A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘You’re fucking right I do. I do everything for you. Because I’m a good man. I provide for you. And how do you thank me?’

  I moaned. The knife stabbed a little harder. I felt a trickle of blood.

  ‘I said how do you thank me? Huh? Do you provide me with wifely duties? Do you make me dinner or take care of your chores? Do you provide for me like a wife should a husband? No. No, Crys. No. You fucking slut around this town when my back is turned. You go whoring around wearing sinful outfits like I’m some moron.’

  ‘Richard, please,’ I cried. I didn’t dare move, terrified the knife was going to end me right there. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘You didn’t mean to what? Be a slut? Cheat on me?’

  ‘It was just in the house. Honest. I didn’t wear it out of the house. And I’d never cheat on you. I love you.’

  I pictured the red shirt with the lacey neckline. I knew when I picked it up at the consignment shop that Richard wouldn’t like it. Why had I been so stupid? Why had I thought I could get away with such a sinful shirt? He was right. I should’ve been more modest. I wished I could go back.

  ‘Well, you’re going to learn your lesson. Aren’t you?’ he panted, and I could feel the knife trembling in his hand. He wasn’t just pissed. He was excited. He was empowered by my fear and by the opportunity to punish me. And I was pathetically at his mercy. Always at his mercy.

  A long moment passed where I feared the worst. Maybe this would really be it, I thought. Maybe he would slit my throat. Who would know? Who would miss me? His words from earlier fights, from past threats, echoed in my brain.

  No one. There was no one. Richard was it. I was pathetically at his mercy.

  Just as I was preparing to say goodbye to the life I’d lived, the knife clinked to the floor.

  ‘Look at me,’ he demanded. I jumped at his word.

  ‘Fucking look at me,’ he repeated, grabbing my chin and whipping my head toward him. I looked into the frenzied eyes of the man who was more fiend that human.

  ‘Don’t ever disobey me again. Don’t ever disgrace me by wearing those sinful outfits. You hear me? You’re mine, Crys. You’re mine. I decide what you do, what you wear. It’s me.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  Richard released my head, and for a moment, I thought he might untie me. I thought my punishment might be over. Instead, he backed to the corner of the garage, pulling out something red. I shuddered, realizing what it was. The red shirt. He caressed it between his fingers, shaking his head.

  And then, he grabbed the gasoline can from the corner of the garage and a lighter. I trembled, my body aching.

  ‘Please,’ I wanted to whisper, but the word didn’t leave my lips. It was pointless, I knew. He would do what he wanted. I watched in uncontrollable terror as he tossed the shirt on the gravel in front of the garage, dumping gasoline on it.

  ‘Wives,’ he said as he held up the lighter, ‘obey their husbands. Plain and simple. You’d think you’d understand that by now.’ He shouted the words as if he was a pastor giving a sermon. And then, with a flick of the wrist, the shirt was on fire. For a moment, I thought he would catch, too. But he didn’t. It wasn’t his sin to bear.

  It was mine.

  I watched as the shirt turned into black smoke. I stared, naked and tied, as Richard stalked away, leaving me in the garage to stare my sin in the face.

  ‘Father, forgive me,’ I whispered into the cold emptiness of the garage, the smell of gasoline and smoke around me as I wondered if the burning shirt was the hellfire that would finally consume me. And deep down, perhaps I’d even hoped it would be.

  ‘GIDEON, FORGIVE ME,’ I say, rocking back and forth, my hands cradling the baby that isn’t there. Tears fall as I remember the warmth of the fire that day years ago, of the freezing cold of my bare skin as I waited for Richard to return. As I awaited a savior who was vile and nefarious.

  He always came back, though. No matter what, he always came back. He was, whether I liked it or not, the savior who claimed my life, who led me through the world. Freedom from him is still tainted by the scars from the past, from the hold he has on me. I can dye my hair, leave the state—but he’ll always be there, like the smell of smoke that clung to every fiber of my being, every hair on my head, interminably. I rock back and forth, staring out the window, thinking about how much torture I endured at his hands because—why? Why did I let it happen?

