All in the Family (21 page)

What if he tells?

The morning went quietly with Tommy barely speaking a word. His mother fed them, and around noon, Bobby left for his house. He couldn’t get over the look of relief that flooded his friend’s face as he stepped out the door.

He took a different way home than usual, the long way. He stopped by the creek where he fought with Robert.

What if he tells?

He couldn’t tell, he told himself again, he wouldn’t. Tommy was far too fragile to tell. To tell would mean far too much attention for him, answering questions, becoming a suspect himself. It was inconceivable for him to tell.

What if he tells?

It was a conceivable concept. He knew it was a possibility, but would anyone believe him? That was a question worth asking. The death had already been ruled an accident, so rightly he was in the clear, but if someone were to challenge the ruling, to say that it was murder, it was at lease conceivable. To call it murder might reopen the case, but would there be grounds to go through all of that trouble? Would they not have to, in theory, exhume the body?

What if he tells?

What if he does? If no one believes him, then ultimately there would be nothing to worry about, or would there? It could taint his name and his father’s name. People would say that his father helped to cover it up, which was true, but nonetheless, if Tommy was to tell, people would say it. They would have to relocate; his father would have to find another job. Even with Uncle Frank’s money, it would be hard on all of them. If the reputation followed them, they would all blame him. How would he live with himself if they all blamed him for uprooting their lives? Especially Jessica, she had so many friends and boyfriends, she would never forgive him. Even at his age, he understood the fragility of women and their social status. He understood that for a young girl, friends and sociality were everything. He knew this and therefore knew that he could not let it happen. If Tommy even acted like he would squeal, he would have to go.

Bobby sat on the lowest branch of the tree by the creek, the same tree that had shaded the boys from the summer sun that beat down, the tree where they often sat to read their comics. The tree that had watched him beat Robert Gashnaw to death. This tree had been a sanctuary at one time, now it seemed only to harbor memories of contempt. In its own right, it had been a good tree. It had always been a good thinking tree. Bobby finished some of his best writing assignments while sitting in this tree. He knew that he would have to bid it farewell, for the memories that were tied to it were no long fond, but insensible. He felt slightly more disturbed by his past as he sat there. A little more disturbed altogether, not crazy, just disturbed.

What if he tells?

The voices would not leave him alone. They argued with him in his mind, the most prominent begging an answer to the question.

What if he tells?

He felt like pulling his hair out now; sweat beaded on his forehead despite the biting chill of the nearing winter. What if he does? There’s nothing to be done about it, except to kill him. What if he was to kill his friend? What if by doing so he caused a chain reaction which rippled through time and space and resulted in the conviction of not only himself, but his whole family on murder charges? Jessica would be the only one to get out of it, he thought. That poor dumb animal doesn’t know left from right sometimes, let alone what happened to Uncle Frank.

What if he tells?

Bobby rocked on the branch, sick of the voices inside. It made him nervous, but there was nothing he could really do, and he knew it. He jumped from the tree, landing hard on his feet. Without a word, he gave the tree a final look, his final goodbye. He began his trek home, praying that the voices would stop or for sanity’s sake ease.

The walk home was quiet, the voices calmed and with as unnerving as they had been, he almost missed them now. With that thought, he wondered if he had lost his mind. He laughed aloud to himself as he opened the front door and stepped inside.

What if he tells?

Chapter Fifteen

It was dark when she woke, or dim lit at least. Her head ached, throbbed with every beat of her heart. Then she opened her eyes, but everything was a blur, and nothing made sense. There was a musty, earthen odor hanging in the air; it flooded her lungs and threatened to choke the life out of her. She coughed, and it hurt her stomach, her ribs and even her muscles ached. When the blurring eased, and everything looked more like an oil painting, Amber realized that she had no idea where she was or how long she had been there. The only noise she could hear and identify was the dripping of water, but even that sounded distant.

Her head began to spin again, and she vomited off to the side from where she was sprawled. What was going on?

There was another noise now, a grinding, scraping noise. The room flooded with light, and then everything blurred again. She heard a voice, a distant feminine voice, but couldn’t make out what it said. Her head was still swimming. After a couple of dry heaves, she tried to force herself to sit up.

The voice was still there. She strained to listen. It sounded foreign, like gibberish. She shook her head, an attempt to clear her vision. Lines were still not clear or straight, but she could make out a silhouette standing in the light. Then the words were crystal clear.

“How are we feeling today?” the voice asked. “You don’t look so well. You should probably eat soon. I’ll bring you something later.” The voice echoed in her head, each word ringing. Then, Amber recognized the voice. The woman who had picked her up the other day, it was her. What the hell had she done?

The door began to close, and the light faded again. Desperation shot through her soul, her very being. She forced herself forward and began to crawl across the floor, tasting that musty flavor as she went. Then, something pulled her arms back, and she fell face first into the dirt; taking a mouthful as she went down. What the fuck? She wiggled back on her belly until she could raise herself off the ground again. Something was locked around both her wrists. Then she heard the clinking of metal as she moved her wrists.

It dawned on her then, a revelation that was hard to accept. She was chained to the wall; the freaks had taken her prisoner. She wept, drawing herself back into a ball against the cold concrete wall. She could think of nothing else to do, so she cried, and it made her feel a little better.

She racked her mind, searching for the answers to her pile of questions. Why would they do this? How could they do this? How did they get her down here in the first place? How long had she been here?

She forced herself to focus and remember. She remembered the woman picking her up off the street and how grateful she had been that someone came by and offered her a ride and a place to stay for a night. Maybe that was it. Maybe she had only been here for a couple of days. Maybe this was one of their perverted games. Admittedly, she was never one to turn down a good high, and if they had given her a slight overdose, that would explain the vomiting and her extreme headache. No, that couldn’t be it; she would never agree to be chained up and treated this way, not even for a place to stay or a meal. The thought was ludicrous.

