Black (4 page)

Walking to the door, I turn back to look. The blood that’s coming from her leg has stopped, and it looks like she has a deep laceration. Her dress is short and dirty, and her appearance is that of a hooker living on the streets not making pay.

My head hurts, it’s pounding. Too much to deal with, too much work to get done, and I don’t have the time to be babysitting a drug addict. Especially one who’s a ghost from my past.

I
leave her where she is, tied to the bed with no escape, and trudge up the stairs to my room. All
the lights are off, but I know there’s someone in my kitchen. They try to be sneaky, trying to see if I can pick them out. And I can, I just choose to let him believe he can sneak up on me, that he can somehow beat me at what I do best.

“Go home,” I mumble to him. He steps from the confines of the darkness and I see his face. It reminded me of me when I was his age—battered and bruised. I choose not to acknowledge it and just shake my head. I don’t need this. Why is everything so fucking hardcore today?

“You can sleep on the couch, but if you so much as go into the room downstairs, you’ll wish death upon yourself.” He nods his head, blond curls bouncing up and down.

“You got a woman tied up or something?” he jokes. Little does he know what he’s just said is true.

“Leave in the morning. Go to school.” I throw twenty bucks at him. He smiles, and as soon as I sit down he lays down and turns the television on.

I found Hayden one day trying to break into my house. The local kids told him if he did they’d pay him one hundred bucks. He did it, not knowing whose house it was, but the kids did. And as soon as he was in, they ran like scattering cats.

He made it to my kitchen before I picked him up by his collar and he screamed. He didn’t think anyone was home, the house was dark. He thought he was earning points, trying to get in with the cool crowd at school. He got neither, except kids that bully him and possibly a father that beats him. Could be worse. I know a lot of people who’ve had worse.

My head hurts, my leg hurts, my shoulders hurt. Everything hurts. I try to sit, but I can’t move. My legs and hands are not cooperating, so I try again—nothing. The sun’s coming in. it’s hot, making me sweat. I look around, and that’s when I notice my hands tied back and my legs tied down. I kick, scream, and try to break free, but I’m not strong enough. I’m too weak. I need something, I need that next hit. More than I need food that my stomach craves.

I hear a noise and close my eyes. Pretending I’m sleeping, I can hear each heavy step on the floor, coming closer. It stops in front of me, and I squeeze my eyes tighter, not knowing who or what this man wants.

“Don’t hurt me,” I whisper, opening my eyes. A man stands in front of me, a very tall and dangerous looking man. He’s scary, and I know scary from the people I’d hung around. This man in front of me stands confident, stoic, and sleek, and gives off a vibe of self-importance with a 'don't fuck with me' attitude displayed in his facial features, causing my intimidation levels to rise.

He’s dressed impeccably and wearing a suit jacket, black slacks, and a white shirt. It seems strange that he doesn’t have a tie on though. I guess that’s not his style. He lifts his hand slightly and I see a very expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. It’s encased in diamonds, and my mind goes to straight to stealing it, seeing how much money I could get for a watch like that.

He moves closer, his mouth tight. His beard is long, roguish, and his hair long, but slightly reminded me of a mohawk, though it’s stylish. His face doesn’t give anything away, and he just looks at me like he can see right through me.

“I will do anything,” I say, pulling on my restraints. He leans forward, lifting whatever is in his hand and putting his hand on the back of my neck. He lifts me up, putting a glass of water to my lips. I look to him one last time before I put my lips to the glass. His eyes looked familiar, I know those eyes. They’re green but mixed with something else. I can’t put my finger on it.

I drink every drop, and he checks the glass before he stands up straight. He doesn’t look back at me when he walks out the door, shutting it firmly behind him, followed by the click of a lock.

Great! I’m his fucking prisoner.

He comes in the next day, but I barely remember. My head hurts and my body aches. He takes me to the bathroom and I try to kick him in the leg. It doesn’t faze him, not in the slightest. It’s like I hadn’t touched him at all.

I was screaming so hard.

“Just one hit!”
I’m desperate. I need it, my body needs it.

“I’ll do anything,”
I scream again, hoping he’ll hear me and have some compassion. Nothing, he never comes back that day. I stay tied to the bed, covered in sweat, my own filth, and freezing cold.

Each day becomes a routine—water, bread, and toilet. Once a day, that’s all he gives me.

I screamed, screamed so much, but my cries were going unanswered. My screams unnoticed.

A week I stay strapped to the bed, barely remembering when he came. It feels like a week, but it could have been months. I wouldn’t know.

My brain is playing tricks on me, making all the bad thoughts sneak their way back in, remembering things I tried to forget. Things I couldn’t deal with.

I was counting, counting each and every crack in the walls and the roof. Anything to get my mind off what was consuming it.

Then the door opens and a girl walks in. She’s humming to herself and smiling. Walking over to me, she pulls up a chair. My body’s shaking, I feel as though I’m freezing. I need just one taste, one hit.

Why am I here?
Was I being held hostage?

