A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Knowing what dreams will plague me—but not strong enough to fight against them, even if I want to.

  Night Seven

  ‘Hello?’ I mutter, clutching my arms against my chest as I wander about the dusty lane. My feet are so cold, and I have goosebumps all over me. I’m naked and alone, staring up at a moonless sky. The stars are tiny specks, but they don’t illuminate my path. I’m lost, but there are no trees this time. There is only the dusty path and blackness.

  ‘Hello?’ I murmur again, not sure who I’m talking to. I look down and notice long black hair cascading down my shoulders. My stomach churns. This isn’t my hair. Whose hair is this? It’s not mine. I shake my head. Something’s wrong. Who am I?

  I pick up my pace now, running, running toward my destination. I feel a pull, even in the darkness, toward something. I run on and on, my breath barely coming, my body still chilled. My bones ache, throbbing from the effort. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, but I run forward.

  I make it through the red haze, but it’s thicker now. It’s like a thick fog settled over the scene. I’m scared to breathe, afraid the redness will seep into my lungs, will choke me from the inside out. I can barely see in front of me, the air so thick, I can feel it weighing on me.

  A drum beats in the distance, a ricocheting, steady beat. It seems to get closer and closer and closer. I cover my chest with my arms, still aware of my nakedness. And then the fog lifts, whirling up in a cacophony of sound. When it’s gone, I blink.

  In front of me, a body lies in a pool of blood. Who is it? I wonder, shaking my head. Who is here? I wander toward the body, startled and confused. Did I do this? Is this my fault? Who is it? Questions whirl, muddling my brain. I lean toward the body, needing to see the face. But before I can reach the person in a dire state of death, I am pummeled to the ground, something furry slamming into me.

  I lay on the ground, naked and terrified, but screams won’t come. They never come, my voice silenced by this murky world.

  It stands on my chest, biting at me, a low growl that is unnatural. The black goat takes chunks out of my skin. Fear surges through my body as blood seeps. But then a louder growl resonates, and the goat runs off. Henry comes dashing from the forest, standing on the body to my left. I turn and see the dog, covered in blood. The goat is gone, the goliath dog in its place. Will he claim me next?

  For a moment, we lock eyes, and I know I am safe. Run free, boy, I think, willing him to safety. I desperately want him to be safe and free, more than I’ve ever wanted anything. He does, and for a moment, I look up at the now starless sky, a hint of red floating above me like a cloud.

  I blink, and I am now standing in the middle of the house, the one that is familiar yet so different. The bloody, mangled body from outside stands upright now, propped against the wall.

  Cody’s eyes are missing, and his throat is chewed out. A greenish slime drips from his face, and I shake my head as I vomit. He’s dead. I killed him. I did this, I realize. I’m at fault.

  The basement door creeks open, as if in invitation. I know what I must do. I walk across the room, my skin warm now. I’m no longer freezing, and the goosebumps are gone. The long, black hair is gone too. I recognize myself. I feel more like me, like Crystal. I take his arm and drag him toward the door, but my skin begins to burn as I touch him. Tears fall, my flesh singeing and melting and disintegrating. I struggle and strain, getting Cody to the basement door. But just as I’m about to push him down, his face morphs.

  It isn’t Cody.

  It’s Richard.

  I jump back, startled, as his mouth twitches. I kick him down the steps, his body tumbling and tumbling and tumbling for what feels like an eternity. I shut the door, leaning my back against it as I crumple to the wall, feeling a sense of relief. It’s okay. He’s gone now. He’s away. I can forget about it. But something sticky touches my backside, my legs, my hands that are on the floor. It feels like warm paint that’s congealed in the sun. I pick up my hands.

  Red. Red everywhere, all around. It puddles and pools, oozing from under the door. I scuttle away and scurry toward the center of the kitchen. But it’s no use.

