“Do you miss her?”
The sun pokes through the window on the eighteenth day, teasing us. We are facing each other from our respective corners, our legs sprawled out in front of us, our toes almost able to touch. Dean is slouched back against his pipe, his eyes fixated just over my shoulder.
“Who?” he wonders absently.
He knows who, but I answer anyway. “My sister.”
Dean blinks, slow and lazy. There is a far-off look on his face as a wave of silence passes between us, and I wonder if he’s going through memories in his mind like a film reel. He finally nods his head one time, just as slow. “We were supposed to get married in two weeks. Mandy wanted a winter wedding with velvet shawls, a horse-drawn sleigh, and white Christmas
lights.”
A nostalgic smile breaks through as I reminisce wedding planning together with Mandy. We had ruby red bridesmaid dresses with snow white shawls. It was magical.
It would have been magical.
I glance at Dean, silently begging him to look at me. To see me. To assure me I’m still real.
“She was really excited to marry you,” I say, my voice a small whisper.
Amanda Asher.
My last memory of Mandy was her practicing her future signature on the bar tab that fateful night.
I watch Dean’s jaw clench in reaction to my words, his eyes closing as he accepts the fact that he might never marry Mandy. He might never get
married at all. He might never have children or watch another football game or eat a medium-rare steak or pet a dog or sleep in a goddamn bed with an alarm clock waking him up to tell him, ‘Good morning. It’s early as shit
and you have to spend ten hours at work today doing hard labor, but at least you get to breathe in the fresh air and feel the sunshine on your skin.’
Dean’s head falls back against the pole, his eyes still closed. But when he opens them, he finally finds my face. My sad, jade eyes. My pasty skin and matted hair. He sees me, and it feels like a tiny miracle.
I’m real. We’re real.
“We’re getting out of here today.”
As soon as he says the words that make my heart skip a dozen beats, Earl’s boots can be heard clunking down the wooden steps.
It’s Dean’s day. Thank God.
“Rise and shine, pets. Ready for a new day?” Earl exclaims, his face beaming with evil joy.
He paces over to Dean, the sound of his steel-toed boots against the cement always so loud and antagonistic. Earl unlocks the cuffs, then steps away with the gun pointed directly at Dean’s skull.
But instead of walking towards me like he usually does, Dean remains where he stands. He is completely still, his expression blank, as he stares Earl down with a scathing glare. “You’re a fat, fucking bastard,” he says, his tone low and levelled.
Earl stands stock-still while I watch the scene in terrified silence, my fingers curling around my pole and gripping tight.
Then Earl slugs Dean across the jaw with his fist.
I flinch, crying out in protest, yanking at my chains to draw Earl’s attention back to me. When Dean slowly pulls himself up from his knees, his fist is closed tight, hiding a small treasure.
Earl presses the barrel of the gun against his back and shoves him
towards me. “Don’t fuck with me, kid. Next time it’s a bullet in your face instead of my fist,” Earl warns. “You’re on borrowed time.”
My breathing is ragged and quick as Dean approaches me, face to face, blue eyes on green. My gaze drifts to his busted lip, already swelling and smeared with blood. I inhale, almost choking when the breath reaches the back of my throat. Then Dean leans in. He presses those full lips to mine, and I immediately taste the metallic, coppery blood on my tongue, mixed with sweat and a trace of mint from the toothpaste. I part my mouth, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and he breathes in deep, so deep, as if he’s sucking up my lifeforce for survival.
As he continues to kiss me, I feel him reach his arm around my body, finding my cuffed wrists. But instead of placing his thumb against my pulse point like he usually does, he pauses. His mouth breaks away from mine, and Dean grazes his lips against my right cheek until they are pressed up to my ear. The tickle of his hot breath makes me shiver.
Then he whispers in a scratchy voice, “Don’t let go of your cuffs. Don’t let them fall.”
Another breath gets caught in my throat as I instinctively curl my fingers around the metal, gripping as tight as I can. Dean takes a moment to
unbuckle himself and push his jeans down to his ankles, then lifts me up with both hands.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders.
I ignore the tingly sensation those words procure and do as he says, holding myself up so Dean can try to unlock my cuffs with the belt clasp. It feels like an impossible feat, but my God, I’ve never wished for anything more.
Dean enters me, averting his eyes like always, unable to witness my reaction to what he considers a horrifying violation. I should agree, I really should, but my guess is that my eyes tell a different tale.
It’s better that he doesn’t look.
When we get into a comfortable rhythm, Dean finds my wrists again, pressing his chin into the curve of my right shoulder and hiding his face from Earl. From the other side of the room, it probably appears that he’s really into pummeling me against this pole—when really, he’s trying to set me free. I don’t miss him massaging my wrist today because I’m too distracted by the notion of escaping and finally getting out of this prison.
Please work. Please, please work.
I count down the seconds in my head, trying to keep my face focused and unreadable. It feels like more time is going by than usual and a stir of panic rumbles in my belly. I attempt to keep my breaths even, my eyes closed. I wait and wait and wait.
