The Detour (9 page)

Good. I shut my eyes.
Maybe she'll leave.

Something brushed against my forehead, and I opened my eyes. A pink washcloth with orange polka dots dangled in front of me.

What the hell?

With strong, cruel fingers, she pinched my cheeks so my mouth opened. I tried to keep my lips glued together. But she pried them open and stuffed the washcloth in my mouth.

“No!” But the word was a grunt as the cloth filled my mouth. I gagged. I wanted to scream.

Breathe through your nose, breathe through your nose.

“There. Now maybe you'll listen.”

Calm down, calm down. She just wants to talk.

Something smooth, cool, and hard slid down my cheek. Back up, then down. Languorously. Almost … seductively.

The breaths coming out of my nose whistled.

“Isn't it funny, that one side of this is so smooth? Harmless. I could do this all day and nothing would happen to you.” The object kept stroking up and down my cheek.

“But the other side…”

The coolness was no longer on my cheek.

And then she held the third jagged piece of china in front of my eyes.

I whimpered.

And then the piece disappeared.

“… is so sharp.” The edge poked at my cheek.

I gasped, only there was no air to breathe in my mouth, so it was just a rapid inhale through my nostrils. Again I gagged, then struggled and tried to move, but they had me.

Slowly, the edge trailed down my cheek and back up.

“Imagine trying to do an author photo with a nice long scar.” She ran the edge back up and down.

A chill ran down my neck, and goose bumps rose on my arms.

Please don't.

“Maybe we should carve up this whole face.”

Tears began to spill over.
Don't. Don't.

She ran the edge up and down my face. “Don't worry; you could still write, couldn't you? Because God forbid you wouldn't be able to give the world any more of your
fabulous
novels. I mean, you worked so hard on them.”

My strangled sobs were quiet groans, stuck in my throat.

Mrs. Dixon pushed the edge into my cheek. “Should we start here?” She pushed, breaking the skin.

An involuntary rush of warmth spread between my legs.

Flute Girl was off me in an instant. “Mama, she peed herself!”

“Oh, balls!” Mrs. Dixon got off me, too, and stood beside Flute Girl. They stared down at me. I could imagine what they saw: a sobbing lump with a washcloth sticking out of my mouth, my face in the spaghetti mess, my leggings darkening as they soaked through.

Mrs. Dixon shook her head and dropped the last piece of broken plate on the rest of the pile.

Clink.

She grabbed one of my feet and dragged me a few feet away from the mess. She quickly placed the remains into the wastebasket, no doubt making sure she'd taken every sharp piece out of my reach. They took the wastebasket and left without another word.

Click!

I ripped the washcloth out of my mouth and freed my sobs. I lay there and cried for my failed escape, for how they could hurt me like that and I could do nothing about it.

They'd managed to turn me into someone I thought I'd left behind.

I was Skunk Piss, once again.

My hand slipped up to my scalp and began to pull. And slowly, hair by stinging hair, I began to feel a little better.

 

{10}

I LAY ON
the floor until my sobs quieted. I lay there until the pounding kettledrum in my head throttled down to a tom-tom. I lay there until the light outside the window slowly faded. And then, only then—when I was in danger of being in that basement in total darkness—did I finally drag myself to my feet to turn on the bedside lamp.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

My leggings had dried stiff. The sweet, cloying scent of pee hit my nostrils. Half my hair was out of my braids; some strands clumped together with spaghetti sauce hung in front of my eyes. My bare feet were filthy. So many places on my body hurt that I couldn't even differentiate them all.

My stomach growled, reminding me to add starving to the list of things that currently sucked.

The covers were messed up a little, but they were there. As were the pillows. So my one luxury, the nice-smelling bedding, remained. Still mine. I wanted to lie down and sleep, sleep forever. But if I did that, the covers would be ruined. Because I was filthy.

And pissed off. At them, for doing that to me.

But also at myself.

If I had been quicker and struck her instead of hesitating so long, I might have been free. I'd broken my own rule. I'd wasted my only chance of escape early on, the same as all those idiots in horror movies. I had become one of them. A victim. Too weak to hurt her captor when given the opportunity.

