Page 83 of The Perfect Divorce

STACY HOWARD

I don’t wake naturally, and it’s not the squeaking critters or the shifting foundation that pulls me into consciousness. It’s a bloodcurdling scream, the kind you only produce when your life is in danger.

I sit up, my heart pounding at top speed, the abnormal rhythm echoing in my ears. My skin perspires despite the cool, damp air. Another scream pierces the darkness, followed by loud noises, banging, things toppling over, thuds against the floor above me. Glass shatters. Another loud boom. More screams. Heavy footsteps or maybe feet kicking against the ground.

“Carissa,” I whisper in the dark. “Wake up. There’s someone here.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t stir.

I pull on my chain so hard, it rips away the skin on my palms. I wince in pain, but I keep tugging. There’s no give.

A woman shrieks. Something hits a wall upstairs. It shatters, the pieces rattling against the floor above.

He must have brought another person here... or maybe someone found us.

“Carissa,” I exclaim, trying to get her to wake up. She doesn’t respond.

With no other options, I yell, “We’re down here! Please help us!”

A woman screams again. It sounds like pure terror, and I realize quickly that she’s in no position to help us, at least not yet.

There’s more commotion. Kicking and screaming and scrambling, a continued struggle.

“Stacy!” the voice from upstairs cries out. “Help me!”

My mouth falls open and tears spring to my eyes as I realize the woman calling out for me, pleading for my help... is Carissa.

“Carissa!” I yell back, hoping she’ll whisper my name from somewhere in the darkness. But she’s not down here with me anymore. She’s upstairs with him.

When did he come down and take her? How did I sleep through that? Or did she get free somehow and make a break for it? I get to my feet shakily, barely able to hold myself up as I try to scramble toward where I think the steps are. The length of the chain doesn’t let me move very far.

“Help me!” she screams again. There’s quick pounding against the ceiling like she’s running... or maybe she’s flailing and kicking, which means he has her.

“Carissa!” I yell, shaking the chain, hoping there’s a weak link that will break and set me free so I can get to her. “I’m coming,” I lie. “Keep fighting,” I shout.

I don’t know what to say, but all I can do is try to help her find the strength to live. I’m screaming and crying and hollering things I’m not even sure she can hear or understand. The pounds against the ceiling are still resounding, but there are fewer of them, like he has her pinned to the ground or maybe she’s losing the will to fight.

“Please!” she yells, but it comes out strained and breathy.

“Hold on, Carissa,” I shout, ripping at the chain again, but all it does is shred more of my skin. I scream in agony and frustration.

How did I not hear him come down and take her? I don’t understand. And why her and not me? My foot skids against something on the floor, causing me to lose my balance and fall, my knee cracking against the pavement. I cry out in pain, holding my throbbing knee for a moment before I feel around in search of what I slipped on. It’s the wrapper from the last sandwich that was tossed down. Actually, there were two, one for me and one for Carissa. We compared the taste—well, described it to each other—and figured they were the exact same, ham and cheese. I fell asleep after I ate mine. I always pass out after I eat... My eyes widen. He’s drugging us. He has to be. That’s why I didn’t hear him bring Carissa down in the first place. That’s why I didn’t wake up when he took her. It must be in the food. I think of the other times he fed me before Carissa arrived. Every time, I was out cold for who knows how long. Did he come down then? And if so, what did he do? What has he been doing to me?

I scream Carissa’s name again, telling her to fight, to be strong, to live, and to not let him win. It’s much quieter upstairs now, but there’s still turmoil. It just sounds far away. Suddenly, there’s a bright light illuminating the darkness. It’s too much for me to take in. My eyes burn, and I squeeze them shut as I instinctively shield them with my hands, looking away from the source. There’s a buzzing sound nearby. The sound of worn light bulbs that haven’t been flicked on in a long time.

I think I hear her gasping... but maybe I’m imagining it. I bring my fingers to my eyes and pry open my lids. It hurts but I have to keep them open, force them to adjust to the light I haven’t seen in days, maybe even a week.

Something thuds against the ceiling, directly above me. It feels final, like I won’t hear another. Then it’s silent. After what feels like an eternity, something thumps against the ceiling once, twice. The floorboards creak and moan; then there’s silence again.

I blink over and over and over until my eyes are able to stay open on their own and I can see more than just a bright light. My surroundings start to come into view. The heavy boots clomp slowly above me, followed by one continuous swooshing sound across the ceiling. Tears pour from my eyes and stream down my face. I know what that sound is. It’s Carissa’s body being dragged from one room to another. A door near the back of the house creaks open. Another thud. Then it slams closed, and there’s silence again—at least upstairs.

Down here, I’m in a state of panic, or maybe it’s shock. I can’t breathe. I gulp for air, puffing and panting, struggling to catch my breath. My throat feels like it’s in a vise. I cry out, but I barely make a sound. I’m fine, I remind myself. I mean I’m not, but I am—because I’m still alive. I’m the lucky one. I close my eyes and inhale deeply through my nose, hold for four seconds, and then exhale out my mouth. I focus only on my breath, not on anything else. I do this until my breathing is steady and my mind is clear. Panic won’t get me out of here, so I have to stay calm.

Opening my eyes again, I take in my surroundings. There’s a staircase right where I thought it was. It’s made of old wood, rotted in some places. I crouch and look up to get a glimpse of what’s at the top of the steps. A door. I get to my feet and look at where I thought Carissa was. She’s not there anymore, but I know she was. Because there’s a thin, old mattress lying on the floor next to a support beam where a thick, metal chain is connected to it. The ankle cuff lies open on the concrete. Beside it are an empty water bottle, a sandwich wrapper, and a large crimson bloodstain. My hands fly to my mouth.What did he do to her?

I turn away before panic takes over again, and I focus, trying to take in everything. I’m standing in a large decrepit basement that continues past the stairs for I don’t know how long. There are stacks of boxes and random furniture strewn about in piles, all decaying and rotten and moldy. I turn slightly, and that’s when I spot it, lying on the cracked concrete in all its glory. It’s off to the right, a little behind where he had Carissa chained up. Has it always been there? And if so, how did I miss it? Maybe it fell out during his struggle with Carissa. It seems too good to be true. My heart pounds, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. It could be nothing at all, or it could be my ticket out of here. The metal chain scrapes against the pavement as I stagger toward it. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, but I like the sound because I know when I can’t hear it anymore, that means I’m at the end of my leash.

I extend my arm, stretching my hand out as far as I can, the pads of my fingers barely touching the cold metal. It’s not quite within my grasp, but it’s close, and I think I can reach it. I place my unchained foot a step or two in front of me and lunge forward. The cuff digs into my skin, grinding against my ankle bone as I stretch. A cry escapes me as the metal cuts deeper into the skin, but I don’t stop, no matter how much it hurts—because I know what’s coming is far worse. My fingertips graze, not enough to grasp it. I groan and crawl back to my mattress, grabbing the sleeping bag from it. When I whip the bag, it lands on top of it, and I pull slowly, hoping it’ll drag the item closer to me, but it doesn’t. I try again and nothing. This time, I scoop up pieces of cracked pavement and toss them in the zipped-up sleeping bag. I fling it again and again, pulling it back, until finally the weight from the pavement catches the item. It scrapes against the concrete as it’s dragged toward me. I lift the sleeping bag, revealing that it’s now within reaching distance.

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