A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Yes. Yes it does. My breathing speeds up as the reality sets in. I can’t just escape this. Sure, I can wander into town and grocery shop today. Maybe even tomorrow or the next day. But eventually, this charade will end, and it will all be even worse than before. I’m in danger, so much danger. My heart beats crazily and panic threatens to consume me. I raise a shaking hand to my chest, trying to assuage the fear.

  I’ll just clean the living room, I tell myself after a long moment. That will be enough. Then, I’ll wander into town. I think about walking down the aisles of the market, alone, free to make the choices. I’m just going to clean first, and then I’ll go.

  But once the bucket is filled and the familiar bleach scent drifts through the house, I realize that maybe I shouldn’t go. There’s some cereal in the cupboard. I’ll just eat that. There’s so much to do here. I can’t just leave. There’s some laundry that needs done. And goodness, I really should store those tools I’m finished with somewhere. And should I head out and clean Henry’s bowl? It’s so filthy, and I feel bad about it now. Just a little. There are tons of things I could be doing. This place is a mess. I can’t have it messy. I can’t. It needs to be perfect. All picture-perfect.

  I crumple onto the splintery living room floor, my hand rubbing over and over on the one particularly dirty plank. Tears start to fall. I can’t just leave, I realize. I’ll never be able to just leave, not yet. There’s too much at stake. I’m stuck now, just as I’ve always been. I think about all the choices that led to this moment. Why am I being punished? Why?

  Richard disappearing seemed like it could be such a good thing, but old habits die hard, and the freedom isn’t really enjoyed knowing he could be here any second. My brain tries to wrap itself around the idea, but I can’t. I just don’t know what to think.

  Focus, I tell myself. Think. You can do this.

  Tomorrow, Richard will have been gone for two full days. It’s not unnatural or unnormal. I still really shouldn’t be worried, right? Not that I miss him anyway. But still, I have to admit, things without him won’t be perfect. Our food stamps and assistance don’t cover all that much. Richard’s under-the-table money in the garage helps pay the bills. Without him, what will I do? What if he never shows up? The possibility of leaving is a wonderful thought, but I have to be smart about it. The fear of living in this prison is too much—but the fear of the unknown is sometimes more frightening. I’ve been out of work so long. There’s no way I could find employment. I can’t support myself, can I? I know I can’t keep this all up.

  There is the mystery wad of cash in the garage, but how will that look? And what if he shows up? Clearly, that cash is hidden for a reason. If I spend it, couldn’t the police track it or something? I don’t know. I wonder if it could bring a whole new level of complication down on me. Of course, does it get any more complicated? And what if I’m desperate? Then again, it’s not a question of if I’m desperate. It’s when.

  I wish I could just hide in my bubble forever, but it’s definitely wrong. Richard disappeared late Monday evening, the night he threw me on the ground when I tried to get Gideon. It’s Wednesday and already, two people have come looking for Richard—and it’s only going to get worse. Richard isn’t one people will miss, but they will eventually notice his absence. And I know from today’s visitor that they won’t be happy if he doesn’t show up for job after job. It doesn’t look good, for sure.

  Tomorrow, I might need to start looking for him. I’m worried, after all, of how it will seem when he shows up if I haven’t even tried. What kind of a wife would I be if I didn’t worry, didn’t look for him? I need to make it look like I tried to find him, even if this is something that’s typical behavior. I need to look like the dutiful wife Richard expects me to be, after all, no matter what path I choose to pursue. Whether I stay and he shows up, or I manage to get out before he does, I need to play the part, be smart about it all, and finish the important task.

  But that’s tomorrow. I still have some time. I lean against the wall, the floor drying. Bleach permeates the air, stings my nose, and makes me feel at ease. I inhale the pungent scent, breathing it in and out. I always thought if I were to take the coward’s way out, I would do it with bleach. The smell is my refuge. It soothes my nerves, even now. Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe I could go into town for a little bit and get some food. If he shows up, what can he really say, huh? We do need to eat after all.

  ‘Just don’t think about it,’ I say out loud, standing up from the floor to walk to the kitchen and retrieve my keys. I head out the screen door, lock the front door, and don’t look back.