  Red fills the kitchen, dripping, dripping from under the doorway, flowing in like a river. I cry out and hurry to the door to the outside. It’s locked. I pull on the doorknob. I can’t get out. The blood works its way up, to my knees, to my hip, to my chest. I’m going to drown. I’m going to drown. I make my way to the window in the kitchen, pounding on it. I try to yell for help, but no words come out. And just as the blood gets to my chin, a figure appears in the window.

  It’s him. He’s come.

  But he’s too late, I realize, as blood gurgles in my throat and I sputter and cough.

  It’s all my fault. He’s too late. Just breathe. Just...

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Blackness promises to drown me as I shove my way through the trees. A branch scratches my bare legs as my dress hikes up. Blood stains the delicate fabric, but I don’t have time to care. I needed out of that room, away from that dream. I needed away from the blood that threatened to choke me. I needed away from that vision of him in the window, standing there. I need to take care of this before I can’t.

  Twigs continue to assault me as I make my way to the spot. I shudder at the possibility the goat or Henry will be here, just like in my nightmare. I worry that maybe they haunt this sacred spot. I shake my head, though. This is no nightmare. None of them have been nightmares, in honesty.

  This is real life. It’s all my life.

  I’m here. Mama’s here, Gideon. I’m here, just like I should’ve been on that very first night when Richard tossed you into the forest like a meaningless sack of rubbish. I’m finally here.

  I should have held him that night he was born, rocked him in my arms. I should have cradled his lifeless body and shown him he was loved, that he mattered. I should’ve never let him out of my arms. I should have rocked him and rocked him and rocked him.

  I feel the need to pray, to be absolved, but it’s been years since I’ve set foot in the little church in town. Richard never liked me going there. He always said I could pray at home, that the women in the church would put ideas in my head. Besides, I don’t feel I could show my face now. This is the closest to a sacred spot I could get. This is as close to a confessional as I feel comfortable. I find the spot etched in my mind, the specific spot that cradled Gideon’s head. It’s a simplistic patch of dirt. I sink to my knees, the night air swirling around me and chilling me as I lay in the grime, right where Gideon was. I think about his bluish body discarded here, laying here for days, waiting for me to come. I should’ve come right away. I hate that it took me so long to rise up.

  Trash.

  Richard’s biting word rings in my head. I shove the beast’s word aside, rubbing my face on the ground. He wasn’t trash. He wasn’t. He isn’t.

  Tears flow as I think about the nightmares that are more than just fantastical relics of a processing mind. They are the dark realities of who I’ve become. Deserved or not, these reminders of my motherly love are also symbols of a soul gone black.

  If Richard hadn’t thrown Gideon here, right here, would things have been different?

  I don’t know. But in some ways, I do. In some ways I know that it was the final moment that shoved me to become who I should’ve been long ago, who I perhaps always wanted to be deep down. The thought sends a chill through me. I shudder. It’s not easy baring your soul, but it’s even harder to face up to the fact that maybe it was never as pure as you thought. I heave in the dirty air as I think about all that’s happened. My mind flashes through the images, through the torturous moments. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s life, but I gasp as realizations settle in.

  It was me. It was me. It was all me.

  I gasp and choke, my hands shaking. These hands that once trembled with fear and fragility now quake with an insidious power they don’t know how to handle.

  I’m sorry. God, I
’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  I rock back and forth, shaking, trying to shut out the bloody scenes. Trying to mitigate my blood-stained hands and assuage myself of the rising guilt and damnation.

  It was for him, I remind myself. I did it for Gideon, to get retribution for him. I did what needed to be done. Gideon. Sweet Gideon. I’m sorry. I failed you. I didn’t come soon enough. But you’re safe now. I did the right thing. It was all for you. You’re forever safe now.

  Safe. Safe and sound.

  I lean up on my elbows and then sink back onto the heels of my feet as I peruse the spot. He’s not here. Gideon’s not here, I remember with a sober grin. It eases the guilt and nullifies the bloody images. I remember once more why it had to come to this. I remember those choking hands, those threats, that clinking body banging off the bed. I remember his cutting words about our angel. I remember him tossing Gideon here, right here. It was good that I came out here. It gave me a faith and memory stronger than any church pews could. I grip the dirt with my fingers, digging in, remembering. Reliving.