  It was a question I never allowed to sneak in. I’d always done what was right, what God would want. And Mama had always told me that God wanted pious women who stood by their men. But what kind of God would approve of that? What kind of God would let such a heinous being into my life? The past week had given me the space and the strength to see it all so differently.

  I shake my head at the hypocrisy of it all. How could I not see it? How did I not see what a horrid, wretched being Richard was? Why did I bow to him?

  All of the scars on my body. All of the permanent marks. I was not allowed to have tattoos because they were the devil’s mark—but Richard was covered in them. And, in his own way, he marked me with the mark of the devil—all the scars, the burns, the bruises. But not now. Because now, it’s just me. Just me and Gideon making the rules.

  We are the ones making the marks now. I chuckle at the thought, thinking about the possibilities as I reach for my glass of bourbon and thirstily drink it down.

  Night Six

  My arms won’t move. I struggle and struggle, but the clinking of metal as my arms remain splayed sends terror through me. I slide my wrists up and down, but they won’t move left to right. The cool metal cuts into them. I’m handcuffed. But it’s not my bed, I realize with a start, my eyes adjusting to the blackness. The room is sterile, white, and unfamiliar. Where am I? Tears rise as a scream fills my throat.

  And then I look down at my arms, bare now except for the cuffs. Up and down the arms are marks, pox marks dotting my flesh. Am I sick? I must be sick, I decide. I bite my lip to stifle the tears, but it’s no use. They flood down as a burning sensation spreads through the veins in my arms. It hurts. They’re on fire. They must be on fire.

  But when I look back down, I see the pox flaking off. My skin is peeling off, flaking, puddles of blood oozing down my arms. It hurts. It hurts so bad. I feel stab after stab after stab, and my head feels woozy. Darkness. It’s dark.

  When I blink, I’m relieved that my arms are free. They don’t hurt anymore, but where the skin once was, muscle and tendon and bones are the only things left. I shudder at the horror of it, taking in my surroundings.

  I’m in the forest again, and the drum is beating. But this time, I stand in a patch of dirt, a circle of leaves around me. On each leave is a leathery, dried up strip of something. Prunes? Leather? What is it? I crouch down and take a look, reach out and touch one with a wary finger.

  Skin. They’re pieces of skin, shredded, marked, and stained flesh.

  I yank my hand back as words appear on the skin. Letters and numbers. Leviticus 19:28. I shake my head. It doesn’t make sense, I think. I didn’t do that. I didn’t. Why me?

  The forest clears, and the house is in front of me. The red haze oozes and bubbles around the house, as if cocooning it. I think I can hear the drum beating, beating, beating from inside. I shudder, but I know what I have to do. The pull of the house is too much.

  I walk up the creaky steps with a confidence I don’t feel. My arms are wrapped in bandages now. I reach for the doorknob. Inside, the house feels alive. It seems to be in motion, but as I look around, I don’t understand why. I turn toward the door, but as if a presence notes my thoughts, it slams. I rush to it and yank on it. It doesn’t open. Panicking, feeling claustrophobic, I stumble toward the windows. I try to open them, but they scald my hands, the sills and glass burning hot. So hot. Everything is hot.

  That’s when I notice it. My feet. They’re sticking in something, almost like glue. I look down. A beet red, oozing substance swirls aro
und my feet. It’s flooding in. Where’s it coming from? It looks like it’s coming from the door in the kitchen. That makes no sense. But the blood rises like floodwaters, to my ankles, to my knees, to my chest. The whole house is a swirling pool of blood, and I cry out, aching with the thought it will soon suffocate me. It’s hot and sticky. I want out of here. I need out of here. I pound on the window, screaming, yelling. I’m going to drown. I’m drowning.

  But as I look out the window into the distance, a figure appears. A savior. A helper. My heart swells as the blood flows up to my chin.

  The figure moves closer. My heart sinks. It isn’t a savior or a helper.

