 "Needing
a Monster"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick
“You know, I’m gonna kill you,” the
greasy man said with a yellow-toothed leer, his breath in her face
smelling of old garbage. “Not right now, sweet little honey, but
later. When I’m through with you.”
Her small body trembled as if she
were shivering, but the basement was sweltering. She felt hot sweat
under her armpits and coldness in her feet. She tried not to cry,
but couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down her swollen cheeks;
the ropes cut into her wrists and ankles like the steel grips of
some vicious monster.
“You hear me?” he said with a happy
hiss.
She nodded as vigorously as she
could manage. She’d learned since last night that she had to answer
and agree with him, or he’d hurt her more.
“I’m gonna get some rags for
later,” he said, drooling a little. He turned and shuffled through
the dimly lit basement, one leg slightly twisted and almost dragging
behind him. When he’d creaked onto the first wooden stair, he turned
back and said, “We’re gonna have fun, girlie.”
She watched him go, thump-thudding
up the stairs and out of sight. She sniffled, choked back a sob,
winced at the pain of the ropes. She was tied upright, ropes
spreading all four limbs wide and taut. Her feet hovered inches off
the ground. Her arms hurt the way they did in gym class when she’d
perform on the rings for too long—only much worse. It was like the
prisoner she’d seen hanging in a dungeon in an old movie, waiting to
be killed. She’d always thought school was terrible, but now it
seemed like an amusement park compared to this place.
Even gym class would be better. Mr.
Lawrence, her fourth-grade gym teacher, had always been so mean.
“He’s such a monster,” she’d tell her friends, and they’d all
agree. Drawings of stylized creatures with tentacles and too many
eyes were routinely passed around to represent his inhuman demeanor.
But now, she knew that while Mr. Lawrence was not a nice man, he was
no monster.
But this man who had her tied up in
the dirty, stinking basement: He was a monster.
#
When she was five, there had been a
monster. It lived in her closet and never came out except at night,
when it was dark and she was alone. She vividly remembered the
creaking sound of the closet door; in the dimness of the streetlight
outside her window, she could see it swing open. She’d pull the
covers over her head and curl into a trembling little ball,
terrified of the horrible creature slavering in the darkness — yet
somehow she was always afraid to scream. She’d lie there, helpless,
shaking like a leaf in a hurricane that was desperately trying to
hang on to its tree.
She could hear the light shuffling
of the monster’s big feet as it shambled across the thick rug, its
raspy breath growing ever louder as it came for her. Her heart would
pound her ribs and the blood would rush in her ears as it made its
way around the end of the bed. She always thought if she held her
breath and willed her body not to shake so hard, the monster
wouldn’t hurt her. After all, she was safely hidden under the
covers; maybe it just wouldn’t know she was there.
Usually, she was right. It would
stand there, breathing, just on the other side of her blankets,
probably trying to figure out what the lump on the bed was;
eventually, though, it would tire of its visit and shuffle back
across the room to its dark home. The click of the door when it
finally latched was freedom from her terror, and she would drift off
into sleep and forget the monster until the next time.
Except for the night the monster
decided to investigate the lump on the bed. It had stood there,
breathing roughly while she protected herself with the blankets, and
just when she thought it was about to give up and shuffle off, the
rasping breaths grew louder. A new kind of terror washed over her
body, and suddenly she felt its hot, damp breath through the covers.
It smelled like rotting fish on a hot day.
But it wouldn’t stay. It would go
away like it always did. It had to. She’d been so sure of it.
But then its heavy, furry hand
settled on her arm and slithered its way up, crawling across her
shoulder and towards her head, wrapping meaty fingers around the
edge of the covers, preparing to yank them away from her as her
heart beat crazily—
#
The smelly man yanked her head up
by the hair, surprising her, and she returned to the terrors of the
present. His face was inches away, his sunken eyes gleaming in the
weak light. He grinned, rolling her head around, surveying her from
all angles.
“Jeez, ain’t you sweet,” he
whispered into her face, and his breath was like rotting fish. “How
old are you, sweet baby?”
Never talk to strangers, she
thought as her mind spun. That’s what her parents had always told
her. And she hadn’t; she’d just taken a shortcut through the City
Forest like she’d done a thousand times. Lots of kids did; it was
much faster to take the woods trails than to stick to the streets
and hike all the way around. But after a woman was attacked there a
few years back while jogging the trails, none of the kids ever went
that way alone — not even in broad daylight. She never should have
done it but she’d been after school working on her science-fair
project and she wanted to get home in time for Spongebob Squarepants.
Suzy and Belinda had stayed after school for their book club, so she
was on her own. Bad stuff only happened to other people anyway, and
never to innocent little girls—
The pain was sudden and intense,
and her field of vision shifted so rapidly she thought her head had
been blown off. He’d slapped her, and hard. She let out a cry and
the tears began to roll...
* *
* * * * * *
*
Things are about to get a lot worse
for her. But suffice it to say, the bad guy will get his just desserts...
To read the whole story, order
Twisted
Tongues #10.
|
One day I read a news story about a preteen
girl who had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered. I was overcome by
feelings over this. How terrible does someone have to be to do that to a
child? How horrible must such an ordeal have been for her? And how
absolutely without justice is it when a young girl must endure such
torture with no way to fight back?