He said, she said

Content Warning: This story depicts abduction, violence against women, suicide ideation, and gruesome content. Please take care of yourself first and do not proceed if reading things like this upset you.

The sun hits my house. Light filters through the boards nailed against the window. The curtains are drawn, hiding the boards from any outside passerby but they are thin, letting the light come through. The curtains are yellow with age, were once white, I’m sure. I wonder if it is warm or cold today. It’s been a long time since I’ve been outside.

I reach towards the boards and slide my fingers through the space in between, touching the curtains. They were once soft, I’m sure. I can’t remember.

The light coming through the curtains, and then the boards doesn’t offer much heat, much happiness, but it is there, and it shines, reminding me that days are still passing outside.

But maybe they’re not. Maybe this isn’t even real. Is this purgatory? My eyes move from the slivers of sunlight to my hand, pale and dirty – I reach with my other hand and touch my wrist as if to establish permanence.

It doesn’t mean much. I’ve been with myself in this house for a long time and have grown bored with my body and my mind. The inhale and exhale I exude is merely to stay alive, a choice I don’t make willingly. It is merely habit.

I wait until the sun has moved, changing the shadows on the ground before I leave the room.

I travel from the bedroom to the hall to the stairs and then down. The walls are dusty, paint fading, wallpaper peeling. There are pictures that are not consequential. Most of the faces have been either burned or ripped out.

Bare wood floors meet my naked feet as I bring myself to the kitchen.

It is the only place with noise. There is an old radio that is mostly static, but once in awhile I hear the faint tunes of forgotten voices, men and women crooning about lost love, “memory lane is where i’ll find you, will you meet me there when we’re through?”.

Today is steak and eggs.

Every day is steak and eggs.

“You stink.” He grunts as I sit at the table. “Shower today.” His hair is black, his eyes are black, his face is sunken and gray.

“I will.” I reply, blinking slowly. My voice sounds like sandpaper. The table beneath my hands is decorated with fingernail scratches and cigarette burns.

The other one who is cooking – auburn hair and clear green eyes, face rounder and boyish – turns from the oven with the pan in hand. He serves me the food, everything dripping in butter and oil, salt and pepper.

It tastes the same as always. Delicious and heady, the flavors exploding on my tongue. It is truthfully, one of the only pleasures I derive from this life.

I watch as Green Eyes makes a strange face before fishing a piece of meat from his mouth. Fatty. He doesn’t like the fat. He drops it on his plate and gulps down water, face hot as he tries to fight back the urge to gag.

We eat in silence, the radio crackling, then “one day i’ll find the bar where you’re sitting and i’ll warn that girl you’re with / she deserves to know about your evil tricks”, then more crackling.

I think about the girls at bars who sit next to men they know nothing about. I think about the drinks they are bought and the way they laugh at jokes. I think about the grip around their wrists and the way their feet scuffle against gravel as they are brought to a car in the dark.

Then I stop thinking about it.

Faintly, another sound is heard.

A muffled scream.

It’s coming from the basement. I rarely hear things from the basement anymore.

“Dammit, you fucked up the dose again,” Black Hair says to Green Eyes around a forkful of eggs.

Green Eyes shakes his head. “Not my fault so many of them are using. Drugs out there are fucking up their tolerance.” I stare at the tiny daisy pattern around the edge of my plate. It’s almost beautiful.

“Then double it.” Black Hair snaps. None of the dishes match. It bothers me.

“Can’t, then they won’t be alive for the taking. They need to be alive.” I can feel Green Eyes look at me, but I focus on my fork and knife. They don’t match. Every piece of cutlery is a different design and weight.

They glance at one another as I let meat slide down my throat. I’ve got coffee and orange juice in front of me that I sip slowly. Some of the cups are chipped. All of them are plastic. I feel the broken edge on my lip, and I wonder if I push hard enough--if it’ll make me bleed.

Would I like to bleed today? It might relieve some of this tension.

Green Eyes rises from his seat and takes his plate to the sink. Half of his steak remains untouched.

“I’ll take care of it now.” He says gruffly, his eyes wide with anticipation at what he is about to see.

“Good.” Black Hair says. “We don’t need the mailman hearing again.”

When breakfast is finished, I walk around the house, floating from room to room with no real purpose. It’s only when I pass the bathroom that I remember I need to bathe.

I sit in the tub, tepid water swirling as I scrub at the dirt, pick at the dried blood under my nails.

I huff out a breath, submerging them and washing until they are clean.

