“You’re lying.”
“You wish I was lying.” I ransack my fuzzy brain for a key detail from Rachel’s story. Her antibiotic was the same thing we used when our dog had giardia. I visualize the label on Hooligan’s pill bottle. There. I see it. “I’m taking metronidazole to clear it up, but I’m still contagious.”
“You’re lying. You’ve never even had a boyfriend.”
How did he know that? My cheeks flush again. Few things embarrass me more than my lifelong lack of a boyfriend. With all the bravado I can muster I say, “Sluts don’t have boyfriends.”
Please, dear God, make me appear believable as a slut. Please, please let him think I’m a slut.
I peer into those strange eyes and I see doubt.
The cards sit before us. Unplayed.
A shrill ring blares out of nowhere, making us both jump. He stands, grabbing the gun with his left hand, and pulls a phone out of his front pocket with his right. I can’t believe there’s cell reception up here. Maybe we’re not as far out into the middle of nowhere as I thought.
He answers his phone. After saying hello, he says “Yes, sir,” several times, his tone polite and professional. He hangs up, returns the phone to his pocket. The Wolfman leans in to the kitchen counter, his back to me. His shoulders go up and down, up and down, and I realize it’s his breathing, and that he’s furious. Rage radiates out of him in waves. Fear overtakes me, makes me very still, makes me want to become invisible.
Wolfman explodes.
He attacks furniture, not me, but it takes everything I have to keep from crying at the sheer magnitude of his violence. I’m certain the gun will go off in the chaos, but somehow it doesn’t. When he’s done, a coffee table—which wasn’t much to begin with—lies in pieces on the floor.
Drained, he turns to me. “I have to go to the plant.” He pauses, shaking his head, and when he speaks, he’s not really talking to me. “I’m supposed to have this week off. I did all the proper paperwork as soon as I knew. I should have this week. It can take a week to do it right.” After a moment, he adds, “It’s because I’m new.” He sounds like a pouty child, but his ham-size fists clench and unclench, making me worry another attack is coming.
Summoning courage from somewhere, I say, “Well, just think. Perfect alibi.” I’m hoping he’ll think it’s a feisty sort of thing to say. I’m hoping he’ll be entertained into leaving this dangerous anger behind.
Instead, he roars. “Shut up, slut!”
I brace, waiting for a bullet, waiting to be assaulted.
“When I get back, we’ll find out if you’re a lying redhead or a befouled slut with no chance at redemption.”
To me this sounds like a choice between being raped and murdered or just murdered.
“Get on the couch,” he says, gesturing with the gun. “I have to tie you up before I go.”
When I wake up, I don’t know where I am. All I know is that my head hurts with an intensity I’ve never felt before. My throat is like sandpaper. I’m dying of thirst. Maybe my headache is caused by dehydration. I open my eyes. It is dark.
Things come into focus. The moon must be full. Slats of pale light stream into the room.
I’m laid out on the couch, wrapped up in rope like a mummy. I’m on my stomach, my head twisted uncomfortably to the side. There is no sign of the Wolfman. Somewhere along the way I’ve soiled myself. It is disgusting. Exhaustion overwhelms me. Groping through memory, I recall the Wolfman coming at me with a white cloth. It smelled sickly sweet. Chloroform. Holding my breath, I did my best to take in as little of it as possible. Maybe I had some success. Maybe that’s why I’m awake now.
Not that I’d call this situation a success.
My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. Working it free, I realize it’s been a very long time since I ate, since I drank. Vaguely I wonder if the Wolfman’s steak is on the counter. Then it comes back. He ate it already, in front of me.
The darkness tries to take over. It’s seductive that way, luring me into itself. The excruciating pain in my head can’t follow me down into the darkness. Neither can the stink of this place, the stink of me. The roughness of my tongue, the power of my thirst, none of it exists down there in the dark.
It’d be so easy, so pleasant, just to let go and fall into that darkness. To let it have me. It feels right there, so close, so delicious. All I need to do is let go, give up, and there’d be peace. Peace and no more pain.
But what about Grandpapa? I promised him I’d fight. What about Nana and my parents? They’d want me to fight. But they don’t know how tired I am. They don’t know what this feels like. They don’t know how impossible this is.
And I didn’t do anything to deserve this.