The Hut

He has tied my hands together, tightly, this time.  They rest, crossed at the wrists on my lap. My ankles are tied to the chair legs, which is perhaps for the best, as I would now claw through my own skin if it were possible.

This is oddly, exactly the kind of punishment I deserve.  I'm the type of kid who scratches at ALL my bug bites until they become scabs and then pulls off the scabs until they become bigger and bigger.  Like they are the tops of tupperware lids, you just have to find the proper handle to open them.

I asked him to leave the light on, and he does so, kindly, knowing that I am afraid of the dark.  Even with a blindfold on, it is nice to know that the light is on. Somehow it keeps away the monsters.

I really don't mind this, although I know I probably should.  With a blindfold on, I imagine that I am in a cathedral.  Or even in Henry's hut at Walden Pond.  I can sit for hours composing my own genius novel, but somehow, when I get to an actual paper and pen, I seem to disappoint myself.

Blindfolded and tied up, I offer myself the most incredible dreams.  I go somewhere beautiful. The noise of an acorn falling on the tin shed brings me to a squirrel who did it on purpose and maybe the tree he's trying to get even with.  Or maybe it's God.  Or a bullet casing from a war in the deepest jungle.  Or maybe it's just an acorn shell falling on the roof of a tin house that has a little girl tied up inside who is waiting for her brother to come find and release her.

Shower

She stood in the shower gasping with relief.  The itching had been very bad, but everything released for her the moment the water began hitting the worst spots on her legs.  She stood, taking it all in, allowing the fingers of heat to invade her, to massage her, to crawl beneath and get to those places under the surface of her skin that her own fingers couldn’t reach.

She could feel herself pulling towards the heat, pulling, pulling, almost euphoric and hallucinating from the experience.  It was the closest thing to perfect, or to making love to the water.  The most delicious piece was that there was never a perfect plateau of relief. It was always just almost there, like her grandmother's chicken soup, which always wanted you to put in more lemon-just a little bit more, a little bit more. And then too much. That's what it was like with this heat, a little bit hotter, a little bit hotter, and then it seemed she was being burned.

This was better than making love, the violent kind, when all you want to do is devour the other person, to destroy the boundaries dividing your soul from his.  To pull and taste and nibble, to hold closer, closer, tighter, tighter.  To hold still and bounce off each other frantically.  All the contradictory, animal, reptilian brain instincts which pull you up the mountain towards the release.

She would hold her leg up, to get it closer, no-further, no-up, STAY-move, back and forth.  She couldn’t even direct her own movements.  Her skin was responding for her. She was all instinct, no thought and she happily gave into it.

Standing in the shower, the Poison Ivy at its worst, her future was narrowed.  Instead of the years and months and weeks ahead of her, or any impending doom which might destroy her normal life expectancy, she felt only The Next Thing.  None of which led to complete release.  Go back to the armpit.  The Poison Ivy Rash had spread to other spots on her body.  Maybe it was the sheet she had been wrapped up in. Maybe it had some oils from the leaves still on it.  Betrayal of her one true friend.

Or maybe it was something larger.  Not just a poison ivy issue, maybe it had triggered another type of response in her body.  Maybe she needed a doctor.

She was confident that flirting would continue the game, but was rather unsure if it would end with a trip to the doctor.  Funny how something tiny, like an annoying errand you would do for your child might be the thing that causes a man to dig a grave in his backyard.  She might have reached the tipping point of being too much trouble.  Even if he asked nicely, how could she convince him that she wouldn’t press charges?

Back to the shower, she thought.  Back to the moment to moment relief.  Back to having the physical freedom to shower herself.  As often as she wants.  With or without the blindfold.  She forgot, she still had it on.

Somehow she couldn't understand why she stopped taking it off when she didn't have to wear it.

Poison Ivy

She didn’t get scared until she realized she was in the trunk of his car.   

She had pretended to be more dead than alive when he pulled her out of the water. He threw her over his shoulder after trying to revive her.

It's tough to know what to do with a wet, naked and nearly drowned woman.