  MY HANDS GRIP THE SHOPPING cart so tightly that my knuckles beam white. I don’t dare make eye contact with the few shoppers, terrified they’ll approach and ask questions. I don’t want to deal with inquisitive, nosy neighbors. Word has certainly gotten out in this tiny town that Gideon has passed away. Stupid Sharon probably blabbed to the whole town. I squeeze the cart so hard, I think my hands might go numb. I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want people looking at my belly, making eye contact, and telling me without a word that they pity me. Poor Crystal. It’s always been poor, poor Crystal.

  They don’t know. They don’t know anything, I remind myself. The thought soothes me. The front wheel relentlessly squeaks as I shove the grocery cart down the produce aisle, wondering what I should get. What does one make for dinner when they’re cooking for just themselves? What do I want?

  I don’t even know. I’ve never really got to pick my dinner, after all. Richard always decides. I ponder what the best choice would be, but I just can’t settle on an answer. I don’t even know what to make for dinner, and that frustrates me. How do I not know what I like? How is my life at this sad, piteous point?

  ‘Stop it,’ I mutter aloud. An elderly woman examining the skin of two pears, comparing them as if it’s a life-or-death situation, looks over at me, startled. I smile weakly, apologetically at her. Wouldn’t do for the town to think I’ve gone mad. Of course, under the circumstances, who could blame me? Still, I don’t need any more rumors flying around about the Connors than there already are.

  I wheel the cart to the deli, looking at some of the prepackaged foods. There’s a roasted chicken, piping hot, in a tiny little shelving system. It looks delicious, I decide as my stomach loudly grumbles. Richard would never allow me to buy this. He’d call me a lazy cow if I refused to cook from scratch. This seals it. Precooked chicken it is.

  I wander to the nearby cooler, eyeing the potato salad. I decide I’ll get some of that, too. I add it to the pile, the contents of my grocery order looking sad. I veer my cart down a few more aisles, wondering if the freedom will prove to tempt my taste buds.

  As I maneuver up and down the aisles, avoiding a young child here or there with tearful disdain, I find myself glancing at the familiar spots on the shelves. The kind of tuna Richard prefers. The crackers. The type of cheese he likes, right beside the one he hates. I can’t get him out of my head, and I hate that. He’s not even around to dictate what I do, yet he always is. He always determines exactly what I do. How in just a few years have I become so numb to who I am as a woman? As a person? As just Crystal and not Richard’s wife? How have I forgotten so much? Will I ever find myself again?

  In truth, I think, adding a few of Richard’s items to the cart just in case or perhaps out of habit, maybe I haven’t forgotten at all. Maybe the sadder reality is that there never was a just Crystal. Before Richard, I was my dad’s Crystal. I’ve always been a pawn in this male game of domination and power. I’ve never known true freedom. Now, though, the more frightening question becomes: will I ever? Even when I have control, maybe I’m just fooling myself. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to be in power. Perhaps I don’t deserve it. I’ve failed, in truth. I’ve failed in so many ways.

  My cart swerves down the frozen aisle, and I stop in front of the ice cream. So many choices, so many flavors and varieties. I smile to myself, taking a deep breath. I
slide open the frosty door and let my hand reach for whatever container it wants. I let myself choose. Such a simple moment, but such a big one, too. I wheel away, staring down at the pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, a flavor I’ve never had. It’ll be good to try something new.

  The instant gratification of sticking the ice cream in my cart fades, though, as I wheel onward. Nothing good can last forever. My hands slide back and forth on the handle on the cart, and I stop to take a breath. My breathing is so rapid, yet I can hardly seem to fill my lungs quickly enough. My eyes well with tears, an all-too-familiar feeling. I need to get home. I can’t do this. I need to get home, to take care of things. I need to pray and to study and to clean. I need to set things right. Things aren’t right. I get into the checkout lane, unloading my items, trying not to make eye contact with the cashier. Luckily, the woman in charge is new or at least new to me. I’m thankful to not see someone I know. I can’t answer any questions.

