Martin rushed at her, making Sara cringe.
“I… I love you, Martin.”
His smile was demonic. “And I hate you, Sara. Hate you with every fiber in my body. Hate you so much, in fact, that I’ve got something really special planned for you. Remember your summer at Aunt Alison’s?”
The memories came hurtling back. Being nine years old, locked in that horrible trunk.
“It took a while to find the right one, but you told me the details of the story so many times I think I found a pretty good approximation.”
Martin grabbed her with both hands, one tangling up in her hair, the other tugging on her sweater. He yanked her off the bed, and she hit the floor on her knees, hard. Then he began to drag her toward—
“Martin... oh no… please don’t...”
“It’ll be just like old times, Sara. A blast from the past.”
He pulled her to the old chest in the corner of the room, and popped open the top.
Sara didn’t want to look, afraid to see her child dead inside. The trunk was empty.
And for her, that was just as terrifying.
“Nice and dark in there. Dark and cramped.”
Sara struggled, contorting her body, not letting him get a firm grip. But he did, yanking the rope so hard her shoulders felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets, lifting her up, and—oh jesus, oh god no—dumping her face-first into the trunk.
The lid closed, catapulting Sara into absolute darkness.
She screamed; a muffled, constricted sound that was so intimately familiar to her.
Martin knocked on the top of the trunk.
“So here’s what’s going to happen, Sara. I’m going to leave you in there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few days. I’m going to make you wait for so long that you’ll be happy when I finally open it up to kill you. That’s what you used to tell me, those nights when you couldn’t get to sleep. You told me you were so scared you wanted to die rather than stay in there any longer. How fucked up is that?”
Sara looked all around, seeking a crack in the chest, a seam, something that might allow a sliver of light in. But there was only darkness.
“I’m going to make you wait even longer, Sara.”
No. Please not that.
“Then when I finally take you out, I’m going to show you my knife collection. Do you remember Cousin Timmy?”
Sara felt like the world was spinning. She found it hard to breathe.
“Remember the knife he had? The hunting knife, with the jagged back? I’ve got one of those, too. Can you picture it, Sara? You used to get woozy when you saw a steak knife whenever we went out to eat. Can you imagine Timmy’s big ole survival knife?”
Sara could imagine it. It was the only thing in her head, blocking out everything else.
“Well, no need to answer me right now. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it. And then, later, much later, you can tell me how it feels when I try it on you.”
“Please,” Sara whispered.
“Did you say something, hon?”
“Please. Martin. Don’t leave me in here.”
“Would you prefer I let you out, get started on you right now?”
Sara couldn’t believe her response, but the word left her mouth. “Yes.”
She waited for Martin to answer. The seconds ticked away.
“Martin?”
There was only silence. Silence, and smothering darkness.
“Martin!”
But just like Cousin Timmy, he was gone.
Georgia opened her eyes. They were dry, raw, like someone had rubbed sand into her tear ducts. She closed them again, touching her eyelids, and that made her realize the paralysis had worn off.
She was in a warm bed, beneath a thick blanket. With a yawn she sat up, the blanket falling away, exposing her bare breasts. Georgia saw she was naked. It didn’t bother her at all, and she wondered why. Much as she tried to delude herself, Georgia knew she had body image problems. She didn’t want anyone to see her without clothes on.
But her appearance no longer mattered to her. In fact, for the first time ever, she felt proud of her body. She slipped out from under the covers and padded over to the window. Dawn had come, flooding the outdoors with light. Georgia walked past, coming to a dresser with a mirror on top. She stopped, stared at her saggy belly, her large hips.
But instead of shame, Georgia felt strangely proud. More than proud. She felt strong, powerful. Like a completely new person, one who could conquer the world. It was as if something dormant inside her had opened its eyes and awoken. She let the fantasy take hold, Georgia sitting on a throne perched up on top of a mountain, and beneath her on all sides, crosses. Crosses with people nailed to them, screaming and begging for mercy. Crucifixions as far as she could see. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.
Then the fantasy switched. The crucified morphed into the impaled. Georgia remembered reading about Vlad the Impaler, how he would place people on tall wooden stakes. Gravity, and struggling, would cause his victims to slide down the pole, piercing organs and tissue until it eventually came out of their mouths.
The image made her tingle all over.
Power was something she’d always aspired to. She had mastered its younger sibling, control. Georgia’s whole life had been about control. Controlling her emotions, manipulating others, keeping secrets.
But power felt better than control. A million times better. While control was about maintaining order, power was about being invincible. The old Georgia was a weakling. This new Georgia was unstoppable.
She rubbed her eyes again, considered the procedure Doctor Plincer had performed on her. Not a pleasant memory, but the pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self. With this newfound feeling of absolute power came an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody. Anybody. Hurt them horribly.
Georgia walked to the metal door. Locked. She scowled, irritated that she was stuck there, unable to indulge in her newfound desire. Then she noticed the package next to the door.
It was the size of a shoe box, wrapped like a birthday present in bright red paper with a big white bow on top. Next to it was a smaller box, wrapped in the same paper. A card taped to the top of the larger present read:
TO GEORGIA GIRL
FROM LESTER
Georgia plucked off the bow and tore into the large package first, revealing a steel cage. Inside, complete with matted gray fur and tiny black eyes, was the biggest rat she’d ever seen.
Rather than flinch, which is something the old Georgia would have done, the new Georgia eyed the creature with something akin to hunger. It was so weak. So vulnerable.
She opened the slim package next. Inside were a roll of duct tape and a pair of long, sharp scissors. There was another note at the bottom of the box.
HAVE FUN
Georgia smiled.
How did Lester know this was just what I needed? What a thoughtful man.
