’re filthy,” my mother scolds, grabbing my arm roughly when I get to the door.
I try to pull away from her, but her grip is too strong. It hurts my arm. “I was swinging.”
“You weren’t just swinging,” she says, looking me over. “You’ve been rolling around in the dirt or something.”
“I didn’t,” I say, but she shakes her head at me.
“You’re going in time-out,” she says.
“No, I didn’t do anything,” I plead.
My mother yanks me into the house and barges toward the basement. I hate it when she does this. She wants to lock me in the basement for punishment, but I’m scared of what’s in there. I know monsters aren’t real, but that doesn’t mean I’m not scared of them.
I look up at my mother, and she seems angrier than usual. Lately, she’s been stressed out about something between her and my father, but I don’t know what it is. They’re arguing a lot when they think I’ve gone to sleep, but I can hear their voices. They wake me up at night with their yelling.
I wince as my mother yanks my arm, but I don’t say anything. I know that when she’s this angry, it’s best to stay quiet. I don’t want her to start hitting me. Sometimes she does that, and it’s been happening a lot more recently.
“Come,” my mother barks at me, pulling me down the stairs after she turns the light on.
I’m surprised that she doesn’t put me in there in the dark. Usually, she puts me on the stairs and locks the door so that I have to sit there in the dark. I can’t turn the light switch on because it’s outside the door.
I’m curious why we’re going down this far. I never go all the way down in the basement because there’s nothing interesting down there. The clothes washer and drier are there, but that’s it. Is she going to make me stand at the bottom of the stairs this time? I hope not.
It smells like fabric detergent and mildew in the basement. The floor is dusty, and there are probably spiders running around the place, though I don’t see any yet. I’m not that scared of spiders, but I am scared of what else might lurk in the dark.
My mother stands me in front of the clothes drier and lets go of my hand.
“I have to do the laundry?” I ask, looking up at her. It wouldn’t be the first time she has made me do chores, but I’m not usually allowed to touch the clothes.
“No,” she says, a bitter smile forming on her usually lo
vely face. “Since you enjoy getting dirty so much, I thought you might also enjoy getting clean.” She opens the door to the drier. “Get in.”
“What?” I ask, confused. I wouldn’t be able to fit in there, would I?
“Get in,” my mother repeated, grabbing my head and jerking it into the drier. She pushes me in, cramming my body against the cold metal barrel inside.
I only barely fit, and my feet are hanging out. I yell and try to kick my mother as she pushes my feet in and slams the door.
I’m trapped in the drier, and it’s pitch black. I scream, but the sound of my voice echoing off the close metal walls hurts my ears. Tears are already pouring from my eyes as I panic. I think that she’s going to turn it on and roast me in the dry heat.
I reach my hand to the door and bang on it, yelling again for her to let me out. “Please, I won’t get dirty again! Please,” I yell, but I know she won’t let me out. When she’s angry, there’s nothing I can do but wait out the punishment.
Nobody should have a panic attack as a child. Nobody deserves to be abused in this way, but I didn’t know that at the time. For me, this was just another afternoon with my mother. Unfortunately, the impact of her actions would come back to haunt me while I was locked in the trunk of Devin’s red Mustang.
Chapter Nine
I’m covered in sweat, but my heart rate is finally starting to slow down. I can handle this. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m an adult woman who knows how to control her fears and emotions. That’s what I tell myself as I picture myself outside in the open, instead of cramped in a trunk as Devin drove himself to the nearest fast-food joint.
He’s being ridiculous by doing this to me. I want to hate him even more for it, but I understand that he doesn’t know about my past. My therapist helped me not to blame others when they make jokes or don’t understand my panic. I’m supposed to explain it calmly, but Devin isn’t worth the effort. I doubt he’ll understand anyway.
I don’t want him putting me in the trunk again. Even if I wasn’t claustrophobic, being cramped up in a tight space with a dirty bandana shoved in my mouth isn’t fun. It’s humiliating, and I don’t deserve to be treated this way.
I kick the crate at my feet, trying to get some more room. I wonder what Devin is hauling around in his car if he’s running from the cartel. There could be something interesting in there, for all I know. I have the time, so I decide to figure it out. That’s a good distraction from my panic if nothing else.
I shuffle my body around in the trunk. I’m small enough to do a complete turnaround. It seems that I haven’t eaten too much junk food like I thought I had. I hope that Devin saves some fries for me in that case.
I grab at the crate with my bound hands. The cord has stretched out a little and isn’t cutting off my circulation anymore. When I get out, I’m going to have a firm talk with Devin about how to treat a lady, because honestly, this ain’t it.
The wood on the crate is thin enough for me to break, but it takes me a moment to find an edge that I can pull at. I don’t think that Devin will appreciate me breaking into his secret box, but I’m a sucker for a good mystery, and curiosity is getting the better of me. I can always say that I kicked it and it broke. It’s his fault for putting me here with it in the first place.
I snap the wood with a firm pull, but it’s impossible for me to see what’s inside of the box because it’s pitch-black in the trunk. I reach my hand past the splinters and come in contact with plastic. It’s another plastic bag, probably similar to the other one in the car.
I have the idea to tear it open, but that can’t be explained away so easily. Maybe the other bag is easier to open. I move my hands over to the side, feeling for the plastic that is crinkling behind my back. I find it and begin to move the plastic, looking for an opening.
