Stained (17 page)

“Very good, Sarah. You learn well. Much better than any other girl,” he says. He strokes my cheek with his knuckles. “I'm going to miss you.”

My heart races so hard I can hear it thundering in my ears like hoofbeats. I tense, getting ready to run, to strike out against the knife I know is coming.

But instead he does what he always does. I leave my body as far as I can, returning only after I hear his car drive away. I don't even wait for the pain to stop before I get up and work on the boards again.

Day 119, 3:45 P.M.

 

I KNOCK ON THE DOOR.

Mrs. Meadows answers, her steps slow. “Nick,” she says. “Come in.” She tries to smile, but we both know what a polite social mask it is. It's getting harder and harder for both of us to believe that Sarah's still alive. But we have to.

I follow Mrs. Meadows into the kitchen and sit down at the table across from her. I don't think she's stepped out of the house since Sarah disappeared, except to be interviewed. Someone has to be at the house in case Sarah calls or finds her way home. At least that's what Mrs. Meadows says. Even though Sarah knows their cell numbers. “She learned the house phone first,” Mrs. Meadows said once when I pushed her.

“Do you need me to pick anything up?” I ask.

“No, no, that's okay, Nick,” Mrs. Meadows says absently. “Thomas is bringing some groceries home after work.”

“You sure?” I know that money's been tight for them. They had to borrow from friends to keep Mr. Meadows's business going—and even so, they put every cent they can into finding Sarah—ads, more posters, even a private detective. And, of course, the psychic. I can see the strain on them, but they never give in.

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Meadows pats my hand. “I'm fine. I don't need anything. But if you'd like to take some more posters with you when you leave . . .”

“You know I will.”

“You're a sweet boy.”

“And Sarah's lucky to have parents like you. Parents who love her so much,” I say. “Who don't give up.”

Mrs. Meadows's fragile smile shatters. She covers her mouth with a shaking hand. “I don't think she thought so. Not of me. She and her dad, they were closer than two people could ever get. But Sarah took everything I said as criticism or as platitudes. And maybe sometimes I did do that. The world can be cruel, and I wanted to help her cope . . .”

Mrs. Meadows's voice trails off, and I wonder if she's just realized what she was doing—talking about Sarah in the past tense.

“She knows,” I say hoarsely. “I heard her say to Charlene once”—I screw up my eyes, trying to remember the exact words—“that her cheek made things hard because of the way people treated her, but that it was a heck of a lot better than the deal Charlene had with her dad always cutting her down. Sarah said that at least she had two good parents who loved her.”

“She said that?” Mrs. Meadows says, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Yeah. She did.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Meadows takes my hand and squeezes it. “I'm glad she knows.”

Present tense. Back to normal. I smile at her, wishing Sarah were here to tell her mom herself.

I WORK FEVERISHLY EVERY DAY, every moment that I can. I know my death is near. My murder. I can hear it in the things Brian says, and in the way he talks to me.

I've gotten one more board off, but the remaining boards won't move, no matter how hard I yank on them; it's like they're screwed into the window frame, not nailed like the first two were. The metal bar bends with my weight, and I straighten it out. Some days it seems hopeless—but I'm still alive, and that means I have a chance.

I work at the board again, the metal slipping, gouging my hand. “Damn it!” I throw the metal rod away, and then I am down on my hands and knees, patting the floor and searching for it. When I find it, I clutch it to my chest, sobs bursting out of me.

This would be so much easier if I could just see. I yank at the wretched blindfold. It tightens against my skin, mocking me. I hate it so much.

I yank on the straps again, right at the seam where they join near my ear, the way I've been doing every day—yank and rest, yank and rest—and this time it gives a little. It's the tiniest shift, but it's movement.

I hold my breath and try again, yanking and twisting it as hard as I can, over and over, ignoring the pain pressing into my eyes, my head—and then the seam breaks, the chin strap flapping free. I tear the blindfold up over my head and off my eyes.

“I DID IT!”