The blood rushing to her head and the fake/real hyperventilating might have added to her grogginess. She lost the coin toss during that crucial moment when he was trying to decide between the back seat and the trunk.

The trunk is for corpses, she thought, nearly ready to pass out again.

That thought kept her lucid until he parked. And then she heard him slam his car door. He walked away. Every second he didn't return made her wonder about the finite supply of oxygen molecules at her disposal. When he did return and opened the trunk, she nearly cried tears of joy. No matter what he did to her from that moment forward, he didn't eave her for dead in his trunk.

That was the moment she decided to accept anything and everything he did to her. If she needed to be his sacrifice, she'd accept the martyrdom. Hopefully, it wouldn't involve too much pain. She'd even go back to her dating strategy: When things get dull or awkward: FORCE A SMILE. Make him think he's fun and fascinating. And that you are his favorite movie ever. All the Love she had been holding for him all these years should be able to overcome his meanest moods, she heard herself thinking optimistically.

She covered her eyes at the sudden brightness of the day.

"Here," he said, "Put this on, keep your eyes covered," he tried not to touch her as he gently tied some kind of cloth around her head. Later, when she took it off, she'd see it was a standard red handkerchief, straight out of Central Casting.

"Don't ever take it off," he said in a voice that was artificially low.

"I won't. I promise," she said, trying to curl into a modest pose, at least as demure as one could be when positioned naked in someone's trunk.

"Here, put this on," again, his words were redundant as he covered her in what felt like a sheet. It was much too much fabric and nearly made her trip as she got out of the car. In any other situation, she would have gladly made a joke, asking him to close his eyes, or would have just climbed out naked. Especially since he had just seen her, but this seemed to be his choice in the matter.

He walked her into a house and then up a series of carpeted stairs and then led her into a room. She was worried he'd put her on a bed and beat/rape/murder her then and there. With the blindfold, she had no sense of a warning shadow of him raising a hand to her to knock her out. She trusted him, but was terrified. Or rather, she trusted him on the computer. But this man next to her was a stranger. Someone she hadn't seen for 20 years.

He kept talking in that low voice, encouraging her up the stairs. It was like something you'd out on when reading a bedtime story. When reading the part of the evil villain. But he was being sweet to her, guiding her gently by the elbow, even catching her as she started to trip on the sheet and one of the stairs. She fell into him, partly on purpose, to see what he felt like. He felt tall and strong, the way she remembered him.

"I remember hugging you when we were kids, " she blurted out. "Hugging you was like hugging a building," Whenever she had told him that as teenagers, he'd laugh. It was a secret code for them.

He didn't respond. Except to say, "I'm glad you remember hugging me. That was a long time ago,"

She decided not to push.

When he led her finally to a chair, it was a deep and comfy Lazy Boy recliner. He carefully arranged the sheets, making sure she was sitting on some and that there was enough to cross her on either side to tie a knot together. To keep her in a cocoon, tied to the chair.

"Comfy?" he asked. "Let me get you some soup,"

She heard his footsteps go down the hall, the muffled sound of human on deep carpeting. It smelled new. The house must be new. He was being so sweet to her.

Well, she had waited 20 years for this moment. She could wait until the soup was ready.


==

A few minutes later, however, she began to realize that she was in the worst jam of her life.

Her feet were beginning to itch. They weren't bound, and it took her several minutes of calming down from the overall panic to realize that her feet had been alternating in the scratching dance. Her toenails were not long enough to do any good. Maybe it was bugbites.

He was downstairs, it seemed; she could hear him talking on the phone.  His ringer had the same sound as her Blackberry, she flinched instinctively the first time she heard it.  Somehow, she was slightly relieved to think that she had left it in her car.  Bad: she couldn’t call.  Good: she had a really great excuse for not delivering that set of recommendations on that project.  That branch was quickly sinking anyway, it could easily self-implode without the band-aids she was being paid to offer.

Band aids.  Cream.  Good god, what if it is Poison Ivy. What was that stuff called?  Iva-Rest?  She could picture it.  A white bottle in the back of her bathroom mirror cabinet.  What did he have? Would he let her raid his medicine chest? When could she ask? Stop thinking about it. Stop scratching!!