  It’s something else entirely.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Heart racing, I jolt upright. I reach for the lamp beside the bed, needing light in the ever-growing darkness. My eyes land on the nightstand, the glass from a few days ago still in its spot cradling its gory treasure. The Bible sits right beside it. I grab the holy book from the side of the bed. I find the page that Richard quoted to me so often, about wives obeying their husbands.

  I yank the page out, shredding it with my teeth. I spit it onto the ground.

  I flip in the good book to Proverbs 31:25 where my new bookmark sits. It’s a quote I read but didn’t understand—until now.

  She is clothed with strength and dignity and she laughs without fear of the future.

  Strength and dignity. I’ve reclaimed them both, I realize, my fingers savoring the feel of the bookmark that I’ve placed in the Bible. It’s a bit limp but effective. I stick it back in the page, my new favorite page. I close the book, and it sticks shut.

  Strength and dignity—but am I truly fearless? I close my eyes, trying to imagine that beach, the wind in my hair, the scent of the salty air. I could be there now. I could have left when I had the chance, taken the cash and left, believing that God would make it work.

  As badly as I want to be standing on the sand, a new future ahead of me, I don’t regret my choices. There’s a peace in me from what I’ve done. Freedom can’t always equate to the feelings that retribution, that setting things right, can bring.

  I’ve made my mark now. Richard’s marks are almost gone. All is well. All is right. I think I hear screams in the distance, but I shake my head. Gideon’s not screaming. No. He can’t be. He can’t. It’s in my imagination. He’s okay now. Gideon’s where he should be. I roll onto my side after tugging on the lamp cord. I wipe my hand on his pillowcase, and then I drift back into a peaceful sleep.

  No more nightmares come. Instead, I dream of Gideon’s face smiling at me as he builds the sandcastle. Sweet, sweet Gideon.

  You’re welcome.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  My hand freezes in the sudsy water, clinging to the dish as the warmth slaps over my arm. Heart constricting, I steady myself with the other hand on the edge of the sink.

  Gravel crunching. A motor running. The car cruising up the driveway.

  Is it just my imagination, or is he driving faster than last time? Is this it, is this when it all comes crashing?

  Just breathe, I tell myself, but it’s no use because I suddenly don’t remember how.

  Legs trembling, I let the dish sink underneath the water and grab a hand towel, hurriedly drying my hands as Sheriff Barkley parks the car in Richard’s typical spot. My eyes fall on the rug in the living room. The tassels are straightened, the bleachy smell of cleanness assaulting my nose. Still, even I can detect the subtle hint of the off-putting odor. This is no good. No good at all. I rush to the door, painting on my best poker face. I screech open the door, stepping onto the porch hastily. I know I look anxious. But any wife whose husband was missing would be, right? Just breathe. Don’t think about it.

  ‘Sheriff Barkley, did you find something?’ I call into the gentle breeze as he adjusts the brim of his hat and ambles toward me. His face his drawn, and there is no warm smile, no kind eyes. Just a serious man about to deliver some news. My heart constricts again. The moment is here.

  ‘Mrs. Connor, we need to have a discussion. I thought it would be easier for me to come to you rather than making you come to the station.’

  I keep my face complacent. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He stares at the door, as if asking for me to invite him in. I don’t budge, acting like it would be an imposition.

  ‘What can you tell me about Richard’s garage and his business dealings?’ he asks, point blank. I want to breathe a sigh of relief, but instead, I stare at him quizzically.

  ‘The garage does all right, I suppose. Richard doesn’t really talk much about it. Seems busy enough. It keeps food on the table with the support from the state, of course. Why?’

  Sheriff Barkley pulls a photograph out of his pocket.

  ‘Did you happen to see this car here a few weeks ago, by any chance, Mrs. Connor? I need you to be honest.’

  I glance at the silver car, squinting. I do remember the car being here, sometime before Gideon was born. I remember seeing it in the driveway. I nod slowly.

  ‘And did Richard say anything else about it? About the work to be done on it?’

  ‘Sheriff, I don’t understand. Richard’s missing. What does this car have to do with it?’