The constant pressure of the leather against my eyelids, the pain of the strap rubbing against my temples, digging into my throat, is gone. But the blackness is still there. Blackness, and little squiggles of light.

I rub at my eyes, claw at them.
I'm blind!
There's nothing covering them anymore, and still I can't see.

I gulp air. I can't have gone blind. How will I ever get out of here? But I think of Helen Keller, of the way she did things no one thought she could ever do, and I know this won't stop me.

I take a breath and gently massage my eyes. I blink, then blink again, and then I can make out rough shapes. It's like dusk inside. The darkness is grainy, lit only by broken beams of sunlight that stream through the window where the two boards used to be, and through the hole in the door.

I blink harder, trying to keep the panic down. I still can't see clearly, just shapes and shadowy darkness and light.

I swallow hard, but at least I can see that much. It's better than before. It's got to be.

I move to the window, to the boards I know by feel, find the metal bar, and start working on the boards. Shove the bar under and tug, over and over again, until my hands ache and burn and my arms tremble.

I don't know how long I've been at it before I realize—I can see again! I stare at the board.

I was right. The first two boards I got off were mostly fastened by nails. The rest of the boards have screws plunged deep into the wood. But still I'm excited. It'll make such a difference to be able to see what I'm doing.

I move until a sunbeam lights my hands, showing me the grime beneath my long nails, the jagged cuticles, my skin rough and reddened. My fingers bruised. They don't look like my hands anymore. They almost scare me.

I push the bar beneath a board again, then stop. Better to see if there's any other way out, first. I turn to look.

The room is smaller than I thought. The walls are yellowing drywall, not white like I'd imagined, with brown and yellow splotches where I threw the bucket. Water-stained, unfinished planks cover the floor, some beginning to buckle at the edges, dirt caught between their cracks. It's almost more depressing to be able to see my prison, but it's a relief to know the confines. I see the ghostly outline of the bucket I have left, the stench reaching me from there.

I slowly walk around the entire shack. I examine every- thing—the heavy door, the boarded-up window, the ceiling with a dark water stain like a shadow. I look for weaknesses, for an escape route, but my eyes don't tell me anything that my hands haven't already. Not anything good, anyway. I can see now that the door is so heavy and solid, I would never have been able to break through it.

There's something almost familiar about this place. Something I can't quite figure out. I bite my chapped, sore lip, trying to stir my memories. And then I know. The water stain on the ceiling. The unfinished floorboards, the location of the window. I run my hand down the door frame and stop. It's lower than I remember, but it's there. “Sarah was here” in red Magic Marker.

This is the hunting cabin that became my secret hideout in the summers, near the summer cottage we used to rent. It was secluded, a break from the city, the way Dad liked it. But how did Brian find out? Did Dad tell him?

I bend down and put my eye to the hole where the doorknob should be. The bright light pierces my eyes, and I squint against the pain and wait for my eyes to adjust.

The world is full of color. I'd almost forgotten how many shades of color there are—the way just one tree can hold so many browns, blacks, grays, and greens in the ridges of its trunk. How leaves can hold so many greens, yellows, browns, and even white.

I try to recognize the patch of trees and sky I'm looking at, but I don't.

I search for signs of people—for houses, telephone poles, electric wires, flags, but there is nothing. Just lots and lots of trees and sky. I know there's a cabin to the right—the cabin we used to stay in. But there must not be anyone renting the place right now. Brian wouldn't risk leaving me here otherwise.

I turn away abruptly.

I can't waste any more time. I can't risk him finding the window like this. I have to get out of here.

I pick up the metal bar. It's a lot thinner than I thought it was, a lot weaker looking, and I'm glad now that I couldn't see it. Maybe I wouldn't have kept trying.

I wedge it behind one of the screwed-in boards, and pull. They're just screws. I can get through them. I
will
get through them. I grit my teeth and pull harder. The metal starts to bend.

I turn it around and tug again—short, hard tugs that shake the wood. But the board doesn't move. I can't believe that all that is keeping me from my freedom are some stupid screws and wood.

