I shake my head, reaching into the crate and pulling out the sleek new AR-15 as they bicker back and forth. I’ve stopped listening. Same ol’ bullshit. I’m grateful for it, the background noise. They fight like brothers but they’d kill for each other, and that’s all that really matters.
“So, wait, hold up,” Three says again, raising his voice. “Boss, what did you do about Bruno? I mean, should I be sending his wife flowers or something?”
“Maybe you can shack up with her next,” Five suggests. “She can pack you your own snacks.”
“Huh, that idea’s not half-bad,” Three says. “She’s kind of hot, you know, for an old chick.”
“She’s barely forty, Deac.”
“I’m only twenty-one, dipshit, which means she’s older than my mother.”
“You’d still fuck her...”
“Yeah, well, probably.”
“If you fellas are done,” I say, holding the weapon out for someone to take it, “we can get on with business.”
Five grabs the gun.
“For real, boss.” Three steps over, pausing beside me. “Bruno?”
I pick up another gun, shoving it at Three. “Hate to break it to you, but his wife already raised two sons... she doesn’t need another little boy to take care of.”
The guys make noises, poking fun, as Three rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“Besides,” I say, passing guns out to the others, “you ought to save the flowers for another day, like for when her husband is actually dead.”
They all look at me with surprise.
Again, Three’s the only one to chime in. “Whoa, you kept him breathing?”
“For now.”
“But not forever?”
“That’s really up to him, isn’t it?” I ask before motioning around the warehouse. “Clear the rest of this shit out, move it somewhere... I don’t care... just get it out of here. When you’re done, burn the place, leave no trace of any of us, just in case.”
Chapter Sixteen
The little girl was tired. So very tired. She wasn’t sleepy, though. No, she was the kind of tired that felt like sadness without all the tears.
Her body hurt.
The outside hurt, because her shoulder still felt funny and she had bruises all over from falling off the roof, and the inside hurt, because everything was all wrong and nothing felt okay anymore.
She went back to hiding again, even though it wasn’t a game, because she didn’t want to see any of those people. They all lied, and were mean, and they wouldn’t let her go home, no matter how nicely she asked.
So she hid for hours, for days. The Tin Man acted like she’d turned invisible, like he didn’t care if she was there, which was weird, since he’d added alarms and locks to all the windows so they wouldn’t open again. The Cowardly Lion still hung around. He sometimes looked for her. He’d search under beds and inside closets, but he never said a word, just staring at her before going away again.
Weeks went on that way, weeks of isolation, of silence. Sometimes the little girl would whisper words to herself, would tell herself stories when she was alone in the dark, just to be sure that her voice still worked. Sandwiches would appear on the desk in her bedroom, or sometimes in brown bags outside wherever she was hiding. It started out as stuff like fish and bologna, but eventually, it turned into peanut butter and grape jelly.
She didn’t want to eat anything from them, but she was so hungry, and those were her favorite, so sometimes, she couldn’t help herself.
The little girl didn’t know what day it was now, or how long it had been, as she lay curled up on the floor of the kitchen pantry, staring at the light filtering in from beneath the closed doors. Voices carried through, some that she hadn’t heard before. They didn’t have an accent like the flying monkeys. These were just visitors.
“Would you like a sandwich?” the Cowardly Lion asked, but he wasn’t talking to her. One of the newcomers stood in the kitchen with him.
“No,” the man answered. That was it. No.
The Cowardly Lion laughed at the man’s clipped tone. “It’s only PB&J. You have eaten it before, no?”
The man didn’t answer.
“I have been in America since I was sixteen years old, but it wasn’t until recently that I tried one myself,” the Cowardly Lion continued. “They are not bad. I’ve come to enjoy them, especially—”
“I don’t want your sandwich,” the man said, cutting him off.
“Ah, well, your loss,” the Cowardly Lion said. “There is no reason to be so uptight. Your boss is fine. Relax.”
“I’ll relax when this is all over,” the man said.
The Cowardly Lion sighed. “It will only ever be over when my brother gets what he wants.”
There was a commotion in the house then. The little girl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to not listen, singing softly to herself... the song from Toy Story. It wasn’t until the pantry doors moved that she opened her eyes again, coming face to face with the Cowardly Lion just as the front door to the house slammed.
The Cowardly Lion knelt down, setting a small plate on the floor, a sandwich on it. He was squinting, his eye watering, puffy and swollen, like he got poked in it. He said nothing to her, nodding in silence, before standing back up just as the Tin Man stormed into the kitchen.
“Follow them,” he barked.
The Cowardly Lion was gone in a blink.
The little girl sat up, grabbing the sandwich, her gaze shifting to the Tin Man.
He stood there, watching her.
It was the first time in weeks he’d so much as even looked her direction, since the morning he’d picked her up at the police station. The attention made her queasy, or maybe that was the hunger. She took a small bite, chewing slowly.
“You do not like me,” he said, almost a sad note to his quiet voice. “I do not know why.”
The little girl stared at him. She wasn’t sure what to say. She was even queasier now, as she set the sandwich back down. It was true, she didn’t like him. She hated him so much. But he should know that, she thought. He should know why she didn’t like him. “You’re mean. I want Mommy.”
“And you think it is my fault you do not have your mommy?”
The little girl nodded.
He stared at her... and stared at her... and stared at her some more, before he let out a deep sigh. “Your mother’s birthday is soon. Maybe I will let you talk to her. You can ask her to come home yourself.”
Chapter Seventeen
There are countless ways to torture someone. Whips and chains, fire and water, fists and kicks and unwanted touches... sleep deprivation, starvation, dehydration... branding and cutting and suffocating... you could rip my fingernails out with a pair of pliers, but none of it would ever be as tormenting as being sealed away in the darkness with nothing.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Sleep has been my enemy. It twists time, manipulating the universe, strangling me with confusion. Nothing has made sense since the first moment I succumbed to it. I fall asleep in a black void and wake up again the same way, in and out of consciousness, exhausted and aching. Resentment flows through me, filling my battered body with indignation, the finger-shaped bruises covering my skin rooted so deep I can feel them even on the inside.