A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  When I go to bed that night, I’m wearier than I’ve ever been, but it feels good. Oh, does it feel good to finally do something worthwhile. As I drift off, I think about the cleaning I need to do. I really have a lot to finish, but oh well. That’s a chore for tomorrow. If he’s not here by now, I think I have some time. I fall asleep in the empty bedroom, not worrying about Richard. Instead, I let sleep take me to a place where he can’t touch me—or so I think.

  Night One

  My legs are heavy and leaden, like they’re stuck in tar or molasses or maybe nothing. All I can think about is that my legs just won’t move fast enough, they just won’t work. I scream, begging my legs to move faster as the sheer terror and knowledge that I’m going to die if I don’t hurry catches up to me. I need to get out of here.

  As I attempt to run down the lane, familiar in some way, darkness descends on me. I run faster and faster, every step agonizing in the follow through. I’m wearing a white nightgown, the one that’s worn and faded from my drawer, but as I look down, I realize there’s blood splattered here and there. I don’t have time to think about it, though. As I rush forward, the lane suddenly morphs into a forest, suffocating me with overgrown brush and vines. I’m ducking this way and that, trying to make my way through the claustrophobic scene, trying to feel my way in the oppressive blackness.

  My heart races as I realize it’s just so dark, and I’m so lost. Everything swirls around me and my stomach starts to hurt, vomit threatening to rise to the surface. I stop in the middle, the trees and vines whirling over and over like I’m on a demented tilt-a-whirl. I hear the beating of a drum in the distance, methodical and chilling. I try to scream. Nothing comes out but a stifled, soundless scratching.

  I glance to my right and see it there. A grocery bag, spotlighted in the middle of it all. It’s such an odd sight, contrasting with the darkness of the forest. What is it doing here? Did I drop it? The beating of the drum keeps pounding, the trees still whirring, but it’s like time stops still around that bag. I walk over gingerly, and the forest creaks to a halt around me. My feet aren’t heavy anymore. I feel noticeably freer. I stoop down, ready to reach in the bag.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that, Crystal?’ a voice murmurs behind me. It’s a voice I recognize in some depth of me, but I can’t quite place it. The sugary femininity of it swirls around me, clunking into my psyche. Before I can reach in the bag, I turn to see her. Heather Granville, the girl who made my life hell in junior high. She’s still the same Heather, but there are a few key differences.

  Her hair is missing, patches strewn about the forest floor. Bloody gobs of skin hang from her head. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I can’t. I stare in confusion. What’s she doing here?

  ‘Be careful, Crystal. You don’t always want to find the answers.’

  Before I can open my mouth to ask the questions pounding into my head, she’s gone, reduced to a malicious omen whispered in the forest. I turn back to the shopping bag. It’s converted into a box, almost like a Christmas package. The shimmering gold wrapping paper glistens, a red bow on top. I reach down, scratching my leg on a spindly branch tossed on the ground. I crawl toward the present, the beating drum still pounding in rhythm with the movement of my limbs. Entranced, I untie the ribbon and slowly peel back the lid, anxious to see what’s inside. But once it’s open, I jump back. I shrivel away from the horrific sight that is truly the hallmark of the darkest nightmares.

  I try to scream again, but it’s no use. My voice catches in my throat. I scream and scream, but there isn’t a sound. The drum keeps beating, louder and louder as I scurry backward, away from the box, the rotting corpse inside barely even human.

  I scurry on the ground, crawling back like some sick and twisted crab crawling right into the boiling pot. I need to get away. I need to get home. Where am I? What’s happened to me?

  My hands feel the ground, leading the way backward, but suddenly I touch something warm and sticky. It’s somehow familiar. As if I’m playing a twisted game, I try to identify what it is without peeking at it. It feels out of place among the dirt and branches. I finally turn to look at what my hand is touching. Red covers my fingers, splattering about. Suddenly, my hands are both dripping with ghastly amounts of blood. Have I hurt myself? Have I cut myself? I’m so confused. But when my eyes finally focus, I realize what I’ve touched.