In the dirty mirror I pull down the skin under my eyes, staring at myself.

I have looked the same for so long, I begin to wonder if I’m dead. Immortal. Stagnant. Will I ever change again?

I must be alive because they speak to me every day, the two of them. They remind me when I need to take care of myself and explain what they’re going to do. I reply in mumbles and tilts of my head.

I think about it again, why they keep me around.

The basement is designed to get rid of people. Women, mostly. The occasional man.

They don’t need me. I don’t know why I’m still here. It would be so much easier if I were gone.

They don’t touch me aside from occasionally squeezing my arm, an awkward farewell before taking off for the day. I don’t know what possesses them to do it. It is certainly not for my benefit.

Once I’m clean, or clean enough, I sit in the living room with them, and we play cards. The radio plays from the kitchen as we murmur and mutter to one another.

The sun changes the shadows on the floor again and they get ready to leave for the day. I wonder if they will find another one while there is still one in the basement.

I stand at the front door as they leave and listen to the slide of the lock. It can be unlocked from the inside.

I could leave but they know I will not. I imagine opening the door and feeling the unobstructed sun on my skin, the breeze through my hair. I shudder, repressing the urge to vomit. Outside was so long ago. Now it is only this house.

The carpet in the living room has millions of designs, the ones originally stitched and smatterings of stains. I see animals and faces in the scraggly fibers. I think about how I used to watch clouds. I haven’t seen clouds in a long time.

Once I’ve had my fill of the carpet, I scoot over to the wood paneling of the wall by the vent that pumps hot air. I let it warm my cold skin and trace outlines on the wall. I see more animals and faces, but the faces are screaming, the animals’ eyes black with despair.

I could read the books on the shelves that are built into the walls, but I have read them many times before. There is no television. I make up stories in my head while my fingers dance over the wall.

The vent pumps heat and an old oscillating fan moves the dead air around the room. Fresh air. What a concept. I wonder if I will ever taste it again.

Time passes and I remain quiet and small. It’s okay. I have no need to be more than this.

I shouldn’t do it, but I creep over to the basement, eyeing the door with trepidation. I haven’t been down there in a long time. It’s not good for me to see them. But I’m curious. Today, I have allowed myself to feel curious. I won’t disturb the set-up. I’ll be quick. I tell myself these things to give me courage.

Breath coming out staccato, I float down into the basement, steps creaking as I descend.

The harsh fluorescent lights make me squint.

The dirt floor is cold and damp, the cage is tall and steel.

The woman inside is shaking. She’s not awake but she shivers. I am sure there is a ball of cloth shoved in her mouth behind the duct tape across her face. Her hands are behind her back, tied expertly to another rope that is tied around her ankles. She is hog-tied and shaking but her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady.

If there was no cloth in her mouth, she would probably crack her molars from the shaking, maybe gnaw her lips off like the sandy-haired one a few months ago did.

They don’t look pretty with their lips gone.

She’s still in the clothes she was taken in, one of her eyes is black and there is a line of dried blood down the side of her face where she was hit on the head.

I reach out, the steel biting cold against my fingers.

I open the cage and step inside. It is not big enough for two, but I know more than two have occupied it at the same time before.

I sit down, half on the dirt, half on the cold steel.

Her shirt is rucked up a bit, stomach against the metal. It’s got to hurt, the freezing metal against bare skin. But she’s not awake, so she can't feel it.

I get on my knees and lean over her, removing the IV drip from her hand.

It takes time but slowly she rouses.

Her eyes, wide and bulging with fright, find me.

She moves, tries to shake, but there is another rope from where her hands and ankles are tied together that extends up to the top of the cage.

She won’t be tipping; she won’t be rolling. She will not be moving unless she is moved.

She shudders and cries, pleas muffled. I meet her gaze coolly and watch in fascination.

Slowly, I let my eyes take in her body. She’s still got all her fingernails, and I’m assuming all her teeth. She’s been good, has not been a handful for them. She’ll keep her nails and teeth if she stays good.

There are a few cuts along her legs and arms, just a test, just to see what they’re working with.

I do not know her name, I’ve never known any of their names.

The snot from her nose, the salt from her eyes, it’s all dripping down onto the ground.

Her throat must be raw. They don’t usually get water.

She will be gone in a few days but until then she’ll be kept here like this.

Her hands and feet are probably numb. Her shoulders and thighs must ache.

