Page 37 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

That evening, I found the pencil and notepad on a broken side table, just thrown there as if neither item had any value. The pencil held a magical attraction for me as I had never done anything else with a pencil than to write or do math. I sat down and started. I drew the bird whose wings were broken by branches. The first try was perfect. It was as if I had never done anything else.

Ramon stood next to me and couldn’t close his mouth. “Hey, Hoover,” he said, because I forgot my real name at the time. “Can you also draw people?”

I shrugged; I had no idea. Then I drew him—with his fringe of matted hair and the face of Jesus. That evening, we knew what we could do to stay afloat over the next few weeks. We sold my drawings. They didn’t bring in much, but it was enough for the essentials. Sometimes, I dared to go out and we sat on Hollywood Boulevard or Sunrise Avenue where I drew portraits and caricatures of tourists. It was a good summer until I happened to spot him on the street. After that, I didn’t leave Compton for two years. I would have rather starved than go back to him.

A snapping of the undergrowth makes me look up from the paper, but when I look at the slender birch trunks, only darkness stares back. I sit for a while and watch the crackling flames of the fire.

I don’t have to look at what’s on the paper, it’s always the same image. Rose tendrils on ebony so dark, an outsider would never recognize them. Sometimes, I feel better afterwards. Less angry, calmer, as if I could put my weight on a piece of paper. But that’s short-lived and today I’m not paying attention because I’m thinking about Lou the whole time.

I don’t feel lighter, I feel heavier; guilty.

Because Lou no longer looks like Lou. No longer bright, no longer radiant. No longer light.

I knew the beginning would be difficult, even if I didn’t want to think about it. I just didn’t expect it to bother me so much. Somehow, I thought I could block out how she was doing until she got over the initial shock and recovered.

So what am I waiting for? Do I expect Lou to love me and we live like husband and wife here in the Yukon? That’s how I imagined it, at least in my fantasies.

But what if she never wants me? I can’t force her to love me. I have to think of him. The rare smile he gave me when I was particularly good at helping him sand and varnish the wood. I’ve been hungry for that smile. I would have given my soul for that smile. It was the only thing that gave my life meaning. It made me valuable for seconds, like he cared about me.

Perhaps the smile was even the cruelest. It gave me hope that one day he might change. But people don’t change. At least not in the deepest core of their soul. A sadist is always a sadist, a loner is a loner, a bad person stays bad.

Will Lou feel the same about me one day? Will she hunger for my smile? For my words?

But I’m not him. I treat her well. I don’t even want to chain her. And I will not punish her by putting her in the box.

Again, I stare into the orange-red flames. They hiss like snakes’ mouths in the darkness, feeding on it, but they never manage to devour it. Eventually, the fire goes out, but the night is still black. Perhaps darkness is the basic principle of life and all good, bright people are like the stars in the firmament. They are born, they shine, and one day they die. But the darkness survives.

Lou is my star, my light in the dark.

When she gets used to me, one day she will love me. Suddenly, I’m certain of it. It’s like a basic principle, even I would have loved the monster simply because I was alone.

Maybe it doesn’t matter why she loves me as long as she does love me at all.

In my mind, I see the image of the teddy bears swaying in the wind. Father, mother, child. The perfect family.

My chest burns with this hot, agonizing tug so strongly, it might burn me if I give in to it.

I want that, dammit! Exactly that.

Perhaps life is better with the illusion of love than without love at all. Maybe there is no difference between real love and the illusion of it.

When I wake up the next morning, the sun is shining through the long window of the bunk. The sky is a royal blue and the shadows of the birches fall narrow and long on the forest road. It must be early in the morning.

As I climb into the RV’s living room, I realize that today is my first day with Lou. The thought makes my stomach tingle like it did when she got out of the car in the parking lot at Sequoia National Park.

In order not to wake her, I refrain from using water and slip into dark green cargo pants and my favorite black shirt with the Jack Wolfskin logo across the chest. After that, I tie my hair in a ponytail since it keeps falling in my face. Maybe Lou can cut it for me sometime. Someday, when I no longer have to be afraid of her stabbing me with the scissors.

In the bathroom, I check my appearance again in the mirror cabinet. I’m satisfied actually—the wild, brooding aura is still there, but it’s less pronounced than in winter. For a moment, I smile at myself the way I want to smile at Lou, but it still feels like a grimace.

I go back outside and set the table as quietly as possible. Later, when Lou wakes up, I want her to feel at home, so I rummage through the closets for everything I bought her. Chocolate donuts, her beloved lemon cookies, and peanut butter.

After a while, I decide it’s late enough to fire up the generator to make coffee, but even that doesn’t wake Lou up. I assume the aftereffects of the drugs are still incapacitating her.

Almost silently, I step over to her bed. When she finally fell asleep last night, I disinfected and bandaged her wrist. The skin under the cuff was reddened from her attempt to free herself and in one place the skin was scraped. She lay there curled up like a young hedgehog, completely exhausted from the day and the drugs. She didn’t even wake up when I put iodine on it. She spoke in her sleep; unfortunately, I didn’t understand anything.

Now she is lying on her back. She has uncovered herself and the blonde hair is fanned out around her head. It looks inviting. I want to lie down with her and play with it. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by her hair, but maybe all men feel that way about hair.

For a while, I watch her sleep and, imperceptibly, remove the chain from her handcuffs so she doesn’t feel so trapped when she wakes up.

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