The Way Out of the Dark

Contrary to what I thought at the time, I didn’t lose consciousness. I was hoping for it, if I’m being honest. That after I lost feeling in my limbs, I wouldn’t be awake.

It was like having sleep paralysis or anesthesia awareness. I lost my limbs, and my eyelids shut, but I was still conscious.

I could feel him tying me up, and I could hear him pulling duct tape apart. I could hear metal and clicking sounds I had only ever heard in movies.

It was like there was a tiny me inside my head, screaming and crying as hard as she could. If I was able to move my body, I’m sure it would have been shaking.

It felt like I had been lying there for so long. I tried counting for a while, because that’s all I could do was think.

I had gotten to about three thousand before I lost count, then started again and could open my eyes when I got to four thousand five hundred.

When I finally did open my eyes, Highroller was standing right in front of me. He looked cleaner, like he had shaved his face or he was wearing different clothes. He smiled at me.

“Did you enjoy your little nap?” Highroller asked. I tried to shake my head but I still couldn’t move very much.

“Right, sorry. Blink once if you had a good nap,” he said, pandering. I felt so stupid then. What was I gonna do, just stare at him until he changed the subject?

I blinked, and he looked at me like he was looking at a cooing baby.

“Being a good girl now does not excuse your earlier behavior,” he said. I could feel my body coming back to me.

“I wanted to do this before,” I said slowly, before spitting at him. That was one thing I did not regret doing.

Highroller grabbed the back of my neck again and flipped me over. I was on my stomach with my hands bound behind my back.

“You need to be taught some manners, Sweet Pea,” he snapped. I heard him open something and I turned my head.

From a large wooden crate, Highroller took out a long, thin stick. He lightly slapped it against his palm to appear threatening.

I didn’t think he was threatening but with that switch, it made him scary. The stick reminded me of him; seemingly harmless but eventually very dangerous.

He walked towards me, still holding the stick, and lifted the back of my shirt. I looked down to see I was still wearing the flannel. Highroller moaned.

“Aren’t you just pretty as pie,” he murmured and I squeezed my legs together. “Count,” he said as he thrashed my back with the stick.

I bent forward, feeling the sting on my back. I closed my eyes and pictured a glowing red line going across my it. “Count, I said,” he yelled, striking me again.

“One,” I squeaked. He struck me again. My back felt red hot. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to tell the difference if he had set me on fire. I’d bend and writhe in pain when he hit me.

After ten, I noticed blood underneath me. He did ten more after that, at least the ones I counted. If I hesitated, he’d strike me, so I may have counted to twenty, but I was sporting closer to thirty lashes.

My vision was fuzzy by the time he dropped the switch. His hands, the stick, and the bed were covered in my blood. I slipped in and out of consciousness.

I remember seeing Highroller go into the bathroom. I remember someone took me down the staircase and into a dark room.

I woke up for good when someone touched something cold to my back. I jolted up, but the pain from my back stopped me. A hand touched my arm and had me lie down again.

“Wh-who’s there?” I asked, turning my head. It came out in more of a slurring than intelligible words. I flinched every time he touched my back.

“You need to hold still,” James said. I knew it was him just by the sound of his voice.

“Please kill me now,” I said. He stopped cleaning the blood off of my back.

“No,” he said.

“Please,” I begged, but he sighed. I began to quietly cry. My lip quivered and my breathing quickened.

“Stop it,” he said. “How many did he give you?” he asked.

I began to wonder about the validity of his crimes. The worst he had ever done to me up to that point was kidnap me. He didn’t beat me, hit me, or hurt me really in any way.

The news had said that he was a psychopath, a dangerous killer. It just didn’t add up for me.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked. It was silent. I think I struck a nerve because his voice softened.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Highroller. He’s the murderer, not you. He murdered those men,” I croaked. I felt like a genius, and it would crush me if I was wrong.

“What happened to your hair?” he asked. My chest caved in. I couldn’t tell if he was diverging because I was right or because I was wrong.

“He— he pulled it out,” I said, choking back tears. I could feel him touching it, the ends of my hair.

I hissed in pain when he touched my scalp. He touched it with the cold rag he used on my back. The coolness felt nice on my head. “Could—” I stopped myself.

“What?” he asked, trying to see my face. I took a deep breath.

“Could you fix it?” I asked. There was silence again, something I never thought I’d like hearing.

“Fix what? Your hair?” he asked. I made a ‘mhm’ noise. “I am by no means a hairdresser,” he said, trying to make light of it.

I think that was okay, I needed something to talk about, something that wasn’t so heavy. Every other topic was drowning me.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. I just can’t stand it,” I said. My self-esteem was low enough. I didn’t need to see it to know it was bad. It made me feel like a ragged doll.

“C’mere,” he said, standing up. He leaned over me, bending his head down. I looped my arm around his neck, and he sat me up.

My back ached and bled more. There was more blood underneath me. I tried to imagine my back looking so gory.

When we were fifteen, Lexi accidentally punched me in the face.

We were dancing around to the latest teen-pop trash, and she socked me in the face. I remember feeling a thick string of blood come from my nose.

She didn’t want to do anything for the rest of that night. She thought maybe she would end up killing me.

An example she gave me for when I asked how I’d get up and dance on the bed. Then, I would be so light-headed from the lack of blood in my body, I’d pass out and hit my head. It was ridiculous.