“No.” I shook my head. No wallowing. That wasn't who I was. Not anymore.

I shuffled to the bathroom, switched on the light, and shut the door. I stepped in front of the sink but didn't look in the mirror. The thought of seeing myself a victim again would put me up against the edge—an edge I didn't dare get any closer to if I had any hope of keeping my wits and getting out alive.

I turned on the cold water, stuck my head under the tap, and drank. Cupping my right hand, I splashed my face. I sucked in a breath. The cold water on all the little cuts stung at first, but then numbed them a bit. I pushed down my underwear and leggings, until they bunched around my ankles, and stepped out of them. I plucked them up with my forefinger and thumb, and then dumped them in the sink.

I turned the other knob and waited until the water ran hot, then pumped several squirts of the lime coconut hand soap into it. The suds grew.

When the sink was nearly full, I turned off the tap and pushed my right hand into the water, which was plenty hot but not scalding. In fact, the warmth seeped into my skin and deeper, comforting me. I started to knead my clothes. Scrubbing with one hand didn't work very well, but I did what I could. The pleasant aroma of lime and coconut brought my senses into focus. I let the clothes soak and turned to open the small cupboard. Pink hand towels and washcloths with orange polka dots lay in tidy stacks. I yanked out a washcloth, stuck it under the tap, and pumped some soap onto it. I washed my lower half, hoping the hand soap—clearly not meant for more sensitive areas—wouldn't give me a rash.

I scrubbed and scrubbed, like I was washing off not only the pee and the dirt from the past two days, but also the memories of those awful years.

I used a towel to dry myself.

I slowly wriggled my sweater off my bad shoulder and dropped it on the floor. I rinsed the washcloth and then ran it under my arms and over my face, and then stopped to look in the mirror. My loose hair stuck up and out, like I'd had a fright and my hair was still reacting. My face was clean at last, but there were abrasions on the right side. On the left, a red scratch ran from my temple to my jaw. Where she'd broken the skin was a streak of dried blood I'd missed.

I unwound the elastics on the ends of my braids and set them on the edge of the sink, then took out what was left of my braids and finger combed my hair. I hit a snag and winced. But there was no comfort in that. Not like there had been earlier.

I growled and smacked the mirror with my palm. Again. Again and again, until my hand stung. They had driven me back to the hair pulling. I hated them for doing that to me. Pushing me that far.

I took a deep breath. That wouldn't happen again. I wouldn't let them.

After a few minutes and a couple more snags, my hair was finally smooth and free of snarls. It was dirty and greasy as hell, but at least no longer a raging mishmash of ick.

I let the water out of the sink and pushed down on my clothes, trying to get the soap out. I had to run the water a long time before the suds dissipated. Then I wrung the leggings as well as one hand would allow. I hung them on the empty towel rack, then squeezed the underwear in my hand and hung it up, too.

I ran the water again and put my head under the flow, then pumped some of the hand soap onto my head. No telling what the stuff would do to my hair, but the smell itself made me feel better. I rinsed, then stood up and rubbed my hair with a hand towel. After another finger combing, the wet strands hung down, chilly on my bare shoulders.

I wanted to take my grungy white camisole off and wash it, too, but I couldn't be totally naked in there. I wouldn't. I remade my sling, then walked back out to the bed and climbed in. I turned off the bedside lamp. The bathroom bulb still glowed. A little light was reassuring. I lay my head down on the pillow and shut my eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow someone would find my car. They would find my car and my mom and dad would come to get me. Or Billy. Or Rory.

Someone would come.

My stomach growled.

More water would fill up my belly, lessen the hunger. But I was tired, far too tired to move again.
Please, just let me sleep.

I drifted off.

A whine woke me up. A screeching, metallic whine that sent chills down my neck.

I sat up. The sound was outside so I looked up at the window. Light beamed in, but not from the sun. It was still night.