And then Dean pulls his lips back to my ear and says softly, “I need you to moan, Corabelle.”
Moan?
I swallow with uncertainty.
“Please,” he whispers, the plea muffled against my ear and creating more goosebumps.
I nod my head and conjure up my most convincing moan, masking the sound of the cuffs releasing behind me, hiding the evidence of our monumental win.
Holy shit, he did it. Dean did it.
I clutch the metal in my hands for dear life, making sure they don’t hit the ground and give us away. Dean takes a moment to focus on his “task” and finishes inside me a minute later. He doesn’t say he’s sorry this time. He doesn’t cry or beg for my forgiveness.
He pulls back and winks.
 |
We wait for what feels like an eternity, when in reality, is probably less than an hour. We wait until we’re confident Earl has gone to work.
Earl has a routine. He works Monday through Friday, leaving in the morning and returning shortly after sunset. Today is Thursday, so he should be well on his way to work by now, giving us less than eight hours to get
the fuck out of here.
My heart is about to burst inside my chest with anticipation and anxiety.
There is a lot riding on this—there is everything riding on this. I have no
idea how to get Dean out of his chains, so it’s going to take a while to figure it out. I’ve never picked a lock before in my life, let alone professional
grade handcuffs.
“He’s gotta be gone by now,” Dean says to my right, prompting the nerves in my belly to do the Mamba. “You ready?”
I let out a hard breath. “I’m ready.” I finally let go of the metal and feel the cuffs slip from my wrists. It doesn’t seem real at first, so I just sit there, forgetting I can move. I can walk. I can do a freakin’ happy dance if I want to. I pull myself up to unsteady feet, pinning my gaze on Dean.
Then I run to him.
He’s standing in front of me, his eyes wide and expectant, his chest heaving with fretful breaths. I catapult myself right to him, slinging my arms around his neck and touching him for the first time in weeks.
Touching anyone. My hands are my own. My body is mine.
I skim my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, reveling in the feel of the soft strands. Dean doesn’t tell me to hurry up and get moving—no, he gives me this moment. He lets me run my palms down his neck, over his
shoulder blades, then back up and around to his chest. I plant them there for a few moments, taking in the hurried beats of his heart.
He feels warm and safe and alive.
This is really happening.
I lift my eyes to his, overcome with emotion. A similar sentiment is staring back at me, and it almost stops my breath.
I find my bearings and pull my hands away from Dean’s chest, taking a small step backwards. “I don’t know how to get you out of those,” I tell him.
“I know. I’ll walk you through it. I dropped the pin behind your pole— bring it over here and I’ll tell you what to do.”
I nod, making my way back to my corner of nightmares and sliding the front of my hands over the dusty floor, my eyes casing every inch as I search for the little gold pin. When I spot it, I pick it up, pinching it between my fingers, and I dart back over to Dean to await instruction.
I settle behind him as he returns to a sitting position and take his hands in mine. He starts walking me through the steps, but my mind feels foggy and unfocused, and my hands are trembling, so I keep dropping the clasp. He mentions single locks and double locks and stopping points. Clockwise, counter clockwise, springs and bars.
It’s so much. It’s too much.
“I-I can’t get it, Dean.” I feel myself panicking, the metal shaking in my inept hands. “I suck at this. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, hey. It’s not easy to do. You’re doing great.”
I keep going, cursing under my breath as sweat lines my brow. At least thirty minutes drag by, causing my anxiety to swirl and spin. I fall back onto my butt with a cry of defeat, swiping my damp forehead with the back of my hand. “I can’t do it.”
Dean is silent for a moment as I watch the way his shoulders sag slightly.
He must be so disappointed in me.
“It’s okay, Cora. Don’t worry about it,” he tells me, trying to find me over his shoulder. I scoot forward so we can see each other. “Just get out of here and bring back help.”
I gape at him. “And leave you here alone? I-I don’t even know where we are. What if I get lost? What if I can’t find help and he discovers I’ve
escaped?” I ramble, out of breath. “He’ll kill you!”
“I’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Just get the hell out of here. Find a main road and have someone call the police.”
“What if—”
“Go, Cora. Please.”
Our eyes stay locked as his words trickle in and stick to every piece of me. I gulp down my fear and worries and self-doubt, nodding my head with concession. “Okay.” I climb to my feet, Dean following suit. My knees are weak and shaky as I lean in for one more hug, memorizing the scent of his skin. “I’m getting you out of here,” I whisper against his neck.
We hold eye contact for just a moment longer, then I turn away and jog over to the staircase.
“Cora.”
I pause at the sound of his voice, spinning around to face him from across the room. “Yes?”
Dean pulls his lips between his teeth, mulling over whatever he’s going to say. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his grown-out hair sticking to his forehead. “I know I said you can go back to hating me when we get out of here,” he says in an angst-ridden voice. “But I really hope you don’t.”
A solemn silence hangs between us, thick and palpable. I blink.
Then I smile and reply, “But it’s fun.”