That was the most blood I had ever seen in reality, the goriest. The blood that was underneath me on the Highroller’s bed was the most I have ever seen. I couldn’t imagine what my back looked like.

Part of me wanted to know, but I knew if I saw myself, I’d never be able to feel pretty again.

James draped a cloth around my shoulders, and I held where the corners met. I heard James pick up something metal and made a snipping noise with it.

I could feel his hands gently pulling my hair between his fingers. After he cut off a section, I felt the flat end of my hair touch the back of my neck, and I shuddered.

“That short?” I asked. Almost every girl has a horror story about cutting their hair short and regretting it. I began to feel a little bit of humanity.

“No, even shorter,” he said. I did my best without hurting myself to feel the hair he cut. It felt like my hair before I’d been kidnapped, maybe even healthier.

“He doesn’t like girls with short hair,” James said, and I nodded. It was worth it, I thought, if it would make him leave me alone.

“I don’t either, not a lot of people do,” I said, feeling pity for myself. He snipped off another section of my hair.

“I dunno, I think it’ll suit you,” James said. I wasn’t really concerned with being attractive, especially to him. But being ugly would make it more difficult for him to feel sorry for me.

I searched my brain, trying to find something to talk about.

“What book were you reading again?” I asked. If I thought hard enough about it, I could’ve probably remembered. But I didn’t have to think hard, all I had to do was sit still and breathe.

“Gerald’s Game,” he said. He continued cutting off strands of my hair.

“I only saw the movie, but I’m sure the book is better. I’ve been meaning to read it,” I said, trying to remember the plot.

“Actually, I thought the movie did a pretty decent job,” he said. He almost sounded like a normal person. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would have enjoyed that conversation.

“You’ve read it before?” I asked. He had to have, he was only halfway through it last time I saw him.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites. I started reading it again when you got here,” he said, with an uncomfortable pause.

That was the first time he and I had a real conversation. I felt so empowered, like I could pick his brain and ask him anything.

I didn’t know psycho killers had favorite books. Although, I still wasn’t entirely sure he was a psycho killer.

“Why is it your favorite?” I asked. All the chit-chat was distracting me from the pain until I had asked that.

I thought about how it could have been his favorite because it was a fantasy for him. It reminded me of my situation and took me back to my reality.

“I think it’s my favorite because the metaphorical restraints on Jessie’s character are linked to her literal ones.

“Her struggle to overcome both her physical and mental torment is powerful and very symbolic,” he stated. He was so analytical and deep, it made me feel flat. I wondered why James was even there.

“I never understood the ending. I liked the idea that she was just losing her mind,” I said. I felt like I was losing mine, too.

“Well, she was. She saw Gerald and even herself but she was still imagining them,” he said and paused for a moment. “Is that how you feel?” he asked.

I nearly gasped. He was showing empathy to me. I could feel him snip off less and less hair.

“Wh-what?” I said, batting my eyelashes.

He must not have been paying attention because he snipped the back of my ear. I moved my body away and he stuttered, pressing the cloth against the blood.

“I just never thought of it that way. Do you feel like Jessie?” he asked. I wish I could’ve said I could, but my story was far from anything like hers.

“No. The only way I can relate to her is through physical means. I’m trapped, and there’s no one that can help me.

“Jessie’s past is worse than mine but, in my opinion at least, I have it a little worse right now,” I said, scoffing.

I felt bitter. I felt as though I shouldn’t have been bitter to James, though. He didn’t seem to me like the type to be caught up in crime. Like all he wanted to do was read a book and drink some tea.

On the other hand, he did kidnap me, but I wasn’t entirely sure that it was anything he came up with. Then, I felt an empathy light bulb light up in my head.

“Do you feel like Jessie?” I asked. He got silent and I could only hear him breathing.

“Your hair’s done,” he said. I slowly reached up and touched my hair. It was long enough to where I could just tuck it behind my ear.

“I’d like to read Gerald’s Game before I die,” I said morbidly. James helped me lie back down, and I tried not to cry.

That’s when I felt all of my emotions hit me at once, like my brain had just realized that I could die.

“He’d never let you,” James said, and I took a deep sigh. I could see him scanning my body quickly and not any longer than he had to.

“You should really eat something,” he said. I would have laughed if I didn’t want to cry. I wasn’t sure I’d eat a fat steak if he put it right in front of me at that moment.

“Maybe,” I said blankly. I was staring at the wall behind James.

“Taryn,” he said softly. I looked up at him. It felt like a cruel gag, and I didn’t believe him anymore. “I’ll be back,” he said, gathering his cleaning supplies.

He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

I felt around my side, lightly touching my back with my fingers.

It felt like they were open wells of flesh and blood, like oblong pits and divots all over my back. It was difficult not to imagine some that were more like flaps nearer the center of my back.

I pulled the flannel I was wearing down over my wounds. My eyes widened, and I touched my ass, feeling my cotton panties, and sighed in relief.

I tried to sit up, but I could only go as far as tucking my knees under my body. I propped myself up with my hands because lying down on my knees like that stretched my back, pulling at my wounds.

The room I was in then was not a room I had been in before. As far as quality went, it fell in between my previous room and the Highroller’s bedroom.

The mattress was not on the floor, and it was dressed with sheets and a blanket. Flush to the wall next to the door was a deep bookcase with old titles.

Was it Highroller’s idea to put me in James’ room? Did he know about it at all?