The whine stopped and was soon replaced by a rough, idling motor, like a chain saw. Then the whine again, then the motor. The back and forth seemed to go on forever, until the sounds stopped.

Then an engine started up, a loud, rickety machine that gunned and popped, growing louder as it neared my window.

I made my way off the bed to stand under the window, wearing only my sling and camisole.

The bright yard light illuminated the area near the window. The front wheel of a tractor appeared and crept past, revealing a glimpse of the green body, and then the back wheel of the tractor filled the window.

I stepped back a bit, so I could see more. The tractor continued on by, a large chain hanging off the back, pulled taut by whatever it dragged behind. A chunk of red metal appeared in the window, and the tractor stopped, idled a bit, and then suddenly was silent.

I awkwardly clambered on top of the bed, cringing as the bouncing jostled my shoulder. I grabbed the headboard and stood up, making my head nearly level with the glass. My hand gripped the edge of the wooden window frame, and I rose to my tiptoes, precariously balanced as I peered outside.

My view of the object chained to the tractor could not have been more perfect.

My mouth dropped open.

The front half of my beloved Audi was sheared off right past the front seat. They'd cut it up. They'd cut up my car.

Instantly, tears blurred my vision.

My car was no longer on the side of the road. My car was here, sliced into pieces, and dragged into the yard of wherever I was. A wail rose up from inside me and turned into a sob when it hit the air.

No one was ever going to find my car. No one was ever going to find me.

I was so screwed.

“No!” A yell through my tears. I wiped my eyes and peered out the window again.

Like someone watching a train wreck, I couldn't tear myself away from the window. The tractor stayed there, unmoving, that ugly chunk of my car attached to it by the chain.

Was it stuck? Could she not drive it anymore?

Because who else would be driving but Mrs. Dixon? I hadn't heard anyone in the house besides her and Flute Girl. And she struck me as the independent type—apparently capable of running her own freaking chop shop—someone who would be able to drive her own tractor, have her own farm. Or something.

I shuddered a raspy sob and turned away from the glass.

None of my suspicions boded well for me.

A woman who ran her own farm would probably be self-sufficient, which meant there weren't a lot of visitors. And visitors, particularly unexpected ones, were probably my only hope.

I couldn't keep myself from peering out the window again.

Why had she stopped it there? Was it to show me what she had done? That my car belonged to her, that she could chop it up into little pieces and hide it? Keep anyone from finding it? Or me?

I tried to raise myself higher so I could see farther out.

A face filled the window.

I screamed and lost my grip on the frame. I fell back on the bed and landed faceup, practically spread eagle. The pain in my shoulder swarmed my brain as I stared up at the window and blinked back the tears still clouding my eyes.

A man, no, a boy. My age, maybe a little older. With large dark eyes that leered in at me. The pain subsided slightly. Only then did I remember that I was nude from the waist down.

I gasped and desperately felt around for the blanket. Finally, my fingers found it. I yanked it over my lower half, covering my nakedness. My eyes snapped back up to the window.

He was still there, his face nearly filling the rectangle.

Had he seen me?

No, it was too dark, too dark. He didn't see me. He didn't see me. He didn't—

A slow smile spread across his face. There was a gap between his two front teeth. Then he leaned forward and licked the window, his large pink tongue pressed flat and wide on the dirty glass.

Pulling the blanket with me, I rolled off the bed and ran into the bathroom, fresh tears bursting at the pain the sudden movement caused in my shoulder. With a trembling hand, I switched off the light.

I trembled, my breaths loud in the small, quiet space.

I leaned out into the dark room. His silhouette was still there, his features invisible. In the darkened basement, I had to also be invisible to him.

Small comfort.

I stepped back into the bathroom.

Who was he? He had to have known I was down there. Otherwise, why bother to look in?

My heart still racing, I leaned back out.

The window was empty.

The breath I was holding slowly escaped.

Back in the bathroom, I shut the door and slid my back down it until I was sitting. I pulled the blanket up over me. Now I didn't even have the luxury of a comfortable bed. No way was I going back out there where he could see me. Watch me.