  Sheriff Barkley doesn’t change his emotion. He’s an expert at his poker face. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve been doing some investigating, which means I’ve been digging into some of Richard’s customers, some clientele. Some sources have been willing to share with me some theories about your husband’s garage and what’s happening there. Do you know what a chop shop is, Mrs. Connor?’

  I shrug noncommittally. ‘A bit. I’ve heard of it. But as I said, Richard doesn’t involve me in the business.’

  Sheriff Barkley nods, turning his attention to the garage. ‘Well, it appears that Cody and Richard have allegedly been running an operation for quite some time. But apparently, Richard has been doing some side deals of his own, handling some bigger acquisitions and not being so forthcoming with clients. I think it may have something to do with his disappearance.’

  I tap my foot, staring off into the distance as if considering the possibility. I think about the wad of cash under the floorboard, next to my hair dye. My sanctuary money. I feel heat rising in my cheeks, as if Sheriff Barkley is a walking lie detector test or a telepathic who can read my mind. I remind myself to calm down, to not give it away. He doesn’t know about the money. Right?

  After a long moment of silence, I shake my head. ‘I feel like such an idiot,’ I murmur, tears welling. ‘How could I be so stupid to think Richard was really supporting us fixing brakes and engines?’ The sentiment is true. I do feel idiotic to not have realized that Richard’s business was less than savory, and that even without him disappearing, it was probably on the verge of crumbling.

  I look back to Sheriff Barkley. His poker face cracks. The kindness is back. The pitying look for the weak, stupid, mindless Crystal is back. He softens his expression.

  ‘I’m sure Richard is very private about his work. For good reason. He’s involved in some serious stuff. There are some major accusations being thrown at him that could lead to serious charges.’

  ‘Do you think this has something to do with why he disappeared? Do you think someone could have taken him? Or do you think maybe he knew he was about to get caught?’ I ask, carefully placed terror cracking in my voice, thinking about how perfect either scenario could be. I can feel the sunshine on my face, can almost taste the salty air.

  ‘I think it’s a distinct possibility. Look, Mrs. Connor, if I’m going to crack this case and find your husband, I need to get more proof.’

  ‘Okay,’ I murmur, fear now creeping into my voice for real. Richard, Richard, what mess have you entrapped me in now? How will I solve this? Standing at the sink, I thought it was all over. Now, though, I realize I’m not ready. I’m not prepared to throw in the towel.

  ‘I need to do a search, look for clues.’

  ‘You can’t. Not without a searc
h warrant,’ I reply. As soon as the words are out, I regret them. I see suspicion building in his eyes. I look guilty as hell. But I can’t have him searching, snooping. I’m not ready. Not yet. I have to keep Gideon safe. That’s my priority.

  ‘You’re right. I can’t. But we know each other. Don’t we? You trust me, don’t you?’

  I stare back at him, and we study each other. Neither one of us wants to show our hand.

  ‘We have the same goals, Crystal. To keep you safe. To figure out what’s going on with Richard. Isn’t that what we both want?’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply robotically.

  ‘I need to solve this to keep you safe. So I can leave here and get a search warrant, turn the house and the garage upside down all night. Or you can let me do a more thorough search of the garage, where I suspect I’ll find what I need. It’s up to you.’

  I stare at the man who has now played his hand. What to do? What to do? Richard would be furious at me for letting him into the garage, especially if what Sheriff Barkley is saying is true. It could condemn him. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. And if I don’t let him search the garage—what’s next? If I let him into the house, I’m done. It’s all finished. I can’t risk it. I have to keep Gideon safe.

  ‘Follow me,’ I murmur, leading Sheriff Barkley away from the porch and toward the garage, praying it’ll be enough to pacify him, to buy me more time.

  I still have work to do, after all. I’m not quite finished, and Gideon still needs me.

  THE LEDGERS AND PAPERWORK in an evidence bag, Sheriff Barkley stands in the threshold. After tearing the garage apart, Sheriff Barkley found the proof he apparently needed tucked away in a bottom desk drawer in the makeshift office. I stand nearby. My arms are crossed as I study the spot where the hammer and the specks of blood once were. My hands tremble. Did I miss something? Did I clean well enough?