  No matter what happens to me now, I’ve done the right thing. The dirt’s reminded me. This spot has helped me strengthen my resolve. It was messy. It was hard. But it was the right thing. I nod, wiping at the tears.

  My work is done. It’s done now. The blood is almost wiped clean.

  It’s time to make my escape, to make a clean break. But the thought of leaving my baby forever, it’s terrifying. Daunting. Am I strong enough to do it?

  Or should I take another way out? What’s right? What’s wrong? Who’s really to say?

  I swipe at my tears, deciding that I need to make my own path. I’ve got my retribution. I’ve set things right.

  It’s time for Gideon and me to leave this place, to never look back. I decide to head inside, to pack my suitcase and dye my hair—and then to head for the new life Gideon and I deserve.

  Mama’s coming, Gideon. Mama’s coming at last.

  Chapter Thirty

  Daisies.

  A bundle of daisies, freshly plucked, sat in a crude excuse for a vase on the table. I leaned down after coming in from hanging the laundry, sniffing the vase of daisies. They were my favorite. I’d told him that on the night we’d first met.

  He remembered.

  I snatched one of the daisies from the vase, feeling the silky, fresh petals between my thumb and forefinger. I breathed in, just breathed in, smelling the scent of the flower. Of life. Of my life.

  Wandering to the window in the kitchen, I peered out. Richard came walking toward the porch, up the stairs. His shirt was grease-stained, his jeans torn. He ruffled his hair with his dirty hand, leaving a mark on his stubbled cheek. He stopped and peered in the window, smiling.

  ‘Hey,’ he said once he was inside the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I murmured back, the morning sunshine casting a backdrop to the scene that was memorable, serene. He walked across the kitchen, kissing my cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, kissing my neck, pressing his forehead against mine when he was finished.

  I squeezed mine shut, nodding. I willed my hands not to automatically touch the cigarette burns on my chest, the scars of what he’d done last night.

  ‘I just . . . the bourbon . . .’ he offered.

  I peered into his eyes, seeing a softness behind them. Last night there had only been ugliness. Pain. Anger. Now, there was a sweetness, a concern. Somehow, his harsh words, the bruises last night, the searing flesh under his sadistic sneer—they melted away. They made this softness stronger.

  ‘I love you. I just lost my temper. I’m scared, Crystal. I know I have to take care of you,’ he murmured, his hand finding my belly. ‘But when the baby comes, it’ll be different. We’ll be a family, and I’ll be better. I will,’ he assured.

  The bruise on my arm, on my chest, faded. It was going to be okay. He was different. He wasn’t Daddy after all. He just needed time to learn how to be a good husband. And he needed this baby to help him figure out his purpose. This baby would help us both find our place, find happiness. We could still salvage some kind of joy.

  Sure, he had his moments. Even in the years since we’d been married, I’d realized life with Richard would be volatile, not unlike my upbringing. But there was hope. My hand found my belly now, too. There would be hope in this baby. Our lives would be different. My baby would have a chance to make something of himself or herself. He or she would grow up loved. I would make sure of it.

  And maybe with time, this softness in Richard’s eyes would take over. Maybe this small life growing inside of me would be the answer. Maybe I could make him be good. I could stand by him and help him. Richard tucked the daisy behind my ear, kissing the tip of my nose.

  And in that moment, I remembered. It really was my job to help him be better, to be good. I had to help him. God wanted me to help him. I could do that. I could live out that purpose.

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered to him as he turned and walked out.

  It’ll be okay, I promised myself once he was gone. I put the daisy back in the vase, submerged the bottom of the stem in the water. We’ll be okay. He’s a good man deep down. I can make him be a good man. If I just work hard enough at it.

  God, let us be good.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Scarlet. Scarlet Gideon.

  That’s who I’ll be now. That’s how I’ll take a piece of him with me. That, and the hair in the locket, I realize as I touch the necklace resting on my chest.

