Page 54 of Horror and Chill
I expected that. I lean back on the couch, soften my voice. “Two thousand cash.”
Silence. Then, “You serious?”
“Yes. Two thousand. Up front.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then a sigh. “Fine. One night. You clean up after yourself—no trash, no damage, and I never saw you.”
“Deal.”
We pick a date. I hang up and sit there staring at the phone. My pulse is racing, not from fear but excitement. It worked. I have my set.
I grab a notebook and start planning props. Fake blood, lace, chains, maybe a pickaxe for effect. Lorna is going to love this. She’ll sell the hell out of it.
The thrill of it makes my skin buzz. I lean back into the cushions, let the notebook slide to the floor, and push my hand under the waistband of my slacks. My body responds instantly, needy after all this build-up with no release but memory.
I close my eyes and think of them. The masks, the pushing me for what they want. The rasp of a gloved hand on my thigh. The sound of a voice I can’t place to a face. I rub harder, faster, chasing the edge.
When I come, it rips through me sharp and unsteady. My body jerks, my thighs tense, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming.
But the moment the pleasure crests, it’s yanked out from under me by a memory.
I'm sixteen again, and my childhood bedroom surrounds me. Michael is in the doorway, red-faced, shouting. “You’ve invited temptation into this house!”
“Momma! Get up here,” he calls.
She comes hurrying down the hall, eyes wide, hands already wringing the edge of her nightdress.
“She was touching herself,” he says. “Impure in thought and deed.”
Debra looks at me and then looks at the floor. “You know what we must do,” she whispers, but she never stops staring at the carpet like the answer is written there.
“No! No! Please!” I scream. Michael’s hand clamps around my arm, hard enough to leave bruises, and he drags me down the hallway. My heels skid on the carpet, my free hand clawing at the doorframe as I try to hold myself back, but he jerks me loose and shoves me into the bathroom.
The overhead light is bright, bouncing off the tile, making the whole room look crueler. The tub roars as he twists the spigot all the way, the stream pounding against porcelain, filling fast with water that’s icy from the pipes.
Debra doesn’t look at me. She strips my clothes from me and folds them carefully in a neat little stack on the counter, as if this is a chore instead of punishment. I’m left in nothing but thin white cotton panties. I cross my arms over my chest and shiver, but it doesn’t matter. To them, I’m already stripped bare.
When the water climbs high enough, I’m dropped into the tub roughly, and Michael kneels beside the tub. His palm presses down heavy on my shoulder, the other spreading over the top of my head. He starts to pray, his voice booming like he wants God Himself to hear.
I thrash when he forces me under. The water is so cold it feels like fire. My lungs seize, my body jerks. My scream turns into a mouthful of bubbles. I kick against the porcelain, nailsscraping against the side of the tub, desperate to push myself up.
He lets me break the surface, just long enough to cough and choke, and then asks if I feel clean. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His hand is already pressing me under again.
“In the name of the Lord,” he shouts, each word vibrating through the water, muffled but heavy. Again. And again.
By the time he’s done, my lips are purple, and my teeth rattle like they’re going to break out of my mouth. My chest burns, my head swims. I collapse against the side of the tub when he finally lets me up.
They drag me out, my body shaking uncontrollably, and wrap a rosary tight around my wrists. The beads bite into my skin as he knots them, his voice low. “To not fall back into temptation.”
That same night, I press my forehead to the cold bathroom window and watch smoke curl from the yard. My mattress burns in the fire pit, black smoke twisting into the dark sky while Michael shovels at the embers like he’s proud of himself. Debra tapes scripture over the bathroom mirror so I can’t look at myself, so even my own reflection is considered dangerous.
For the next month, I’m not allowed to undress alone. Debra watches as I change and stands with me in the bathroom, a bucket of water and vinegar in her hands. She pours it over me, cold streams running down my back and chest while she whispers over and over, “Clean the rot. Cleanse the root. Lust begins in the flesh.”
When the memory finally lets me go, I'm back on my couch with my hand still pressed hard against my belly like I'm trying to hold myself in. The room is quiet except for my breath. I stare at the ceiling until the spinning stops. I don't cry. I refuse to give them that now. I sit up slowly and wipe my palms on my thighs.
They put that girl through hell and called it salvation. They tied her up with prayer and called it love. They turned every mirror into a threat and every word into a weapon, and still here I am. Breathing. Working. Planning.
I'm not a child. I'm not theirs. And if anyone thinks they get to pull me back under, they will learn how long I can hold my breath.
