“We’re going to have a nice, long talk about Maria.”
“You better let me go. Or you’re gonna get in big trouble.”
“You’re the one who’s in trouble, asshole.”
“If’n you hurt me, you’ll never get your girl back.”
Felix’s heart leapt up to his throat.
Is Maria really still alive? Or is this inbred son of a bitch just saying that to save his own neck?
I’ll find out the truth. So help me, I’ll find out everything this redneck has ever done going all the way back to his toddler years.
Felix cracked an ugly, hysterical smile, uttered a noise somewhere between a chortle and a sob, and then pulled onto the highway.
# # #
She doesn’t know what day it is. Or what month it is.
By how long her hair has grown, she knows she’s been here a long time. Ten months? A year?
Longer?
The depression is impossible to overcome. It’s even worse than the fear. Even worse than the abuse. Even worse than the—
She doesn’t want to think about that last thing. But it will happen again. Soon. Very soon. She’s due.
Escape is impossible. The door is solid iron, set in concrete. She isn’t allowed anything that can be used as a weapon. Not a pencil. Not even a spoon.
She once tried to hide a chicken bone in her cell. She was going to sharpen it, use it against them.
It was discovered. The consequences were horrible.
Resistance is met with punishment. Beatings. Food being withheld.
And worse. Much worse.
She used to have nightmares. Of them. A few in particular. The crueller ones. The sicker ones.
Now it’s all one big nightmare.
For a while she stopped eating. Wanted to die.
They tied her to a chair, stuck a tube down her throat, one end attached to a meat grinder, and force-fed her. Along with the grain and hamburger, they ground up a rat in there as well.
A live rat. Blood, fur, bones, squeals and all. From the grinder, straight to her belly.
She ate her meals after that.
Her cell has a dirt floor. A metal door. A mattress. A hand pump for water, though the water tastes strange. An aluminum chamber pot. And books. They let her have books. Some old paperbacks. And a lot of non-fiction. About Presidents. It’s tough to read, because the single overhead bulb is only 25 watts, but she makes due.
She exercises every day. It helps pass the time. Help keeps her sane.
But she isn’t sure how much longer she’ll be able to cling to sanity.
She’s lost weight, and isn’t quite sure how she’s still alive. How she’s been able to survive what they keep doing to her.
There are others down there with her. Other prisoners. She isn’t sure of the amount. At least three. Possibly more. Talking is met with swift punishment. Whenever she’s taken from the cell, it’s with a hood over her head so she can’t see.
But she knows there are others. She’s whispered to a few. Befriended some without ever seeing their faces. Men and women in nearby cells.
But they never stay for long.
Maybe they were moved. Maybe they even escaped.
But she knows what really happened to them.
This place is a slaughterhouse. And no one gets out alive.
Once, she heard a baby crying. The sound made her weep.
Weep for the child. Weep for its poor mother.
Weep for herself.
She had resigned herself to never having kids. Spat her condition in their ugly faces.
They tried anyway. They keep trying.
In the beginning, she was grateful for not being able to conceive.
Now, she almost wishes she could. Just to connect with another human being.
To hold a baby, just for a moment. To hold anyone at all.
She wants so to see her family. Hell, to see herself. She hasn’t looked in a mirror for so very long.
And the sun. She’d give anything to see the sun again.
She tries to maintain hygiene. They give her soap. She washes herself with the cold well water from the pump. Washes the few articles of clothing she has. They give her toothpaste but no toothbrush. She uses her finger.
Escape is impossible. Resistance is met with violence.
But there’s always the possibility of rescue.
Her hope has dimmed as the months have dragged by. But it isn’t fully dead yet. There’s still a tiny flicker of hope left.
Because she knows that he’s looking for her. She knows he’ll never give up.
And when he comes, she wants to be ready.
So she tries to stay healthy. Tries to hang on. Tries to endure it all.
But she realizes, deep down, she won’t last much longer.
There aren’t as many prisoners. That means they’re using her, more and more.
It won’t be long before they use her all up. The scars on her arms attest to that.
She does another set of push-ups, her fingernails filthy from the dirt floor. Drinks some water, wincing at the taste. It makes her light-headed. Dizzy.
Then she hears the footsteps.
They’re coming. Again.
She tries not to cry. She needs to save her strength. There’s nothing she can do to stop it.
The tears come anyway.
Then her cell door opens, and the endless nightmare is about to get horribly worse.
# # #
JD was going nuts, scratching at the front windshield and barking so fast and loud Florence wondered how the animal was able to breathe. The older woman reached forward into the front seat and grabbed his collar.
“Down, boy!”
The German Shepherd whined, then sat. The night was dark and quiet and seemed to press down on their