A car door slams.

Fuck!
I spin around, stash the metal in the bag, and zip it up. Feel for the holes in the window frame, and slap the boards back on. I'm still fumbling with the blindfold, trying to figure out how to fix the broken seam, when Brian comes in.

He strides over, covering the floor fast, his handsome face contorted with anger. He shakes me so hard my teeth clack together. “What do you think you're doing taking the blindfold off? Huh?”

I don't answer. I can't.

He shoves me away from him, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I could kill you.”

A scream flutters in the back of my throat, but that might push him over the edge, so I swallow it down. I swallow until I think I'm going to vomit. “You can put it back on if you want to,” I say, trying to keep my eyes contrite, not challenging. “I took it off because my eyes hurt.”

“Your eyes hurt,” he says slowly, disgust curling off his lips. “The blindfold was on you for a reason.” He laughs suddenly, harshly. “You were trying to escape, weren't you?” He grips my chin and pulls my face up to look at him. “I told you before. If you manage to escape, I will hunt your parents down and kill them in front of you—slowly, until they beg for mercy. You don't want that, do you?”

I blink at him, unable to speak.

“Do you?” he asks, shaking my head.

“No,” I whisper.

He lets my chin go, and I back away.

His face is still nice to look at, but his mask is gone. The cruelty is naked in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. Or maybe it's me who's seeing past the mask of his physical beauty.

I tear my gaze away and stare at his feet, at the polished alligator shoes he's wearing, at the tips of his ironed pinstriped pants. I've got to make him think I'm Miss Compliant. Miss Sponge, who's absorbed everything he taught me. Make him think I'm not worth killing. I lick my rough lips. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

“You know where you are,” he says flatly.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

He reaches for my chin again and tilts my head upward. “You do; I can see it in your eyes. You know where you are, and you were trying to escape.”

I am trembling, shaking without stopping, jagged shaking that comes from deep within. “I wasn't; I swear I wasn't! I just couldn't stand the blindfold anymore.”

Brian lets go of my face, but he doesn't look at me. “I knew you'd try to escape—you're so feisty—but I let you linger anyway. That was my mistake.”

“No, no—you can put the blindfold back on. I'm sorry!” I cry.

“Too late.” Brian sighs heavily, his eyes filling with tears. “It's time I give you freedom.”

Hot liquid rushes up my throat. I swallow convulsively. “I know what freedom is. You taught me.”

“Did I?” He looks at me. “What is freedom, Sarah? Tell me.”

I can do this. I can regurgitate it back. I press my shaking hands together.
Please, let this be what he wants to hear.
“Freedom is not acting like a victim, not letting people treat me like one. It's not asking my parents to take care of me. It's releasing my family from guilt, from the burden I create.”

Brian watches me steadily, and for a moment I'm afraid I've laid it on too thick, but then he smiles a slow, easy smile that lights up his face. “That's right, Sarah. You really have learned what it means. You're the only one who ever has.” He rubs at his jaw. “This is all very confusing.”

“I know what freedom is,” I repeat. “You don't have to show me.”

“Oh, but I do. I have to show all my girls.” Brian smoothes his thumb against my purpled cheek. “But you know it better than most. So I will delay your release until this evening. Would that please you?”

“Yes!” I gasp.

He nods, then turns away. “See you tonight, then. I really am quite pleased with you.”

He walks out, shutting the door quickly, locking me in.

WHEELS SPIT GRAVEL AS Brian drives away.

I am so lightheaded, I'm almost dizzy. I can't believe how fast that all happened. Can't believe how easily Brian told me that he's going to kill me tonight.

Nausea rushes through me. I bend over, my stomach heaving, mushy chunks of banana and globs of peanut butter coming up in a sour, smelly mess. I wipe my mouth. For a second I think about killing myself before he can get a chance to—stabbing the metal bar through my own throat. It would be more merciful—easier, somehow, if I was the one to do it.