“I came to shower you. I warn you, though… you try anything funny, I
will
hurt you!” She leans back, putting her foot on the edge of the bed. I nod my head, and she smiles and stands. She unties my feet first while humming to herself again. She has a key between her breasts. She smiles down at me and clicks the lock on the cuffs. She’s so close when she reaches over to do the other hand. That’s when she smelt me and coughed, trying to stop herself from gagging.

“Can you stand?” She towers over me. She looks massive, but it could be just the position I’m at on the bed. But nothing makes sense to me, I don’t even know where I am. I nod and swing my legs to the side. Attempting to stand—nothing comes—my legs feel dead as if they aren’t my own.

She’s watching me, leaning down she hoists me up. I’m thankful because there’s no way I could have gotten far without her help. She walks me to where
he
takes me to the toilet. Instead there’s a single shower cubical. She reaches over and flicks it on, then pulls away from me, placing my hand on the bench to steady myself.

“I have clothes for you. Shower and get rid of that smell.” Her nose is turned up at me. I can’t smell myself, though I’m sure I smell like sewerage, or possibly worse.

My feet are heavy, my body feels like a lead weight. I don’t want to move from the sink I’m leaning on to move to the shower. I’ve been sleeping for days and haven’t seen myself in a mirror for as long as I can remember, so I turn my head back and take a glimpse. What I see—I don’t recognize that person staring back at me at all. She doesn’t look like me. Her face is sunken in, and I can see and feel the tremors taking over my body. I want the solution to rid myself of this pain, I want the high the Meth gives me and that my body craves. But I also feel ravenous and my mouth’s dry. My gums even hurt. I snap my head away from the mirror, not wanting to look any longer.

I hear footsteps as I remove my dress. It feels bulky, my arms not wanting to participate. I drop it to the floor, and I hear the brunette’s voice. She isn’t looking at me, her back is to the door. She has a slight smile on her face, I can just make it out by the twitch of her lips, and her eyes roam to whoever it is she’s talking to.

“Yes, I’m showering her,” she says then looks back to me. She rolls her eyes, smiling slightly. I step in, my feet wanting to give way and collapse to the floor, but I manage to stand in the same spot for a few seconds, letting the warm water cleanse me before I finally succumb and drop to the floor. Her head pokes around then, checking on me, and when she sees no sign of anything she disappears again, her voice resuming. I can’t hear who she’s talking to, and I can’t see who it is either.

There’s watermelon shower gel, so I squeeze some onto my hand. Washing under my arms, I feel hair there. I mustn’t have shaved for weeks. Where did those weeks go? What was I doing in all that time? I hardly recall anything. I just knew it was bliss, the bliss of having no worries.

I move my hand downward, washing my most sensitive areas. It’s hairy there too. I shake my head. I don’t need to worry about hair, who cares if I’m hairy or not? I sure as shit don’t.

My head feels sore, my legs sting. I turn slightly to see where the sting is coming from. I have a large gash on my leg and a bandage is covering it. It’s healed, but just barely. It fell off as I continue to wash myself, my skin feels terrible. I don’t recall it ever feeling like this. My hand runs down my side, feeling the dryness that is there, roughness, the softness of my skin has vanished, and what replaces it feels like sandpaper. I open my mouth under the spray of water, washing my mouth out, then swallowing as much as I can.

The brunette pops her head in and she throws a bottle into the shower cubicle, not saying anything as I lap up the water that’s pouring into my mouth. My breathing’s heavy. I’ve exhausted myself and yet I’ve hardly done anything at all.

“Come on, your food is getting cold,” her voice rings in my ears. The thought of food makes my stomach grumble, hunger pangs shooting through me. I pick up the discarded bottle that lay on the floor between my legs and see it’s a combination shampoo and conditioner. One of those cheap ones you can buy for babies. I don’t have the luxury of complaining as I lift my sore arms and squeeze half the bottle over my head. It feels good being clean again, apart from the hair factor.

I use all my strength to stand, but I’m hunched over. Not able to take a full stand. The brunette flings a towel my way. She’s sitting on the toilet, playing with her nails. I grab it, dry my body, and see clean clothes on the sink bench. I place the clean undies on, then a loose fitting dress that hangs on my body.

“Food?” I ask, and the hunger pangs are back. She points out the door, so I walk – well, I wobble to the smell of food. It’s on the bed I’d been sleeping on. Well tied to. The sheets are now clean, the smell gone. I sit and pick up the burger, devouring it. The brunette walks out, coming to stand in front of me, assessing me.

“Why does he help you?” she asks. I lick my fingers, sucking the sauce from them clean.

“Who?” I ask, not knowing what she’s talking about. “Where am I?” I ask, wondering where I am. Sometimes I wake in unusual places. This is not the worst.

“You’re at the devil’s lair,” she replies, smiling.

One.

Two.

Three.

That’s how many steps I take until I’m at her door. It’s quiet and dark with no sound coming from inside. At first, I think maybe, possibly, she’s found a way to escape.

Stella’s voice breaks that silence. I stare at her door. It’s closed, no light showing underneath.

I hear her talking to Rose and I realize she’s prying. I’ve told her to not interfere and just do as I ask. They never listen—women never listen.