  A finger. A severed finger, the rough skin sagging around the ligaments, the bones. I scream again, and this time a sound comes out, but it’s not the terrifying shriek I want to bellow through this hellfire forest. It’s barely a muted whisper, a weak cry that goes unheard amidst the trees.

  Where did it come from? What’s it doing here? I wonder. But before I can investigate, I hear a thud nearby. I look to see another finger, dripping and jarring, land in the dirt to my left. The edge of the finger isn’t a clean cut. It looks like it’s been sawed, back and forth, back and forth, until the skin and tendons and bone cracked into ragged pieces. It screams pain, my own digits aching at the mere sight of it.

  I stumble to my feet, needing to get out of this place. My eyes wildly search for the lane, but it’s gone. Suddenly, I hear another thud. A finger, straight ahead. I think about running away from it but for some unknown reason, I’m drawn to it. I walk closer. Thud. Another finger, way up ahead. My feet creep along, the fingers pounding in distinct intervals on the ground, me following them.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. Walk. Walk. Walk. It’s a nonsensical game, an eerie investigation, but I can’t stop myself even though my head tells me I should want to stop.

  The sky darkens, darkens, darkens. I stand at the latest fallen finger, bloody and oozing. There’s a chill in the air, my filthy and stained nightgown whipping around my legs. I look up. A house sets in front of me, shadows cast on it in an unsettling, unnatural way. There’s a red mist of some sort, an inexplicable haze settling around the peeling white house.

  I’m home, I think. I’m here. There’s a familiarity to it, a magnetism almost that settles my flailing limbs, my racing pulse. But as I stare at the house, the screen door flapping back and forth even though there is no wind, I shudder. This isn’t home. Not quite. Maybe not at all. It’s not my home, yet it feels familiar.

  Thud. Another finger lands on the front steps, and I consider stepping toward it. But just as my right foot is ready to stretch forward . . .

  I BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED, sweat leaking from my forehead. My back is drenched, my white nightgown stuck to my clammy skin in uncomfortable ways. After a long moment, I catch my breath, squinting, telling myself it’s okay. It’s just a nightmare. Nothing more. Just the brain’s way of processing the inexplicable and complicated elements of life in disjointed, fragmented ways. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m okay.

  I’m okay, I reassure myself, over and over, as I lie back down, pulling my knees to my chest, squeezing them tight, and telling myself it’s fine.

  Just breathe. Don’t think about it. Just breathe. Over and over, I tell myself it’s nothing as I glance down, checking for blood on my nightgown that surely isn’t there.

  I rock gently, tears cascading down my face as I stare over at the empty pillow beside me. I get up, find the bleach and the bucket, and I get to work. I clear away the grime that I can, making sure it’s all spotless. It needs to be spotless.

  I can make it all spotless, can’t I?

  Chapter Five

  Henry’s barking startles me as I sit up, the couch having enveloped my weary body. I stretch and try to place myself and remember last night. I must’ve fallen asleep after scrubbing the floor. What time was that? It’s hard to tell, and I have no way of knowing.

  I stretch my body, and my neck creaks. Panic roots itself in my brain. Is he here? Is Henry trying to warn me? Look at me. I’m an absolute mess. This won’t do. But there might not be any time. I wonder if my short-lived freedom, at least the most I can hope to enjoy, is over.

  Wandering to the kitchen, I look out the front window to see if
the vehicle I’ve been dreading is out there. It isn’t. Instead, another red rust bucket is parked in Richard’s spot, and a guy I don’t recognize emerges. Confusion rocks me. I haven’t seen him here before. My heart beats crazily. I don’t think Richard would like a stranger being here with me. I need to be careful.

  Henry snarls on his rope. I’ll feed him after I deal with this. Give him some meat. Richard never let the poor dog have any meat. I think today, I’ll let him have meat. There is extra in the fridge, after all, thanks to Richard. Maybe I could even bring Henry inside for a while. But no, that’s probably not a good idea. Just in case. I need to be careful. I can’t let myself get too sloppy here. It could all be over soon. I shove the thoughts aside, reminding myself to stay calm.

  The stranger staggers up the pathway, a stained, sleeveless shirt showing off saggy arms and poorly executed tattoos. He belches on his way up to the front porch. I study him, wondering what he wants.

