Stained (16 page)

I stand and walk around the edge of the room—once, twice, three times. The smallness of it presses in on me, sucking up all my air.

“I
will
save myself.”

I can almost hear Mom and Dad, Nick and Charlene refusing to let me give up. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Sarah,” I hear Dad saying.

Dad would believe in me. I have to believe in myself.

I squeeze my hands into fists. I need a tool to help me escape. Something thin and hard to unscrew the bolts on the door or to use as a lever against the window boards. But there's nothing movable except the food bag, the quilt and survival blanket, the bottle of water, and the smelly buckets of urine and feces.

I touch the food bag again. It's an ordinary sports bag made of vinyl. I feel the zipper pull. Too small, too flimsy to do anything. The peanut butter is in a plastic jar. The drinking glasses are even thinner plastic. There's nothing that can be used as a tool.

Nothing.

I slam the bag down, my hands shaking.

“I can't believe I'm still trapped in this stinking shack!” Even the goddamned buckets are plastic. I heave a bucket away from me, urine and feces slapping the wall and spraying against my face, making me gag. Something clanks against the floor.

I run over and feel for the bucket, snatching it back up, wetness and gook clinging to my hands. I don't know why I didn't notice it before. The bucket has a metal handle beneath the plastic tubing.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, then twist and pull at the metal, my hands slipping. “Come on!” I turn the bucket over on its side, steady it with my foot, grab hold of the plastic handle, and pull. It doesn't move. I yank harder, pull and wiggle and tear at it until the handle detaches at one end with a crack, plastic shards splintering off. Pain pierces my finger, and I rip the sliver of plastic out of my skin.

“Screw you, Brian!” I shout. “I'm going to get myself out of here!” I'm laughing—deep, full-throated laughter. The bucket, the stupid bucket that I hate so much is my key to getting out of here. I can almost taste the fresh air, can almost feel the sun on my skin.

I turn the cracked bucket over and work on the other side. A few more tugs and the handle comes off completely. Warm blood drips down my finger, but I don't care. I am grinning so widely my lips hurt.

I push the metal through the plastic tubing. It feels like it's about half the thickness of one of my fingers, but it's the strongest thing I've got. It will be enough. It has to be.

The window boards are tight against one another, but there's just enough space to get the very tip of the metal in. I push hard, grunting, the metal cutting into my hand. The board groans, then moves slightly. My head is full of laughter. “I'm going home!”

I am so excited that I almost don't register the crunch of wheels on gravel, or the sound of a car door slamming.

I WHIRL AWAY FROM the window, the shaft of metal in my hand. The stairs shake. Wood thumps against wood as Brian fumbles with the door. I zip open the vinyl bag and ram the metal beneath the box of crackers.

The door creaks open, fresh air flooding in.

I spin around. I have to distract him, have to keep him from seeing that the handle is gone.

I can hear him standing there, breathing.
Please don't let him see what I've done.

The floorboards squeal as he walks toward me.

“I hate that bucket!” I scream, my throat raw. “It's disgusting! I need a real fucking toilet, not some smelly, nasty, disgusting bucket!”

He still doesn't say anything.
What is he thinking?

“I can't take it anymore!” I put a pleading tone into my voice. “Please, can't you bring me something else? Anything else?”

“Shut up,” Brian says. “You made a real mess, didn't you? I'll leave you some rags. You can clean it up later.”

Silence again. I can't stand not seeing his face, not knowing where he's looking, what he's seen.

“You're filthy, you know that? Absolutely disgusting.” He grips my chin and roughly wipes it with a wet cloth, then pulls my face up toward him, and kisses me roughly. “I brought you some food. Not that you deserve it.”

Relief gushes through me. “Oh, thank you,” I say, my voice hoarse. He hasn't noticed yet. And he's not going to let me die. Not yet, anyway. “And water?” I say hopefully.

I hear the crack of a seal being broken, a cap being pulled off. Water pouring into a cup. He holds it to my lips, and I gulp it down.