After a moment, I realize that it’s tied in a tight knot at the top, unable to be opened without tearing. I curse under my breath and consider my options. I’m already in trouble, and I shouldn’t be sympathetic toward Devin’s belongings. For all I know, this stuff is stolen from the cartel.
Fuck it. I’m going in. If I don’t use this as a way to distract myself, then I’m going to go back to panicking. I will blame it on Devin if he finds out. He has made far too many stupid decisions for him to blame this one on me.
I dig my nails into the thick plastic, stretching it as far as I can with my hands bound together. It takes me a solid minute to get through, but once I manage to pierce a hole in the bag, I’m able to tear the rest of the way through without a hitch.
My fingers meet with something papery when I reach into the bag, and as my hand wraps around the first object, I immediately recognize what’s in the bag. Hiding under a thick layer of black plastic in the back of Devin’s car are stacks and stacks of money.
I thumb through the notes to make sure I’m not mistaken, but money is distinct. You know it when you feel the texture in your hands. It even has a smell to it, which is now wafting through the enclosed space.
“What are you up to?” I say softly, feeling how many stacks there are in the bag.
Even if they’re all just dollar bills, there has to be at least a few thousand dollars in here. That amount goes up drastically if these are twenties or even hundreds. I believe that Devin has stolen this money from the cartel, which is in line with his regular stupidity. He is ballsy enough to do something like this.
Now, I wonder what’s in the crate. The packaging is different, which makes me think that it’s not just more money. I’m interested to know what it is, so I move my hands through the splintered whole where I broke the wood and start feeling around.
This plastic feels different and is stiffer than the other one. It feels less like a trash bag and more like something used to seal up food, but I doubt Devin is hauling around bananas. Though with him, I wouldn’t be all that surprised. He’s a wild card.
I try to tear at the bag, but it’s difficult to get open. I jab my finger at the plastic, making a dent, which remains in the plastic. Whatever is inside, it’s malleable. I jab it again, and this time my fingernail pokes through. I pull it away and feel a fine powder on my fingers. What the hell is this stuff?
I smell my fingers, but whatever this substance is, it doesn’t have a strong smell. I’m starting to suspect its drugs now since I can’t think of any other reason why Devin would have powder int eh trunk of his car along with a giant pile of cash.
Of course, it all makes sense. Devin had stolen drugs and money from the cartel, and now they want to kill him. I don’t see a good reason to do something like that unless he’s incredibly greedy or batshit insane. I figure he’s both.
I pull away from the suspected drugs, not wanting to inhale any and risk getting high. There’s enough in the trunk to kill a whole city if it’s strong enough, and since it’s directly from the cartel and hasn’t been cut in the streets yet, I suspect its fairly pure.
I turn my body back around, wiggling into the position that Devin had put me in. I can feel the car slowing down, which probably means that he’s going through the drive-through. Soon, I will be let out of the trunk, and I will have to speak with Devin again. I need to tell him that locking me in tight spaces just isn’t acceptable if he wants me to be complacent in his kidnapping. Maybe we can work out a better arrangement while I’m in his hands.
It’s worth a shot. I don’t have much to lose at this point because I’m miles away from my job, my home, and everything I know and love. That’s not to say that I have a lot. My father passed away last year, and I haven’t spoken a word to my mother since the divorce. Texas is lonely for me.
Chapter Ten
“I don’t do drugs darling,” he says, as though it was obvious.
“And how am I supposed to know that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”
“What of it? I look normal,” Devin replies.
“You’re covered in tattoos, and you’re on the run from the car
tel. If it’s not drugs, then I don’t know what’s wrong with your brain,” I say, shaking my head.
“There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”
“I beg to differ,” I reply.
“Well, beg away, because you’re the one who is the captive.”
“About that,” I say, adjusting myself in my seat. I feel uncomfortable talking to Devin about something so personal to me, but I need to ensure he doesn’t lock me in the trunk again. It will bring my mind to a very bad place if he keeps doing stuff like that.
“What?” Devin asks, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put me in the trunk again.”
“Well, I’m not going to since you can’t keep your nose out of my stuff,” he replies.
“I mean, don’t lock me up in any tight places. I don’t like it.”
“Nobody likes it, Marybeth. That’s kind of the point.”
I groan. “No, I’m severely claustrophobic, and you almost made me have a panic attack. It’s not the same thing. I have issues with small spaces.”
Devin shrugs.
“Don’t shrug, asshole. Listen to me,” I say, growing irritated. “I am not going to be locked up again. I’ll claw your fucking eyes out if you do that again.”
“Jesus,” Devin says, looking over at me with a tinge of fear in his blue eyes. “Okay, I’m not going to do it again. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” I say, not expecting him to apologize. I’m pleasantly surprised by that. “I just have this thing about tight spaces. I’m not going to make a big deal about anything else.”
“Tight spaces?” Devin asks.
I nod.
“So, I guess you don’t want to share my sleeping bag tonight,” he says with a wink.
I roll my eyes. “No way. Aren’t we sleeping in a motel or something?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. We’re doing a bit of camping. I have some wood in the backseat, and there’s still a bit of gas left in the canister. We can toast marshmallows.”