  ‘Richard here?’ he asks when he gets close enough, his missing teeth causing a lisp.

  ‘Not right now, no,’ I reply from inside the screen door, not daring to open it. I don’t want to let him in. Richard never wants me to let strange men in, but that’s beside the point. I know I need to be exceptionally careful.

  ‘Well, the asshole’s supposed to fix my truck today. What the hell? Where is he?’

  The way the man stares at me and keeps walking toward the screen door makes me more than a little uneasy. I avert my eyes like I have so many times.

  ‘He’s out. Sorry. You’ll have to come back.’

  But the stranger doesn’t take no for an answer, creeping closer to the door. ‘Well, I’ll just have to wait for him then.’ His hand rests threateningly on the screen door. I hold it closed, my trembling hands no match for his, I know. But I can’t let him in. How will it look? A strange man in here with me, Richard missing. I know what he’ll think if he happens to come in. The thought terrifies me. I can’t have him thinking that. I won’t have him thinking that. For one of the few times in my life, I find a strength somewhere within to stand my ground. Maybe it’s the fact that Richard’s gone, or maybe it’s because I’ve already changed in the little time since everything has happened. But an unfamiliar surge of tenacity and persistence bubbles up. I raise my head and stare at him through the screen door. I muster up the courage I’ve only recently started to uncover.

  ‘No.’ It’s a single word, but I say it with a vehemence that is both dangerous and demanding. It is accompanied by a deliberate glare, one that surfaces from a malevolent, hidden spot within. The man—I still don’t even know his name—ogles me, a snarky grin on his face. I want to wipe it off. I want to make him know I’m serious. I unwaveringly maintain my death stare.

  ‘Tough little lady, are we? What would your man think of that one?’

  I just keep staring, an anger for all that’s happened these past days bubbling under the surface. I can feel the surge of rage in my chest, a feeling unfamiliar.

  ‘Go.’ I slam against the screen door with my body, launching myself against the shoddy frame. The simple yet forceful act stuns the man, but I don’t take my gaze off of him. After a long moment, he shakes his head.

  ‘Fucking bitch. You’re both going to pay for this, you hear? See how much business you get when I burn the place down.’ He slams his fist into the porch post, spews a stream of expletives, and storms off.

  Inhaling, I close my eyes, a smirk spreading on my face. Did that just happen? Did I really just tell him off?

  Maybe Crystal Connor isn’t as fragile as everyone in this town thought. Maybe she’s not a broken-down excuse for a human being. And maybe it took Richard disappearing from my daily existence for me to see the truth—I’m stronger than he thinks. I’m more capable. And I’m smarter, too. I can handle things on my own, I really can.

  It’s been over a day since he’s gone, but it feels like it isn’t enough. Suddenly, the emptiness of the house doesn’t feel terrifying. It feels like maybe it’s exactly what it should be. I feel in control. I like it.

  I head out and feed Henry some meat. It isn’t cooked, but that’s okay. He doesn’t mind. He gobbles it up, practically snarling as I fill his bowl. I stroke his fur, and he slurps my arm. I shake off the slobber and blood from the raw meat before heading inside. I spend the morning doing some chores, tending to some things that need handled, and then sit in the rocking chair in the living room. I rock back and forth, staring out the window, my arms cradling the baby I know isn’t there. I still miss him. God, I miss him. I wish he could’ve survived. I’d give up freedom for eternity if he could be here. I’d endure Richard and his harmful ways if it meant Gideon and I could be together. I’d do anything to feel him in my arms.

  ‘Mama’s here, Gideon,’ I whisper into the now silent house. ‘I’m right here. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.’ Tears leak from my eyes as I wonder if it’s true. Will we be okay? Will I be able to survive this? And how will I get through it? I have no concrete, pre-meditated plan. I haven’t thought this through. How could I? He could be here any moment. What is there to plan?

  I dare to let my mind dance over the possibilities. For a second, I see a glimmer of myself, dyed black hair flapping in a breeze by an ocean somewhere far, far away. Waitressing tables, smiling at a man who has manners and says ‘please,’ who doesn’t look at me like a piece of meat. I see the nametag that says Carly or Scarlet or whatever name I want to be.