I reach out and she makes desperate sounds of hope. I touch her cheek, and she leans as much as she can into my hand.

“Shh, shhh.” I coo. “It’ll be alright. You won’t feel anything. They’ll do it while you’re asleep.” My voice is soft, comforting.

But the message is not comfortable.

Her chest heaves, she shakes her head back and forth. Maybe she’s trying to get away from my hand. I dig my nails into the skin of her face, and she makes stuttered, hurt sounds. She’s already been hurt so this is nothing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” My mantra is not calming her in the slightest. She sobs, occasionally shrieking but it’s all muted. She tries to move, speak, use her eyes to communicate but I simply brush the hair behind her ears, bloody crescents on her face from where I dug my nails in.

I stay with her for some time. I watch carefully. She pisses herself eventually. I could untie her. I could help her upstairs.

But what would that do? It wouldn’t help anyone. It would be bad for everyone involved.

She has gone quiet, but she blinks through the tears that don’t stop pouring down her face. She is wondering why I am not helping.

“Crying doesn’t normally lead to dehydration,” I inform her. “But crying and not drinking water will bring you to the brink. You’ll be brought to plenty of brinks down here. Don’t add dehydration to the list.” I say these words like they’ll save her.

She blinks, eyebrows dancing with confusion and questions.

I get to my feet. She makes a few final attempts at speaking, at moving, but I leave her, flicking the light off before I ascend back up the stairs, leaving her in black darkness.

Many hours later, they return home. I hear their boots, heavy and present as they move through the house. I wait, not breathing, until I hear the steps coming towards my room.

The door opens and I casually look over to see who has come to reprimand me. Black Hair is glaring. I’m not offended or scared. He’s always glaring.

“You removed her IV.” He states thickly.

I turn my swivel chair fully around towards him and blink slowly. “Yes.”

“Why? She was already noisy enough.”

“I like listening to them.” I shrug.

“That’s not a decision for you to make. You put all of us at risk by waking her up.”

“Insulate the basement better.” I reply with another shrug.

I turn back to the computer and focus my attention on the multiple feeds from the cameras that have been set up in the basement.

I watch Green Eyes as he walks down the stairs. I listen to the muffled screams through the speaker. It sends fire licking up my spine.

He is going to take something. I hope he keeps her awake.

Sometimes he does but most often he doesn’t. The screams make my heart thud, my body shake with anticipation.

“Does he like this one?” I ask, ticking an eyebrow.

“He never likes any of them.”

“Neither do you,” I point out before lifting my mug of coffee to my lips and sipping thoughtfully.

“How many more do we need to take?”

“Until He is satisfied.” I murmur. Always so many questions. It frustrates me. Makes my head hurt.

On screen, Green Eyes holds up a hand saw. She sees it and pisses herself again. I grin and bite my lip. Green Eyes brushes the metal teeth against her skin. It’s just to scare her. We’re not savages. I delight in her sounds and squirms.

Black Hair has gotten closer, watching the screen as well. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the heat from his body through my thin shirt.

“Bring more. You’re both being slow about it.” I tell him crisply.

“Then you go out there. You get some.” He mutters childishly, like I’m reprimanding him for coming home late.

I sigh, attempting patience. “You know that’s not how it works. You know I can’t leave.”

“Fuck you.” He snaps.

I don’t let his boiling attitude affect me. “Then stop. See what happens. See what He does.”

The anger that had been pulsating off him dissipates.

He clears his throat.

“We’ll bring more.” He says quietly.

“Install another cage. Two in both. We need to hurry this along. It’s going to be winter soon.”

Black Hair speaks carefully. “If you told us how many we need, how many He wants, we could work this out.”

I spin in my chair, hands digging into the top of my legs, and I fix him with a pointed glare.

“Ask me again. Do it. Ask for me to explain this to you. It’s not my fault He speaks through me. You saw what happened the last time we tried to ignore His instructions. Either do it right or I’ll find others who can.”

I turn away from him and watch as Green Eyes re-inserts the meats IV.

Boo. He’s going to put it to sleep first. Boring.

I sigh and click away from the cameras, disappointed but not surprised.

“Go help your bother. Get the meat ready for breakfast tomorrow. I’m ravenous.” I state thickly, not bothering to look behind me.

Black Hair is quiet for a moment before exhaling deeply through his nose.

“Of course, sis. Same as always?” He asks.

“Steak and eggs.” I reply, voice lilted with happiness, mouth flooding with saliva.

Breakfast can't come soon enough.