The blindfold didn’t bother her too much.  She wasn’t gagged, and was very happy about that.  Her list of Positives and Negatives was growing.

The sheet kept her warm.  But what she really craved was a bath.  Preferably in oatmeal water.  Anything to stop this itch.

Both feet were free, and she’d use one to scratch the other and then switch, even when she was trying not to. Not what she should do, not what a Good Girl would do, but then, he’d know her limits.  He’d know that when she said “Banana”, that she wanted a Time Out.  Maybe she could worm one hand out from under the sheet.  Of course he loved her, the sheet was tied in a squareknot and she had plenty of room to wiggle herself free.  She just had to be careful and not let him know, not just yet anyways.

He seemed nervous. When he came up the stairs, she could hear the spoon rattling on the plate.  This was not something he had planned for.  He had never been any good at planning.  Organizing, she would always have to help him out.  As long as she played along, used Stockholm Syndrome psychiatry on him, he’d be sweet and gentle with her.

“Hi."

“Hi."  She smiled. His letter. He's quoting his letter. It's the only word that comes out easily for him.

"That soup smells really good. Is it Tomato?"
"You guessed it. Straight from the can to the microwave,"
"The way all the best cooks do it,"
"Here, can I help you . . ."

He fed her, silently. Tenderly. She complimented him some more, tried to make some small talk, but he went quiet on her again.

Finally, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m a little uncomfortable, but it’s not AWFUL”

“Good.  I’m glad to hear that.  I, um… I have to leave for a couple hours.  When I come back, you better be exactly the way I left you, you hear?”

“Certainly.  I’ll be good.  I promise!”  She said in what she hoped was her sexiest little kid voice.

He took the dish and the smell of the soup away. Closed the door behind him.

And then another one, further off, closed, taking all the air out of the house in a single breath.  Maybe that was the front door.  She waited a few more minutes, itching, first with both feet, then with one of her hands.  Then, she heard a car start up and drive off.  Not sure if it was his, she slipped both hands out of the tie in back and began digging into the skin at her ankles with both hands, cursing the fact that her fingernails weren’t longer.  She only took off the blindfold to take a look at the damage to her skin.

Her eyes quickly got used to the darkness of the room, which had edges of light at the windows and under the door.  She was careful to leave the blindfold right on the seat and the sheet hung over one side of the chair, in case she needed to slip everything on quickly.

She tried the door very slowly and to her surprise, the doorknob turned.  It wasn’t even the type of door that had a lock.  Imagine that!  How careless of him!  Either that, or he was just a rotten kidnapper.  A noise came from downstairs and she instinctively slunk back into the shadows.  Realizing it was closer to a house-settling sound than a henchman’s rifle, she walked into the hallway.

She was on the second floor.  The house was permeated with that New Carpet smell and she was pretty certain that her barefeet were the first to grace his new blonde wall to walls.  For a moment, she had an instinct to wash her feet, still sandy from the water. But being naked, and practically kidnapped, she decided to let it slide.

 Peering out the windows, she didn’t see another house, only trees. At least this meant that another house couldn’t see her.

Her voice called out but nothing came back to her except dead air.  

It couldn’t be this simple.

Looking around, she noticed a strange thing. There wasn’t any furniture.  The balcony she was standing on looked out over a Living Room Area.   A few skylights added to the illusion of space and gave the room much more light.  She opened a few doors and found one room with a bed in it, the covers unmade and disheveled, like a stubborn teenager had slept there.  In the attached bathroom, she found a shaving kit, toothbrush and toothpaste, but not much else.  One bar of soap.  The unremarkable bathroom opened onto another surprise, a generously sized bathtub with built-in jets.  Like the one their parents had had when they were kids; a poor man’s hot tub.

Before she even began thinking about her plan, she flipped the hot water on.  She ran it over her ankles and let the force of the faucet relieve her skin.  For a minute or two, it was absolute heaven. Something about the heat activated the nerve endings in her skin.  She sat on the edge of the tub, lost in this thought.  Allowing the sheer pleasure of an itch, properly scratched, to come through her body.  But somehow the water wasn’t enough.  Couldn’t go deep enough.  She was hoping for that release, just beyond this sensation, like an orgasm that is just out of your reach.  The itch and the relief from it ebbed away and she opened her eyes again.  