  An Elton John song blasts over the supermarket speakers, and it calms me. Richard hates Elton John. I love him. My parents never let me listen to much music growing up, but when I’d take the truck to run errands for them now and again, I always turned on the radio, praying it would be one of his songs. The song soothes me. I like it.

  Me, Crystal Connor. I like it. Not because someone told me to. It’s all me. The thought softens my racked nerves.

  The cashier apathetically spouts off the total, snapping me out of my wistful thoughts. My heart races again. I need to get back. I shouldn’t have left everything as it was. What if he comes while I’m gone? This was a terrible idea. Everything could end right here. I can’t have this happen. It isn’t right. It isn’t how I wanted it to happen. And I need to clean that floor. I really do. I think of the tasks at hand. So much to do today. So much to finish. But as I’m loading the groceries and getting ready to head home, a new idea comes to mind.

  I smirk. Yes, yes. That will do just fine, I think, letting the cart roll away in the parking lot. It slams into a random truck, but I don’t care. The fear, the nervous energy has morphed into something else.

  Excitement. Energy.

  It’s going to be okay. Let him come. Let him come while I’m doing it. I don’t care anymore. There are some things you just have to see through regardless of the consequence. God forgive me, but this is one of those things. How hard will it be, I wonder?

  I suppose there are some things you just have to find out yourself.

  I JOLTED AWAKE AS THE strong fingers yanked on my virgin hair, jerking my head back with such fire, I gasped. The Bible sat, splayed open in front of me on my tiny desk in my room.

  ‘What’s this?’ Mother’s voice beckoned as I grabbed my neck. ‘You can’t even take time for the Lord, our Savior? You selfish girl. You selfish, selfish girl.’

  My heart thudded as she yanked me from my chair. The clock in the hallway chimed. Six o’clock. Had I really slept during Bible time? How had I been so stupid?

  Mother dragged me out of my room, down the hallway to the living room. Father sat in his chair, staring ahead.

  ‘She was sleeping again,’ Mother confessed, my father removing the tobacco pipe from his mouth.

  He shook his head. ‘Should call you Peter instead of Crys. Get over here.’

  I trembled, knowing what was coming. Father might not be a devout reader himself, but when it came to punishing me, he was always happy to oblige—and to follow Biblical rule on punishments. The hypocrisy of him was never something I dared to verbally question. It was just a paradoxical reality that was accepted, like Jesus dying to provide us with life. He stood, a familiar, fiendish gleam in his eyes. He liked this. Maybe he even lusted for it. It gave him power. My thirteen-year-old self trembled, trembled, trembled. Mother stood back, crossing her arms after crossing herself, as if I was the sacrificial lamb. Perhaps I was.

  Father jerked me by the arm, dragging me to the hallway where the Blessed Mother statue stood watch, the Madonna standing vigil over a tiny but meticulously orderly shack. I tried to steady my breathing, to find a sense of buried courage, but it was impossible. I knew what was coming. In one fatal swoop, he ripped off my shirt, the buttons popping as he tossed it to the floor. I hurriedly tried to get off my skirt, my undergarments so I didn’t meet his force. So I didn’t have to feel his gritty, leathery hands brushing up against my soft skin or lingering a bit too long. The nakedness was to instill humility in me, but I always shuddered at the way Daddy looked at me. Especially since I’d undergone big changes in my body.

  ‘On your knees,’ he barked, humiliation drifting through me. I plopped to the ground, the dirty hardwood floor beneath my knees digging into them. I didn’t dare lean back. I folded my hands, rocking, praying for forgiveness I didn’t think a statue could grant—not with the work of my father at play. A swift kick in the back almost sent me flying, but I pulled myself back up into position, not daring to waver. I knew what would come if I did.

  For hours, I stayed, my knees throbbing. When I grew weary, a bucket of ice water woke me up. It was torture in its finest sense. But through it all, my thirteen-year-old self believed Mama was probably right. I knew what she’d told me since a little girl was correct. Women were sinful. We needed men to guide us to salvation. We needed my father to show us how to behave, how to live, how to serve God. I prayed hard that afternoon, guilt washing over me. I hadn’t been vigilant. I hadn’t been good. I hadn’t been faithful. It was my fault. All my fault.

