Page 52 of Mason

Emily

Asnap in the fireplace makes me jump from sleep, the burst of embers floating up the chimney to freedom.

Tucked in the sleeping bag, I watch the fire crackle. The lick of flames undulating in a steady sway. The glow of the log as the fire consumes it. This one is still going strong from yesterday.

My days are an endless loop of this. I’m a prisoner to the fireplace, feeding it as needed to prevent the cabin from descending into a frozen wasteland.

But the wood pile is dwindling on the rack, and I don’t know when I’ll see either captor again. I’ve rationed the logs the best I can, along with food. Every time I have to take from either, my heart sinks a little more.

I don’t know how many days it's been since the man left, doing as he promised and leaving me handcuffed but free to roam around the cabin. I tried the front door a few times, but it’s locked on the outside. He boarded up the only window I can fit out of too, and while kicking it out is an option, I worry more about what’s waiting outside than in these four depressing walls.

Two million dollars. People did crazy things for a hundred dollars. Rachel licked a bathroom stall at school once for a fifty. I can’t even imagine what someone would do to me for that kind of money. Our shore house was close to that much, and Papa did a lot of terrible deeds to get that water view.

I tug at my sweatshirt, the gift from the man oversized and bunching under me. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s the comfiest damn thing I’ve ever worn. Paired with the leggings, I’m in wardrobe heaven. No bra. No boning. No buttons. Just a bundle of cozy. Mama would hate it.

She’d hate a lot of things about me right now. The clothes. The state of my hair—wild, wavy, and desperate for shampoo and conditioner. My skin washed with a bar of soap rather than the crate of custom blends she picks out. The lack of makeup. I’m not even sure she’d recognize me now that I’m not molded into a mini version of her.

But for all her problems, I miss her. I miss her complaining about school. Her pestering me to stop eating sweets. Her planning overpriced vacations that Papa would begrudgingly take us on. I miss when those were the only problems in life I had.

Crunching outside pulls my eyes from the fireplace to the door, and I say a silent prayer that it’s my usual visitor and not the one from Down Under. But I’d rather it be him than someone coming for their two-million dollars.

Creaking is followed by a key in the handle’s lock. My heart does backflips at the slide of metal. At the turn of the handle. The door squeaking open.

This is it.

Someone’s finally going to finish me off. A bullet to the head. A knife to the heart. Something is coming to destroy me.

But it’s not.

Relief runs through me, tingling every nerve from head to toe. It’s my usual visitor, and he has an armful of bags. Dressed in a leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, he breezes in like he owns the place. I mean, I guess he does. Technically. He should think about selling this dump before it collapses.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes, shutting the door and locking it with a click that makes my stomach lurch. He scans the room that I spent days scouring with the broom I found under the cot, sweeping, clearing cobwebs, and even attempting to mop using that pot filled with soapy water from the tub. All that hard work barely made it tolerable, but it was better than existing in filth.

“It smelled like ass, James Dean,” I explain, unable to resist a jab. It’s not much of an insult, though. The look gives him a little edge. A little more danger that he doesn’t need. “Someone needed to clean it before the bugs ate me.”

“Did you clean your mouth out too?” he prods, breezing in to set grocery bags on the counter and a bundle of firewood on the floor beside it. It’s almost domestic to watch. Papa never brought groceries home. But this isn’t home, and this man isn’t anyone I love or care about. He’s providing the bare minimum to keep my heart pumping.

I slide my legs into the sleeping bag and pull the blanket close, hiding most of my body. I hate how my insides stir whenever he looks at me. It isn’t normal. It isn’t sane, either. Nor are the dreams I have about him. The ones where he’s playing with a lot more than the buttons on my clothing. It’s sick, twisted shit. “Not a fucking chance of me cleaning my mouth.”

I did, though, so excited to see the toothpaste he brought last time that I brushed my teeth with my finger and cried happy tears like a lunatic. It tasted terrible with the water from the tap, but I didn’t care. The simple things gave me a kick now.

“Thatta girl.” He turns from the counter, smirking. He studies me leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

“Any news on who wants to kill me? Or an update in the bidding war on my head?” I ask, squirming under his gaze.

Maybe it’s reached three-million bucks since the last time he was here. I can’t lie; it makes me feel a little something somewhere deep inside about commanding such a high price tag for my head. Not quite pride, but close. It’s a membership to a club I’m sure few people are part of. I must get that fucked up gene from Papa. The ballsy one that looks danger in the face with a middle finger and a grin. The streak that got me right here in the first place when I strolled into Down Under despite Papa’s warning.

He looks as deflated as I feel when he delivers the news. “Not a peep.”

I miss my bed. School. Rachel. My family. I hate this place.

I chew on my lower lip, stuffing down the tears that burn my eyes. “I can’t stay here forever. I have a life, mister.”

A life that I’ve fought to claw out in a world where I’m expected to be nothing more than a housewife and incubator. I look forward to class. To learning more about the world outside of Papa’s shadow. To learning more about myself and what I’m capable of. I can’t do any of that here, aside from mastering fire building. And if I’m being honest, I’m mediocre.

He shifts his attention back to the bags, rummaging through one with the care of a toddler after a piñata’s guts. “If you want to keep it, you’ll stay put as long as necessary. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ve been here for weeks, mister.” I’m not sure how many. More than one. Maybe a little over two. I don’t know. He boarded up the only window that gets reliable sun both inside and out. The six-inch by six-inch one in the bathroom is blocked by branches half of the time. I just guess the time of day by peeking under the front door.

---