Before I am ready, he yanks the glass away. He doesn't offer more, but I won't beg.

“Go ahead. Eat,” he says gruffly, putting a long, waxy fruit in my hand.

I can't help it. I tear open the banana and sink my teeth into the soft, sweet pulp. I can feel the prickle of his gaze on my face as I gulp it down, can feel the heat of his body, smell the foulness of his breath. He is taking pleasure in my hunger.

I stop chewing and spit out what's left in my mouth, then drop the rest of the banana to the floor.

He laughs, a short, hard laugh. “You're a real fighter, aren't you? Even after all this time. I like that.”

I almost smile at the kind words, the first I've heard in a week. No. I can't let him get to me.

I force my mouth into a frown. I have to remember who he is.

“But you've got to learn,” Brian says. “You won't eat the food I bring? Then you won't get any at all.”

“Oh, no!
Please
, no—I'll eat the banana.”

I crouch down and pat the floor with my hands, trembling. I can't bear to be without food. I've got to play his game. “I'm sorry. I was being manipulative again, trying to cause you pain.”

“Yes, you were, weren't you?” Brian says, his voice closer than I thought it'd be.

“I won't do it again! I'm trying so hard to learn what you teach me. I know I was wrong. Please don't take away the food you so generously brought me.” The words stick in my throat; I have to cough them out. But I must say them. I don't think my weakened body can take much more starvation.

I raise my head and let him see my desperation and misery.

“You
are
trying to learn; I can see that,” Brian says, his hand cupping my cheek. I don't move away. “And I am merciful. I will only take half the food I brought. The rest is a gift.”

“Oh, thank you!” I say, trembling with relief. He doesn't say anything, and I know he's watching me. I stand slowly, the precious banana in my hand.

I wait for his body to crush mine, for the pain to come.
Don't let it happen again, please don't—

He pushes my hair back from the stain on my cheek, tucks it behind my ear the way Mom always did. “You're doing very well.”

His hand leaves my face.

I hear him pick up a bucket, urine slopping from side to side, and dump it out the door, hear him come back and set the empty bucket down with a hollow
thunk.
My face burns.

“I've got something for you,” Brian says in that falsely gentle voice of his.

I flinch.

Brian clucks his tongue. “You'll like this. I promise.” He grips my arm.

I struggle, even though I know it's no use.

He slams me against the wall. “Hold still.”

He lifts my shirt up above my head, then my bra, and I shiver, waiting for him to push me to the floor. Instead, I feel worn cotton rub against my face as he pulls it down. It smells cloyingly sweet and musky, and faintly like copper. He puts my arms through the armholes, then yanks it down over my stomach. It's too tight.

“There. It fits perfectly,” he says, delight in his voice. “I knew it would. The two of you were alike in size and temperament.”

Choking dread fills me. “Whose T-shirt is this?” I ask hoarsely.

“Judy's. It was Judy's,” he says.

The girl he killed. I shudder, my skin growing clammy. I'm wearing a dead girl's shirt. A dead girl's shirt that smells like dried blood. The shirt she was probably killed in.

“I almost brought you Heather's, but I knew Judy's would be a better fit.”

Two girls. He's killed at least two. My heart clenches tight. I knew he couldn't have kept any of the girls alive, but I hoped I was wrong. I reach down, touch the stiffness where the blood soaked into the fabric and dried, and then I am scrabbling to tear it off me.

Brian clamps my hands together, stopping me. “Now, now. Judy's almost your sister. It's only fitting that you should wear her shirt.”

His lips find mine, cutting off my air, and then he is pressing me to the floor.

After he leaves, I curl up in a ball and rock, trying not to think or to feel. Trying not to be. Eventually, I force myself to my knees and pat the floor for my shirt and bra. I search the entire floor, but can't find them. Even my coat is gone.

I shudder, but I don't take off the shirt. Better to wear it than to have him come back and find me half naked.

After a while I force myself to work on the boards again.