  I return my fingers to their task, playing with the rug that’s beneath my cheek. I roll the threads of the single tassel forward and backward between my sore thumb and forefinger. Back and forth, back and forth, as my cheek rests on the gritty texture. My eyes are close to the tassel, and I spend time watching it roll back and forth, thinking about all of the moments and memories and things that will never be.

  My suitcase sits at the door, the money from Richard’s illegal dealings tucked carefully in the front. I have a map and an address to get me to the women’s shelter in South Carolina. I’ve finished everything I needed to. Now it’s time. While I still have a chance to make a run for it.

  But I’ve realized I can’t take Gideon with me, not completely. And that’s a hard thing to come to terms with.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to be like this, I think, tears falling as I stroke the floor. I see the rocking chair out of my peripheral vision, the one where I would have spent hours rocking my baby. Now it will sit empty forever, guarding a baby who never really could be.

  I love you, Gideon. I love you.

  It’s the phrase that plays over and over in my mind, whirling about like a carousel that’s been left to its own whims. I think about all that’s been lost. I think about how sweet my angel was. Is. Will always be.

  I stroke the rug as if I’m stroking his warm cheek. I breath in, closing my eyes as I think about baby powder and sweet, milky cheeks and the scent of his lavender hair. I don’t know how long I stay on the floor, but darkness falls outside and soon, I sense the solitude of the darkness. I need to go. I need to say goodbye. It’s just so hard to rip myself away. I feel like my heart is glued underneath the floorboard, like a piece of my soul is there.

  I should go check on him. I should go dry his tears. That would be the merciful thing to do. He must be scared. But I don’t. I shake my head. I need to be with Gideon, here, right here. I can’t leave him. I won’t make that mistake again.

  Never again.

  My back aching, I carefully lift myself from my spot.

  ‘I’m never going to stop loving you,’ I assure the sweet child, my legs creaking as I carry my deadened legs to the rocking chair. I plop down, resting my weary feet. I clasp my arms around the child, the memory of him. I rock him, back and forth, singing the lullaby I never got to sing.

  Over and over I sing the words, never quite ready for it to be the last time. I’m pretty sure I hear screams, but they are weakened whimpers and e
asy to ignore. It’ll all be over soon, I realize. I need to spend a few moments here. I need to savor these moments, these last moments.

  I did what I could. I tried to protect you, Gideon. I tried to make this place safe for you. I did my best. I really did. Mama would do anything for you. And I did. Oh, I did.

  Just breathe. Don’t think about it. This is not the time to feel guilty. This is a time to savor, to enjoy, to relish in the feel of him so close. Otherwise, it was all for naught. I can’t let everything be for naught.

  I rock and rock, my mind going blank. I’m thankful. My mind hasn’t been empty for days. I rock and rock and rock and rock in the darkness. I feel his warmth against my chest. I feel his cheek against mine. I love you.

  And then, a knock. A yelling at the door. A command.

  I clasp my arms to my chest.

  ‘He’s here, Gideon. He’s come back.’

  I stare at the suitcase. Could I make a run for it? My heart beats wildly. I could grab my suitcase and run for it.

  But I can’t put Gideon down. I can’t. My arms continue cradling him.

  And I know that the time has truly come. I can’t say goodbye. The sea water evaporates, the sunshine turning to gray clouds. The warmth becomes icy, and the only grittiness underneath my toes comes from the dirty floor.

  It’s time to pay. He’s shown up at last. He’s here, just as I always knew he would be eventually. I surrender to the inescapable truth, resting my head back as I succumb to the darkness within, as he kicks in the door, and as he steps in front of me, weapon drawn.

  I look up at Sheriff Barkley, a formidable force frightened and shaken. I’ve known since the beginning it was only a matter of time until he came, until he showed up. I knew he would come. I feared it, I anticipated it. I looked over my shoulder, wondering when he’d come back. And now he’s here. It’s time. What does he know?