  I see the possibilities of starting over, of leaving, of breathing in salty, fresh, free air.

  Free.

  But then the dream evaporates. Who am I kidding? He’d find me. It’s too late to dream of that life. How would I even begin to start? And I can’t possibly have much time. A few days, a week at most. And then he’ll show up and it will all be done. That’s not enough time to erase the past, to give myself a clean slate.

  Nevertheless, the idea flirts with my mind a little while longer, makes me wonder what the first steps would be. Could I really pull it off, the unthinkable?

  I’ll think on it, I decide. I’ll let myself at least dream about it. Because if I’ve learned anything these past couple of days, it’s that you never know what you’re capable of, not really, until the moment transpires.

  For today, though, I have too much to do before I allow my mind to fly on fantastical flights of whimsy and dreams. Because before the dream life by the sea would take place, there are things that need finished here, things I need to do. The new Crystal can’t become someone else without tying up loose ends, without creating a layer of protection. I touch the necklace that I haven’t taken off, pressing my fingers against the cool, silver metal, thinking about what’s inside. I can almost smell it if I close my eyes, that soft, soft scent.

  I decide a hot shower is just what I need. I stomp into the bathroom, flipping on the light. It flickers a little in the familiar way. I undress, peeling off the filthy nightgown and tossing it on the floor as I turn the rusty knob in the shower. The putrid green tiles look even uglier than usual today. Then again, maybe I’m just seeing them for the first time like so many other things. Richard loves the color green. Suddenly, the color makes me want to vomit.

  The pipes groan as water chugs through them. I step into the tepid water, never hot enough to really clean or relax. I rub my arms, staring down at the washrag that is molded to the spicket, maintaining its firm, drooping shape. My fingers smooth up and down over my shoulders, rubbing out the tension. There’s no one to rush me, and I close my eyes, relishing in the fact there’s no one to storm in. Sometimes, when Richard goes out and I’m allowed to be in the shower more than two minutes, I like to close my eyes and imagine I’m in some fancy hotel in New York City where the water runs hot and showers run long. I like to imagine there’s someone waiting to wrap me in a warm, fluffy towel, to offer me champagne.

  But my eyes always open and take in the cracked tiles of the shower, the aged marks on the tub, and the hardwater stains that taint t
he vision. There is never anyone waiting to wrap me up, only to break me down.

  My eyes open, absorbing the sight of the hideous tile, the marks, the crunchy washrag that is now sopping up rogue droplets of water. I stretch my neck back, luxuriating in the feel of the water slapping my face. I breathe in the humid air, clearing out my lungs. I take a long time in the shower, long enough that I smile at how mad Richard would be. I savor the thought for a few moments more before I screech the knobs to off, the water droplets cascading down my body.

  I saunter down the hallway, naked and damp. I stretch out on the bed, enjoying the freeing feeling. Richard always calls me a slut when I’m naked in the house. Or, if he’s drunk, my nakedness always stirs a malicious carnal depravity in him, one that he fulfills without my consent. I shudder at the thought, reaching toward a pair of jeans and a shirt that is crumpled on the floor nearby.

  The Bible sits on my nightstand, the familiar page open. I really should pray. I’ve been slacking, and Lord knows I have plenty to ask forgiveness for. But I just can’t find the strength to right now. My mind wanders to practical considerations. I need to get some food. I need to get some real food. It’s been how long since I’ve cooked? Richard wouldn’t be happy. He would want dinner on the table whenever he got here.

  But the truth is, I need to eat too. It’s unhealthy, really, what I’ve been doing. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else that I haven’t taken the time to eat. I need to get to the grocery store. I think I’ll do just that. I’ll get the ingredients and make dinner and maybe I’ll get a bottle of wine. I could use some wine. Not too much. I don’t want to dull my senses. I make the plan, heading out, but then I look at the living room. My skin crawls. It needs to be cleaned. Just in case. If he comes in, I want it to be clean, right? No, I need it to be clean. Dammit, I wish I could just bask in this freedom. Why am I so hung up on this? Does it really matter?