Dean’s mouth tips up into his own smile, taking in the words I’ve adamantly denied for so long. I cling to that smile, using it as fuel as I make my way up the wood steps, hoping and praying the basement door is unlocked. If it’s not, I guess I’ll be squeezing myself through that tiny
window that has taunted me for the past two-and-a-half weeks. I bite my lip, reaching out a tentative hand towards the doorknob.
It twists. The door squeaks open.
There is a God. There is a freakin’ God.
I blow out a slow breath, my body relaxing just a bit. I’ve made it out of the basement. Out of the dungeon. Out of Hell.
Now… to feel the crisp November air against my skin. I want to swallow it down and let it cleanse me, washing it all away. Every rape and sleepless night. Every stab of hunger and insatiable thirst. Every teardrop, every nightmare, every hollow thought.
I take cautious steps down the narrow hallway, passing the small bathroom on the left and heading towards the main living room. The house reeks of mold and urine. There are a few crooked pictures lining the walls, showing me that this monster isn’t an actual monster. He’s human. He has a life. A family. They have no idea what he has become.
I keep walking, noting a 1970s kitchen on the right and a musty living room on the left. There is an oak door off the living area. An escape.
But before I make my exit, a calendar catches my eye. It’s pinned to the wall in front of me with a red thumbtack. There are large exes made in black Sharpie across the dates starting from November 8th and ending
yesterday, November 25th. There is a scribble next to the number eight that reads: “New Pets”. A shiver crawls up my spine as my feet make their way towards the calendar. It’s surreal to think that almost the entire month has been wasted in captivity.
I flip through the preceding months, my curiosity getting the better of me. Nine days prior to the eighth are blank—the last ex is etched onto the square of October 29th. My stomach coils with dread at the realization that
another couple likely died that day. I count the previous exes: there are
twenty-two. The couple before us survived twenty-two days in that basement.
Our time was almost up.
A strangled sound escapes me as I bring a hand to my mouth, holding back my queasiness. My insides feel sick, and I want to puke. And cry. And scream.
But I don’t. I’m almost there. I’m almost out.
On instinct, I snatch up a few envelopes lying in a stack of mail on the kitchen table.
They are addressed to Earl Hubbard. His address is listed. Perfect.
I spin around, uncaring that I’m only wearing Dean’s too-big shoes and a t-shirt that barely touches mid-thigh. All I care about is finding help for Dean. All I care about is ending this nightmare and putting Earl behind bars for the rest of his life.
I run to the front door and whip it open. The cool air assaults me, and it’s much colder than I anticipate. Probably freezing. I look around, realizing
we’re tucked away on some kind of farm, far, far away from civilization.
The acreage stretches farther than my eyes can see. Part of me wonders how long I’ll even last out here before succumbing to hypothermia.
No.
Dean is counting on me. His life depends on me. I can do this.
I dart out the door and start running straight ahead, hoping there is some kind of road or town behind the line of trees. The icy leaves crunch beneath my feet as the cold wind already begins to freeze my limbs.
But my escape is cut short when I feel a hand wrap around my mouth, while a thick arm encircles my waist, pulling me back. The envelopes fall from my grip.
No, no, no.
Earl snarls against my ear as I kick my legs and scream into his filthy palm. “Nice try, kitten. You’re going to pay for this.”
“No!” I scream and scream and scream, my efforts muffled by Earl’s hand. As he hauls me back towards the house, I notice a charcoal grill off to the side with a turkey sitting atop the grates. I blink, struck by a cruel twist of fate.
It’s Thanksgiving.
It’s a national holiday.
We blew our escape attempt on the one day he didn’t have to work.
Tears rim my eyes as I fight with everything I have left. When Earl pulls me through the threshold and into the living room, I spot a landline phone on the far wall.
Oh, my God.
Why didn’t I think to look for a phone? I’m so used to my cell phone.
No one has landlines anymore. But if I’d paid attention, I could have called the cops and waited for rescue, avoiding this utter disaster of an escape attempt. Soon, we’ll be back at square one.
Soon, we’ll be dead.
As he yanks me forward towards the hallway, I swing my head back and forth until I’m able to open my mouth. I take the small window to chomp down on his hand, drawing blood. Earl howls in pain and releases me on instinct, giving me an opportunity to race towards the phone.
I reach it.
I pick it up and start to dial with quivering fingers. 9-1-
“You fuckin’ bitch.” Earl smacks the phone out of my hand before I get the last number in, then clubs me over the head with some kind of metal pipe. I drop to the kitchen floor in a daze and he begins kicking me in the ribs. I scream in pain, in fear, in hopelessness. I can hear Dean yelling for me from down below as I lie across the stained yellow tiles, curling my body into itself while Earl’s steel toe breaks my ribs in two.
When I feel myself on the verge of passing out, Earl grabs a handful of my hair and drags me down the hallway. I twist and resist, digging my
fingernails into his arm, but it’s no use. He opens the basement door and throws me down the flight of steps.
I hear Dean shout my name right before my skull hits the cement and everything goes black.