There was only a hand towel, dirty with streaks of mud (she hoped) on the floor.  Nothing else to dry off on.  The plug to the drain was secured with the same type of chain that they used at the bank to keep pens from being stolen; she unwound it from the faucet and let the water keep running so she could have a proper bath.

She had no idea how long he’d be gone and wanted to spend her time in the house usefully.  

Going down the stairs, she tried to call out a few more times, but there was no answer.  Now she noticed a few cardboard boxes, one that said “Office” in black permanent letters, on its side in the front hallway.  There was a laptop plug with one end resting on the box and the other still plugged into the wall, but no laptop.  He’d probably taken it with him.

The driveway was visible from the glass frame around the front door and a few of the side windows as well.  Trees set the house off from the road, which she could not see.  Nobody around to hear you scream, she thought.  Trapped in a bad horror movie, she thought.

Walking into the kitchen she did find a few things to eat, just now realizing that she was still hungry. Fear was always a great appetite stimulant and now she realized she might have to hoard some food as well.  A loaf of store brand bread (which she stole two slices from, careful to tie the red wire twistie back just as it had been).  A large jar of peanut butter in the refrigerator was waiting for her.  She took it out and began to attack it with a large spoon.  Not liking her peanut butter cold and solidified, she opened a cupboard and hid it in there.  Maybe she’d take it up to her room with her.  If she was going to play the part of a hostage, she’d better be careful to manage her stock better.  She took it out and left it on the counter, where she’d remember it.  Squirrels would be proud of her, she thought.The kitchen had few supplies, but she found what she needed.  Several packets of instant oatmeal, apple and cinnamon flavored.  Now I’m just in a surreal comedy.  He’ll come back to discover I’ve drowned myself in oatmeal.  Or turned myself into a giant vat of oatmeal.  Maybe the movie of my life will be porn, nothing but a naked woman and a tub of watery oatmeal .

She headed upstairs to drown her sorrows in peanut butter and watery oatmeal until she could think of something better.

The only thing she knew was that he wanted her to escape.

And that she didn’t want to.

1407 words

Afraid

She wasn't scared.

She wasn't scared when she first got the letter.  "Hi" was his voice.  HIM.  Alive.  It was a ghost, but she wasn't afraid.

She was a brave swimmer.  She swam across all sorts of ponds, had been dreaming about swimming across Massachusetts for a while.  In fact, she started out doing it from the West, swimming towards Boston, towards the sea.  She could think of nothing better than starting at a place like the Mississippi in Minnesota, where you can walk across easily.  But she knew that life didn't always flow straight, and that you had to make adjustments.  Sometimes you love a man who is dead for 20 years, and then comes back into your life one word at a time.

But then when he began writing to her online, she knew something was strange.  The man she knew 20 years ago wouldn't have done that.  And certainly, he wouldn't be as eloquent as this writer was.

But she was excited, the kind of thrill you get, strange and sudden, a feeling that is familiar but had been absent.  A nightmare strikes you in the middle of the day.  After not having any feelings for the longest time, she was drawn in.

She was afraid that her Brother had been put in jail.  Something that was her fault.  She had been the first to call 911 on him, when he was close to CS.  And someone saw them, kissing. Him kissing her, or her kissing him, she couldn't remember.  Something innocent.  But she was afraid he was jailed for raping her, or worse, yet, killing her.

Basically, I never got scared.  Until I realized he had locked me in the trunk.

Wave

Dear Brother,

I want to jump into my life.  Like a cannonball jump off a pier.  

Everything feels suspended.  Like gravity doesn’t work.  

Floating.

Are you dead again?  Or just gone from me (again)?

Wherever you are, I’m thinking about you. Holding my breath.

I remember the last time you waved at me.  Just casual.  Maybe you knew it was the final time.  I didn’t look you in the eye.  Was surprised to see you appear at my door.  You gave me back my painting.  The one you liked so much.  You rolled it up.  There was a coffee spill along the back of it.  You kept it in the hallway of your new apartment, but I didn’t see it up when I visited.  

