Alone The Girl in the Box

Alone The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane

One

When I woke up, there were two men in my house. As alarming as that would be for most girls, for me it’s doubly so; no one but Mom and I are allowed in our house. No one. That’s rule number one.

I sensed them creeping around in the living room as my body shot to instant wakefulness. It probably sounds weird, but I could hear them breathing and an unfamiliar scent filled the air, something brisk and fresh, that brought with it a chill that crept into my room. They did not speak.

I rolled off my bed, making much less noise than either of them. I crouched and crept to the doorway of my room, which was open. It was dark; dark enough for me to tell they were having trouble seeing because one of them brushed the coffee table, causing a glass to clatter. A muffled curse made its way to my ears as I huddled against the wall and slid to my feet. We had an alarm, but based on the fact that a deafening klaxon wasn’t blaring, I could only assume they must have somehow circumvented it.

I didn’t know what they were looking for, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl (eighteen in a month, and I guess I’d say woman, but I don’t feel like one – is that weird?) and there were two strange men in my home, so I guessed their motives were not pure.

How did they get in? The front door is always locked – see rule number one. I peeked around the doorframe and saw them. The one that hit the coffee table looked to be in his forties, had a few extra pounds, and I could tell, even in the dark, that he had less hair than he wished he did.

The other one was younger, I guessed late twenties, and his back was turned to me. They were both wearing suits with dark jackets, and the older guy had shoes that squeaked. Most people wouldn’t notice, but right then I was hyperaware. He put a foot down on the linoleum in the kitchen and when he went to take another step there was a subtle sound, the squeal of rubber soles that caused those little hairs on my arm to stand up.

I weigh a hundred and thirty-seven pounds and stand five foot four. The old one was over six feet, the younger a little taller than me. The young one held his hands in front of him, probably because his eyes still hadn’t adjusted.

What do you do in a situation like this? I couldn’t run; I’m not allowed to leave the house. That’s rule number two, courtesy of Mom. So when she’s at work, I’m at home. When she gets home from work, I’m at home.

I don’t leave the house, ever.

The two of them edged their way around. The old fat one stepped on a soda can and swore again. I was suddenly thankful for my pitiful housekeeping efforts of late. I saw the younger one heading toward me, and wondered what to do. Can’t leave. I reached to my right and felt the press of an eskrima stick in my hand, leaning against the old record player. I picked it up and transferred it to my left hand while my right went back to searching for its companion.

Eskrima sticks are batons, each about two feet in length. I could fight with one alone, if I had to, but I’m better with two. Mom started teaching me martial arts when I was six. I’m only allowed to watch an hour of TV a day, and that’s if I do all my chores, all my studies, and I’ve behaved myself. The eskrima sticks are part of my studies. Two hours of martial arts every single day, no exceptions.

The young guy peered through the door and didn’t see me. I was huddled against the wall, motionless, crouching at waist level for him. He swiveled when I moved but before he got a chance to react, I brought the eskrima stick up into his groin. I didn’t know him or what he was here for, so I didn’t swing with full force, but it still ruined his day. Just like Mom taught me.

He let out a scream and I rose, driving the point of my shoulder into his solar plexus – that’s the place in your stomach where if you get hit, you’d say you got the wind knocked out of you. Wheezing and gasping, it sounded like he was going to get sick on me. Mom says that happens sometimes, so I moved out of the way as he fell to his knees. An eskrima stick to the back of the head put his lights out. As he fell, I caught a faint whiff of a pleasant scent – sweet yet pungent, cologne of some sort I guessed. It was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before. I liked it.

A stream of curses reached my ears from Oldie in the living room, and I saw his hand come through the door, so I reached out and made a connection with his wrist – with one of the sticks, of course. Just a tap. He yanked it back with a grunt of pain. I flung myself through the door, leading with a front kick that he blocked with the same hand I had just whacked, and he grunted again before trying to counter with a punch.

He was pretty far away, so I let him follow through. I didn’t think he could see me, and he was as slow as a glacier compared to Mom. She practiced with me every day, and still beat the hell out of me during practice. You’d think after training with the woman for twelve years I’d have figured out how to beat her, but no…

Oldie took another swing and I sidestepped, my feet carrying me into the kitchen. I brought the eskrima stick overhand and cracked him on the head as I let out a little giggle. I couldn’t help it, really. Day after day it was study, study, study, practice, practice, maybe watch a little TV, wonder why I’m not as good at fighting as Mom, and then one day you wake up and there are two men in the house. And I’m beating them both senseless without giving it my full effort.

What does it say about me that I haven’t seen a living human being other than Mom in twelve years and my first instinct is to knock them unconscious?

I’d worry more about it, but Mom’s been gone for over a week – coincidence that these guys show up now? Mom comes home every day after work. Set your watch by her: with only an occasional exception, she was home at 5:34.