THE FIRST THING I do each day when I wake is take the metal from the bag, then find the boarded-up window. I keep the bag close by. I count the boards with my fingers, and work on the same one every time, trying to loosen it. I do that on and off all day, my desperation fueling me. I know it's not a good sign that he put a dead girl's shirt on me—a girl he killed. It's like he's getting me ready for the same role. So I work on the board as hard as I can, ignoring the pain in my hands and arms.

My fingers slip down the metal rod and slam into the board. I swear, position the steel again like a lever, and try to force the board to give up its grip. The scent of metal mixes with my pungent body odor. I think I can even smell the scent of dried blood—the dead girl's blood—mixed with my own stink. I wonder how he can want to rape me smelling like this. But he always does.

I ram the metal harder, praying for escape. I'm not sure I believe in god. How can there be a god when he or she lets something so awful happen? When girls my age get raped and murdered? But I pray anyway, just in case. I yank the rod harder.

The stupid board won't budge. What did he do, screw them in? I want to toss the metal to the floor and give up.

But I don't. If I give up, I really will die here. And soon.

So I keep working on the board, over and over again. If Dad were here, he'd know what to say to keep me going. He always does. Even that day Madison lampooned my face. He got home late from work. I heard his and Mom's voices rumbling, and then he came up to my room and stood in my doorway. I could feel him there, but I just kept hugging my pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

“How're you doing, kiddo?” Dad said after a moment.

I sighed and turned over. “Not so good.”

He came in and sat down on the edge of my bed. I leaned my head against his leg, and he stroked my hair. “Kids giving you a rough time again?”

I nodded into my pillow.

“Do you like them, these kids that tease you? I mean, do you like them as people? Do you want to be like them?”

“No!” I said scornfully.

“Then why care what they say? Why even listen to them?”

“Da-aad,” I whined.

Dad smiled at me tenderly, but his eyes were sad. “No, Sarah; I'm asking you a serious question. If you don't like them, then why listen to what they have to say? The people whose opinions you should care about are the people you genuinely like and respect, like your mom and me. And we both look at you and know you're beautiful.”

“Da-aad!” I protested again, and tugged my pillow over my face.

Dad lifted it off, his eyes all serious. “I
do
think you're beautiful. And perfect, just the way you are. I don't want you letting anyone else tell you you're not. I don't want you listening to them, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Good.” Dad leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Now let me tell you a joke I heard today. You'll like this one.”

I jam the metal behind the board again and put all my weight into it, my arms trembling. The metal smashes down, my hands hitting the wall.
Holy crap—the board moved!
I feel along the board, shove the metal in close to where it was, and pull. The board creaks and squeals, and one end comes off.

I am crying now, tears soaking the inside of the blindfold. I'm going to get out of here.
I'm going to see you again, Dad and Mom. Nick. Charlene.
Whimpers escape my lips, but I don't care.

I shove the bar beneath the other end of the board and push with all my might. It starts to give.

A car drives up, wheels crunching on gravel.
Shit!
I smack the board back in place, then ram the bar into the bottom of the vinyl bag.

Brian walks in and stands in front of me, not talking. I can feel his gaze on my skin. I try not to fidget. I wish I could see what he sees, wish I knew if the metal is sticking out of the bag or not. If the board is back on right. If there's anything that might make him suspicious.

Every moment I am still alive is a victory. But to be so close to escape and have him discover it would be more than I could bear. I bite my lip until the pain is a knife.

“Tell me what you've learned,” he says quietly.

A test. He's testing me. And if I fail—will he kill me?

I can't make my brain work. But I have to. “I've learned . . . that my parents are ashamed of me because of my cheek. That they feel guilty about me and don't really love me. And I tried to act like a victim to get all the attention.”

What else?
My mind is dark, reflecting nothing back. I try to think, to make my thoughts move. “And that . . . I manipulated people, tried to make them take care of me. I made my parents miserable, made everyone who cares about me miserable. I caused them great pain.”