Just as if everything were fine.

As if you didn’t already have it all planned.

As if, when you went to swim in the river (why the river?  You hated it, the current was always too strong for you) you were expecting to come back.

I should have hugged you, at least.  Or looked you in the eye.  Not brushed you away.

(Not been afraid to look into your eyes.  Afraid that I’d be caught up in your current.  The undertow of your gaze; you suck me in and I can’t breathe.)

Looking back,  at all those moments of Normal, I have come to regret everything.  So afraid that I will miss something crucial in the future.  I watch everything now, pay attention to ALL the details.  Trying to figure out what I have missed.  All the patterns, every pattern.  When things repeat, when things become predictable.  You were never predictable, but oh-how I tried!

I still love you.  And kick myself for going there again. For letting you in again.  

For that knock at the door.  I was distracted by the dog barking, how he wouldn’t calm down, and how I wanted to give him a treat so he wouldn’t be afraid of a knock at the door, but he was barking so much, he didn’t recognize the treat.  I opened it, it was you, it was my painting. (you had rolled it up, nearly destroyed it, tape to tape)  “You rolled it up.”  I meant it to be meaner, maybe.  Maybe accusatory.  Maybe something to make you feel bad.  But you seemed to be in a rush too.  I don’t remember anything you said-but it wasn’t much-if anything.

I do remember, you waved.  As if it was nothing.  Probably you said goodbye.  

I stopped looking at your face by then.  I held the delicate rolled up painting  in my hand and was too happy to close the door.  On your waving arm, on those eyes that might have wanted a reflection. A moment to talk.

But there was a barking dog and others waiting for me to finish dinner.  

I wanted to invite you in.  For dinner and conversation and friendship.

But you had mostly stopped talking by then.  Definitely stopped socializing.  I can’t imagine you would have come in, even if I had invited you, especially if I had invited you.  

I regret that you didn’t try to stop me.  That you didn’t try harder.

That you waved goodbye to me.

===

I am sinking into a pond.  A museum in Germany, perhaps.  A grim place indeed, a place of fairy tales and a pond covered with white lilies.  But once you get too close, they suck you in, like you are sunshine.  You breathe in the pond scum, you turn green. The creature from the black lagoon.  Your hair becomes seaweed.  Your skin becomes like a mermaids, puckered, slimy and eventually you look down and the rest of you is covered in scales.  

You become someone else, someone you don’t recognize, but you don’t hate this new you.  You’ve fallen into the dark eye which reflects the night.  Or the blackness of your eyes have begun to spill out and you erase the world in front of you.  

THE BASEMENT DUNGEON

He waved to me.  As if it was all nothing.

I know that he is tall.  I can see through the blindfold and pretend the light bulb is difficult to adjust to.  I have not seen his face clearly, but I know his movements.  I recognize him.

I know that he is trying to disguise his voice.  Putting on some kind of show, so that nothing comes out normal.  

He tries to whisper when he’s talking to me.  Sometimes, he gets up close to my ears, on the side, not close to my shoulders.  (My brother knows exactly where I am ticklish) He whispers and I smell his (strange) bad breath.  I’m not nervous when he’s talking to me.  It’s when he is quiet that I worry.

But he doesn’t know that I can hear him when he is upstairs on the phone.  And that was it.

His voice.

Is Bearded.

With my eyes covered, my ears are stronger, my imagination. I know he’s The Suit.  But I pretend I don’t.  I pretend to be more scared than I am.

Maybe he will murder me (probably).

My brother is dead, and he may have killed him too.  Or maybe everything is a game.

If THAT is true, then fine.  I’m eager to play the game.  I can wait it all out.  He doesn’t seem to be violent, just crazy and perverted.  I’m stronger than that.

There must be a large piece of furniture in front of the door he uses.  I hear him move it as it scrapes along the floor.  There are 12 stairs, the second from the bottom squeaks.  It takes him another 10 seconds to come to my door.