But I haven’t seen her in a week. I thought about leaving, but what if it’s a test? There was an alarm, after all; she could have been monitoring, and then I’d fail the test – and that would be bad. We’ll define “bad” later.

After I giggled, Oldie whirled away from me. I pursued, and to the old guy’s credit, he dodged pretty well. Of course, I was holding back. Not sure why. Mom would have been pissed that I wasn’t attacking full out. I landed another eskrima on his chin and he staggered back and caught hold of the curtain in the dinette, yanking them off the wall anchors as he fell.

And thus violated rule number three: don’t open the curtains or look out the windows. Most of them in the front of the house have heavy dressers and furniture blocking them, and all of them have bars on the exterior. The ones in the rear open to a backyard that has a fence eight feet tall all the way around and lots of old trees that pretty much blot out any view of the sun.

Don’t think I’m a perfect goody-goody – I’ve snuck a look out back lots of times. My conclusion – it’s a big, bright world out there. Really damned bright, in fact. Blinding.

I would have kept after him, but when the curtains fell the daylight streamed in and I couldn’t see anything for a few seconds. When my eyes recovered I found the old guy throwing the curtains off himself and he came up with a gun in his hand. I guess I shouldn’t have taken it easy on him.

The first shot would have gotten me in the face if I hadn’t already been moving. I dodged behind the couch as the shot rang out. Then another and another. They were loud but not deafening. The microwave in the kitchen took the first two; the next three hit the sofa and I heard the muffled impacts as stuffing flew through the air. I was crawling my ass off, heading for the door. I dodged under the coffee table, the one Oldie had hit on his way in, rolled onto my back and put my feet and hands on the underside of the glass.

I saw him emerge from behind the sofa and knew my time was limited. His gun was pointed at me, so I flung the table at him with my hands and feet. Kinda ugly, but it knocked him off balance as the glass shattered in his face and I heard the gun skitter from his hand back toward the dinette.

I didn’t take any chances; I was on my feet in a second and sprinting toward the front door. He got the gun back as I was making my escape and I heard three more shots impact behind me as I slammed the door to the porch. I reached down and hit the outside lock – I know it sounds weird, but I locked them in my own house. Locked them in, and me out.

For those of you keeping score:

Rule # 1 – Mom and I are the only ones allowed in our house.

Rule # 2 – I am never to leave the house.

Rule # 3 – Never open the curtains or look outside.

Sorry, Mom, I thought. We’re just breaking your rules all to hell today. I heard the gunfire again and I ran, dodging out the front door of the porch. I’d seen this space a thousand times as Mom was leaving, but never what lay beyond it. My hand flew to the knob that opened the door that led to the outside world.

If it had been up to me, I might have wanted to reflect on what a momentous day this was, going outside for the first time in twelve years; on violating so many rules, the first three big ones, all in a five-minute period. As it was, the sound of gunshots chased me into the light of day.

The cold hit me as I ran out, breath frosting as it hit the air. Fortunately, I’m always fully dressed – down to having on gloves all the time. That’s rule four – always fully dressed, always long sleeves and pants, and always have your gloves on. I’ve asked why and Mom has declined to explain, answering with a simple, terse, “Because I said so.”

I guess it was in case I ever had to run.

My eyes scanned the landscape of the suburban street in front of me. Even though the sky was covered in clouds, it was bright. The smell of the air crept up my nose along with the cold, and it felt like the inside of my nostrils froze. It was beyond crisp, and it almost hurt when I inhaled it. The frigidness bit at me even through my turtleneck sweater, and I found myself wishing for a coat. The wind blew down the road in front of me – rows of ordinary houses, idyllic and snow covered, trees in the front yards, draped in a blanket of winter white.

I slipped on the front walk and felt my heart kick me in the chest in a sensation of gut-punching fear. My hand caught me and I bounced back to my feet. So that’s ice? I thought. Until now I had only seen it on TV and in the freezer. There was a black sedan in the driveway that looked like something I’d seen on a Buick commercial.

My hand brushed against it as I ran down the driveway and stopped at the end. I heard the sound of more gunshots and ducked behind the car. Clinking noises came from behind me as the shots bounced off their vehicle. Now what?

As if to answer my question a red SUV skidded to a stop in front of me. A small line of muddy snow splattered past me as the passenger door opened. Inside was a guy. Dark brown hair hung around his shoulders and his skin was tanned; I was not too flustered or in too much of a hurry to realize that he was not bad looking. His eyes broke the distance between us as he stared me down. His black coat ruffled from the open door and I heard his voice, raised to a pitch, and he spoke – something that should have sounded like a command, but was so gentle it came off as an invitation.

“Get in.”