A rat this large wouldn’t die right away. If Georgia restrained herself, it would be good for a few hours of entertainment.
“Hello, little friend,” Georgia told the rat, reaching for the latch with greedy fingers. “Would you like to play?”
Cindy opened her eyes. She hadn’t been asleep. Just sitting with her back against the bars, resting, conserving her energy. Exhausted as she was, Cindy didn’t know if she would ever be able to sleep again.
Or if she’d have the chance to.
There was light coming in through the window, enough to illuminate the cells. She glanced over at Tyrone, who was staring at her. They were still holding hands.
“How you doin’?” he asked.
“This motel sucks. No room service. No cable TV. And the bathroom is seriously lacking.”
“You need to pee, I can turn away.”
She shifted her bad shoulder and gave his left hand a squeeze, regretting it when she saw him grimace.
“I’m okay. You wanna hear something funny?”
“Hells yeah. Could use somethin’ funny right about now.”
“I haven’t thought about meth in hours. This is the first time, for as long as I can remember, that I haven’t had any urge to get high.”
“Cool. Sounds like you beat it.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. You’re strong. I always knew that about you.”
Cindy felt herself blush, but it was a good feeling, not an embarrassing one.
“How’s your other hand?”
“Hurts. It started to scab over, but now every time I move it, starts to bleed again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Won’t stop me from beatin’ the fuck out of whoever opens my cell door.”
Cindy smiled, gave his hand a much gentler squeeze.
“We gonna get outta here, Cindy. I promise.”
“Good morning.”
Cindy and Tyrone looked toward the staircase at the far end of the room, following the sound of that familiar, effeminate voice.
Tom noticed too, and began to make a high pitched, keening sound.
Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick in his left hand. His right hand—the one he’d bitten earlier—was wrapped in a bandage.
“Today is a big day. The meeting with the important people. Lester needs the boys and the girl to behave.”
He reached into his bib overalls and removed a pair of handcuffs.
“Lester wants to know the black boy’s name.”
Tyrone said nothing. Lester raised up his broomstick, and Cindy saw it had a nail sticking out of the end. He aimed it at Tyrone.
“His name is Tyrone,” she quickly said. “He’s Tyrone, I’m Cindy.”
Lester tossed the handcuffs into Tyrone’s cell. They made a jingling sound when they hit the floor.
“The Tyrone boy needs to put the handcuffs on, behind his back.”
“Fuck you, you ugly, rat-toothed mutha fucker.”
Before Cindy had a chance to yell, “No!” Lester had jabbed Tyrone on the hip with the nail. Tyrone recoiled, making a small grunting noise.
“The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”
“You hear me the first time?” Tyrone said through his teeth. “Fuck. You.”
Lester jabbed him again, this time aiming for Tyrone’s crotch. The teen shifted and managed to deflect the strike, instead getting pierced in the thigh.
“Tyrone, baby, honey, please put them on.” Cindy ran her hand over his head, willing him to listen. “Please, Tyrone, for me, just do it.”
Lester raised the stick again. Tyrone scowled at him, then reached for the handcuffs.
“I’ll help you.” Cindy put her arms through the bars, cinching the cuffs loosely on his wrists.
“Now the Cindy girl will put on the handcuffs.”
Lester tossed her a pair, and she dutifully snicked them on behind her back.
“Let Lester see.”
She scooted over, showing him. Lester walked off, moving to Tom’s cell.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
The cuffs jangled the concrete floor.
“My finger, it’s, it’s all messed up,” Tom said. He had the hiccups. “I can’t put them on.”
Lester thrust out the broomstick, poking Tom in the stomach.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Jesus! Stop it! I can’t do it!”
Lester jabbed him again, this time in the leg.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
Tom reached for the cuffs, then moaned. “I can’t get them open.”
Lester hit him in the ribs this time.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Tom!” Cindy had her face pressed to the bars. “Tom, just put them on!”
“I’m trying.” Hic. “I… I can’t.”
Lester stabbed Tom in the ribs, and he made a sound like tires screeching.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Tom, for God’s sake!” Cindy yelled. “Put on the goddamn cuffs!”
Slowly, painfully slowly, Tom managed to lock one bracelet across his left wrist, and get his hands behind his back. Cindy watched, intent but also repulsed at the site of his damaged finger.
“You can do it, Tom,” she urged. “Don’t give up.”
Tom was shaking like mad, still hiccupping, but he managed to finesse the second cuff on.
“Show Lester.”
Tom got to his knees, letting the man see his hands. Lester raised the stick again.
“No!” Cindy cried.
In rapid succession, Lester jabbed Tom four more times. He was raising back for a fifth when Cindy said, “Lester.”
Lester turned to look at her. He was grinning, a thin streak of drool running down his chin.
“Don’t,” Tyrone told Cindy under his breath.
But it was too late. Lester was coming over.
“Is the Cindy girl jealous that the Tom boy is getting all the attention?”
Cindy looked at Lester, then at the nail on the stick, which was glistening with Tom’s blood.
“I just, uh, had a question, Lester. You said we’re meeting important people today. Who are we meeting?”
“It’s a surprise,” Lester said.
“But these people are important?”
“Very important.”
“And you said we need to behave. But if you keep poking us with that stick, we won’t be able to behave. We won’t even be able to move. Is that what you want?”
Lester seemed to think about it, then slowly shook his head.
“No. That wouldn’t be good.”
Then, lightening quick, he thrust out the stick, stabbing Cindy in the arm.
“But one little poke can’t hurt,” Lester said.
Then the giant walked away, across the room, back up the stairs.
Cindy clutched her arm, which felt like she’d been kicked by a mule, and stared out the window fully believing that this was going to be the last sunrise she ever saw.