I undid the ropes the first day.  Well, loosened and wiggled my right hand out of them (something I could always do easily).  I can still get back into them like gloves when he comes to the door.  Once, I forgot and had to work my way back in, just as he was coming in the door.  When he leaves during the week, he is nice enough to keep me on the bed.  In the beginning, he kept me on a chair during the day, which just made me uncomfortable.

He leaves food for me, but must suspect that I have some leeway.  My hands are tied behind me when he is here.  But during the week, he ties my hands in front.  He also leaves the door to my room slightly ajar.  It only opens in, and even then only enough to get my hands through and a can of soup the long way.  Not enough for me to escape.

Or so he thinks.  

He kisses me goodbye on the cheek on Monday mornings, before sunrise, and then he goes off to catch his plane.  He drives off and then I know I am safe. (Sunday night/before sunset?)

I remove the bolts keeping the hinges on the door.  I was surprised how light the door is, hollow and cheap.  I could kick it in if I wanted.  But that would leave evidence of what I did.  He’s not careful and only looks for what he can imagine.  Which isn’t much.

I think he doesn’t know what to do with me now.   A few weeks ago, he came in with what I think was a knife.  And that’s when I started talking to him.  The only one who knew where I’d be swimming that day is/was my Brother.  He wants to feel wanted that way.  So I called out to him.  Told him story after story, until I was confused myself.  

I am/was/is Scherazade.  1001 nights, begging not to be killed.  Telling a compelling story, whispering it into his ear every night as he comes.  Any other woman might have the same powers.  My blonde friend, who play-acts at being a little girl, a princess.  The one who gave me advice about how to “please a man”.  He wants to give orders, and he wants you to follow them.  He will smile when you do what he says. BUT the trick is to smile when you see that he is happy.  The aphrodisiac of teaching, of submission, of the exchange of technique.  Take all the complexities out.  This is not about reason or feminism or being equal to each other.  

But all her relationships involved men who tripped over themselves to bring her drinks and dinners and gifts.  She talked in a sexy baby voice, got irritated with them when they stopped paying attention to her.  Constantly focused on herself.  As a friend, it got her cut off from deeper conversations, I never had any patience for girls who pretended not to be intelligent.  For girls who asked questions over and over, “Enough about me, what do YOU think of me?”

The friend who was so in love with her own oil paintings, especially those she copied from photographs.  Of animals.

So I play along.

He blindfolds me, so some of that is easier.  He also wears a condom and pulls out.  He is softer then, more gentle.  In these moments, I know he regrets having done this, and does not know how to get out of it.  

If he is who I think he is, his wife just had triplets.  They may be about a year old by now.  He goes home to a screaming household.  But at heart, he can’t bear to harm anyone.  Just wants some sex.  And someone to pay attention to him.

He hated that I always contradicted him at work.  All those times at lunch when I thought he was laughing loudly about me.  He was just trying to show off in front of the others, all the popular boys at school.  

The only issue is the periphery, the security system.  There is an electric fence, I know, I’ve tried to cross it.  The ones they have for animals is supposed to just offer a minor shock.  This one can KILL you.  He told me and when he took me to test it out, I got an extremely painful burn on my ankle where the device is.  (SCENE)

Frankly, I’m afraid of that.

I think he is too.  Doesn’t know how to dismantle it, take it off, undo.  Doesn’t know if he will be shocked as well.  Dead.

Has made me promise that I would never press charges.  But doesn’t have enough faith in me (or my acting ability) to let me go.  Sometimes I sense he wants to.  Like I am an animal, a bug, he has placed in a jar.

I can withstand anything.  Sometimes I believe myself.  If only he’ll let me swim again, I can forget everything.

==

My Brother has come back.

I have infinite patience with him.

I do not have infinite faith.

He talks to me through the windows.  

Our plan is to wait for The Suit to come back.  He dismantles the system so that he can get in.  (Is the car safe?)

My brother will hide in his car.  Or sneak in when he arrives.  He’ll be waiting for him.  My brother is 6’4”.  He is big and broad shouldered and strong.  

I don’t know why he hasn’t saved me yet.  But I trust that he will.

At least, I think it is my brother whispering to me through the windows.