  When my punishment had finally been deemed worthy and my penance served, my mother stomped into the room. Tears washed over me, praying that my mother would hold me in her arms, comfort me, would show me the love I craved.

  ‘Get up. It’s time to start dinner,’ she spewed, handing me clothes to put on as she walked to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, lip quivering as I tucked my freezing body into the refuge of the scratchy wool.

  ‘God forgives the genuine and the hardworking,’ she whispered, and then we spoke nothing more of it as she led me to the kitchen to continue my womanly duties.

  I SIT AT THE KITCHEN table, plunking my spoon into the pint of cookie dough ice cream. It’s delicious, I decide, savoring every bite. My hands ache from all of the work I’ve done, but I welcome the feeling.

  Stuffing spoon after spoon into my mouth, I sigh with a realization that almost scares me.

  I’m happy. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually content. This is what it feels like.

  I glance at the door, my heart beating. I hope he doesn’t come in. I hope he doesn’t ruin this for me. He could always, always ruin it. I savor the next bite of ice cream a little bit more before putting the rest in the freezer and putting the spoon in the sink. Richard never lets me go to bed with dishes in the sink. I smile at the sight of the spoon defiantly sleeping in the middle of the stainless steel.

  I grab the splotchy glass from the center of the table. It had been keeping me company while I devoured my snack, a nice centerpiece for the moment. It added to the mood.

  I carry it up the steps, smiling as the contents jiggle in interesting patterns. Odd but magnificent. My smile widens, the fears of a few minutes ago fading. I get myself ready for bed, brushing out my matted hair and washing my filthy face. I climb under the quilt. It feels good to rest my overworked body, I realize as I settle onto the mattress.

  I turn and look at the glass I’ve placed on the nightstand with fascination. I reach out to touch it, deciding to pick it up and roll it back and forth between my stained fingers. So worrisome. So different. So new. And dark. I always loved how dark it was.

  I set the glass back down, sighing. I really shouldn’t have dirtied a glass for that. How difficult it will be to clean. I think about getting up to scour it. I hate having dirty dishes sitting around. Richard hates dirty dishes. I smirk at the thought, thinking again about the spoon in the sink before setting the glass back on the nightstand. The Bible sits beside it. To think, the same words I
read as a child, as a teenager under my parents’ roof are right there within reach. How ironic. How odd. Who would have thought? I lie down on my side, facing the nightstand, the holy words sitting by the glass that threatens to usurp my calm. I drift off staring at them both, though, as a single question rotates in my head: how will I ever explain that glass away?

  How will I ever explain what the glass holds? I laugh at the absurdity of it all as I fall asleep, thinking about all the possibilities but coming up with no rational explanation. In some ways, as I drift off, I feel anxious, like I’m being watched. But go ahead and let him watch, I think, as I chuckle at my own cleverness and fall right asleep.

  Night Two

  The waves blow my hair upward, upward. It’s raining so hard that the drops belt my face. They’re not just any raindrops, though. Red, purple, green, and blue raindrops splatter on the hot sand, plopping into the ocean, smattering on my skin. I look out as the waves roll on. They stop mid crash, a beautiful spectacle. I’m reminded of Moses standing in front of the sea. I wonder if I could part it. I start to try, but then, everything changes and suddenly I’m falling, falling, falling.

  No scream comes out, as usual. Just a whimper, an almost inaudible whisper. What’s wrong? I wonder. Why can’t I scream? My stomach flips and flops as I fall down, down, a black hole, lime green geometric shapes floating by me. Where am I going? Why am I so alone? Where is everyone?

  Just as I’m ready to land, I feel myself floating up, up, up. The sensation again throws me for a loop. I turn and see a black cat also floating by me. I wonder who he is. I reach out for the cat, but it hisses, screeching. I notice all of a sudden that it only has one eye. Where the other eye should be is a gnarly, gaping socket seeping with pus and blood. I feel like I’ve seen the cat before.