Why would they do this? She thought hard. She remembered the woman bringing her home, and she remembered having dinner with them. No, wait, she had sex with the woman first. That first, then dinner, but what happened then? She drew a blank.

She sat on the cold ground for a long time thinking. Everything was a blank. She simply could not remember. Come on, Amber, she told herself, your life might just depend on it.

More time passed and still no answer. Frustrated, she began to dig in the dirt. It was very dim inside the room, her cell. She could not pinpoint any light source, but she knew that there had to be light coming from somewhere. Perhaps what little light came through the cracks of the door was enough to light the room.

When the answer never came to her, she decided to try to make her time a little more useful. She began to search around the floor where she was chained. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but anything would be better than nothing. Her hand passed through something cold and wet. She remembered her vomit from earlier; it made her gag. She wiped her hand in the dirt and on her leg. A cold chill ran over her, and she realized that she was mostly nude. She wore panties, but little else. She could feel an icy breeze on her skin, but where it blew in from she could not tell.

Satisfied that she had searched the entire area that she could reach, she sat back against the cold wall, empty handed. There had been nothing on the floor for her to use or even to occupy her time.

Minutes passed or maybe hours. Amber was oblivious to time. She didn’t know how long she had sat there when the door opened again. Light flooded the room, and she saw the woman again. She held a plate in one hand. She brought it near and dropped it on the ground in front of her. She tore at the food, a starved animal.

“That’s a good girl,” the woman said. “Eat up now.” She stood there a moment longer, and then placed a paper cup of water down near Amber and left, closing the door behind her.

Amber shoveled the food in. There was no time for etiquette, no time to be a lady; she was starving. She ignored the odd flavor of the greens that were on the plate; she knew they were greens by their taste, but she ate them anyway. She eyeballed the vicinity of the paper cup, thirsting for the water, but saving it for last.

When she had eaten everything on the plate, she slowly reached out and began the careful search for the cup. Her finger touched it. She sighed, relieved that she didn’t spill it. She turned the small cup up and drank the contents; It washed over her dry tongue and down her parched throat. The aftertaste was quite foul, but she ignored it. It was liquid, and that was all she cared about at the moment. Now what? She had done all that there was to do, when would sleep take her again? Did she even want to sleep?

It didn’t take long to answer those questions. The sleep came soon; she felt that same dazed feeling that she felt when she had first woke up. She fought it, how hard she fought it, but in the end she lay on her side, the room melting around her. She saw the light pour into the room again, and she closed her eyes and slept.

* * * *

Amber awoke again, but this time to the sound of a feminine voice, but not the same one that she had heard before. The room spun again, and her head throbbed as hammer blows from a skilled blacksmith. She vomited again, off to the side like that last time.

“I brought you some food,” the voice said, sounding rather frail and a little frightened.

Amber sat up, unaware of where the voice originated in the room, but able to comprehend what was being said. She grunted, that was about all she could do at the moment as a reply.

“Momma said I was to bring this to you and then leave. I’m not supposed to talk to you,” the voice said.

Amber moaned a failed attempt to speak. Then, she spoke. “Why?”

An odd and deafening silence filled the air and for a moment, Amber was sure that the girl was gone.

“I don’t know,” the girl said. “I just know that I’m not supposed to talk to you, and I’m not supposed to let you out.”

“Please?” It was the only thing Amber could think to say. The room felt like it was spinning beneath her.

“No, I can’t. Take your food and your water.” The girl placed the plate and a paper cup nearby, and then the room filled with light again. As the light faded, Amber heard a faint sound. “I’m sorry.”

Amber sat up, taking note that her bottom was sore, not her cheeks, but her rectum. The hole was sore to the touch. Was that the plan, to keep her around as a fuck toy? She hoped and prayed not. She couldn’t take it; she wouldn’t take it. That was not something that she would be able to live with. She would rather die than to continue living like this.

She ate the food on the plate. It tasted better this time, but she still disliked the greens. A moment later, she found the paper cup. The water tasted foul again, but she ignored it again. It was all she had.

The world began to spin again, and she lay down. She knew what was coming. She knew that she might very well wake up with her bottom sore again, perhaps something worse. She ignored these thoughts, pushed them from her mind. Instead, she thought of the happier times, the times before she had to sell her body to make money to eat. She thought of when she was a young girl, and when her mother would take her shopping and buy her new dresses, and when her mother would take her out to eat.

These thoughts comforted her. These thoughts made her feel safe. She drifted off, a soft slumber taking her. The comforting thoughts transformed in her mind’s eye, becoming more horrific and more violent. Mere thoughts became violent nightmares. She dreamed, and her dream made no logical sense, but neither did her current situation.

She was alone in the backyard, the sun shined, but a fog had drifted over the land and dulled the ambience. She could not tell from where the sun shined, but only that it lighted the world through the fog. The grass was short and a dry green color. There was a high fence at the far end of the yard; a black shape was hunched in the corner. She wondered what it was, but was afraid to take a closer look.

Suddenly it turned, and she saw that it was a black dog. It lumbered closer to her, and she could see that it seemed to mean her no harm. Then, it was instantly closer to her. She saw its head, and the dog smiled at her. She had never seen a dog smile before, but it smiled at her showing its sharp yellowed teeth and its blackened gums. As quickly as before, it was behind her, and climbing up her. Now it was on her back, and she could feel its hot breath on her neck and pain in her shoulders. Then she felt pain shoot through her backside, and she turned to look. The dog’s head was no longer a dog, but a man. She couldn’t make out his features. They were blurred and darkened despite the sunlight. He spoke to her, incoherent words that sounded less like words and more like grumblings and gibberish.