Maski

Chapter 2 I opened my eyes to a black void and the familiar smell of wood burning. Heavy blankets weighed down my torso and legs; rough wool scratched my chin. I couldn’t move. My back and jaw hurt. As my eyes tried to focus, my mind filled with memories: someone ploughing into me, pushing me to the floor, the blow that followed. Clear-headedness brought only terror, and in retaliation, my lungs fought for air. I smelled sweat. My sweat. What happened? The floor creaked as a shadow slipped past the head of my bed. How was that possible when my bed rested against the wall? Another flow of movement on my right. I squinted into the darkness. Though the room smelled like my cabin, this wasn’t my bedroom. These weren’t my sheets or my blankets. I lifted my head and squinted. My eyes finally adjusted to the semi-darkness. Was that the woodstove next to me? I squinted harder. It was less than five feet away. How—? On my right, the chesterfield and chair, so close I could have reached out to touch them. A c***k of moonlight outlined the veranda doors less than six feet from the foot of my bed. I sucked in air. Not possible. I slumped back. I was in my bed in the middle of the living room, lying where my coffee table should be. “Confused?” a voice whispered. I twisted, tried to lift my body, tried to expand my lungs; more air, I needed more air. To my left, the floor creaked, glass rattled, then the strike of a match and the room flooded with light. The buzzing of burning propane neared as he passed. He set a lantern on the kitchen nook table. I felt as if every bit of moisture had drained from my body. The man moved like a breath of wind toward me. At least I assumed he was a man; my mother was never that tall, nor muscular, and besides, she was dead. He was dressed completely in black, a black balaclava covered his face. His sharp eyes glistened as hard as glass. He towered over the bed, his hands clasped behind him. Then in one swift movement, his arm shot out and the blankets flew off. Air assaulted my skin. I was naked. My arms were secured to the edge of the bed and ropes extended from my ankles to the springs underneath. My mind fought to stay focused. Don’t plead, just listen; something will make sense. I refused to worry over whether he had already violated me. “I-I don’t understand.” “Course you don’t,” the deep voice said as though exhausted from reciting the obvious. “You’re a half-breed and a woman. With two strikes against you. Don’t expect you’d understand. At least not yet, Brendell.” Did he say Brendell? He loomed over me. What was the worst that could happen? He could r**e me. An ugly image crept to mind, and I instantly refocused. Okay, I’d survive. I’d keep my eyes closed and go to that safe place inside my head where I went when my mother freaked out. I wouldn’t fight; I wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give him any reason to kill me. I could survive the humiliation. My body flinched in a sudden attack of shivering. “I’m cold,” I said, not meaning to speak. “I’ll throw more wood in the stove.” He sounded like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix movies. In minutes, the wood crackled. He moved to the bottom of the bed. His eyes crawled over me through the small opening in his mask. I tried to recognize his eyes, but cursed my poor night vision. He stood in silhouette against the bright light behind him. The last thing I would do was provoke him. How had he moved the bed from the bedroom through such a small door? He had to have disassembled the frame first. How long did that take? More than an hour, surely? And what had he done with me in the interim? Why didn’t I wake up? “What time is it?” “Does time really matter, Brendell? Or are you anxious to begin?” Begin? Begin what? He stared down at me, no doubt occupied by his evil thoughts. I tried to control my breathing. Tried not to advertise how terrified I was. “I don’t know what to say.” “That’s good, Brendell. That is exactly what you should say. I’m very pleased. Now, let’s begin. First my instructions. I will not repeat these, so you better listen.” He moved to the head of the bed. I tilted my head back and studied his upside-down image. Discerning his age from his voice was nearly impossible. Young? Old? I couldn’t be sure. Though he sounded young, his voice was too confident. Then I thought of my students and realized that made perfect sense. Of course, he was young. “Here’s my case. Of old I used to love him.’” His tobacco breath heated my face. “This same unseen friend, before I knew: “Dream there was none like him, none above him, “Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.’” I knew it was Robert Browning, but the verse held no meaning for me. It was nothing that could relate to my situation and nothing that I’d ever used in class. ‘Unseen friend…trust my dream come true’? This—this intruder was a friend? I didn’t believe that. He moved to the left side of the bed, closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling, caught up in his own drama. I waited for some religious monologue, but he remained quiet. Finally, he lowered his head and opened his eyes. “Brendell, for every correct answer you fill me with gladness. For every incorrect answer you fill me with sadness. You understand?” Understand? Yes, I understood he was psycho. This was going to be a mind game. “Yes, I understand.” “Who knows best?” What kind of a question was—? He moved so quickly I had no time to prepare. His left arm flew out from behind his back and a small rubber hose slashed across my thigh. I screamed. “Brendell. You must answer faster. Who knows best?” Pain tore through my leg. “Cêskwa! WAIT! I know. Father knows—” Another crack of his hose and pain shot through my leg. “CÊSKWA!” “Don’t speak that native crap to me, Brendell. Answer the question more quickly. Who—” “Wait! Give me a minute. The pain is—” “Who knows best?” “You do!” “See. Knew you could do it. Let me untie your legs.” He reached down and fiddled with something at the foot of the bed. I felt the immediate freedom and smacked my knees together. “Next question. Ready?” “Yes, I’m ready.” If he was smiling, I didn’t care because I knew I could beat him at his own game. My mother loved to play mind games. “Who are you?” “Brendell—” The hose sang. I screamed. Afraid to look down, I tried to recall the question, ‘Who are you?’ But I told him and he’d hit me anyway. Brendell Meshango. That’s who I am. “Who are you?” he repeated. Panicking, I said the only thing that came to mind. “Nobody!” You sonofabitch. “Who knows best?” “You do,” I gasped; my mother had prepared me for this game. “Who are you?” “Nobody.” “Who knows best?” “You do.” You piece-of-crap. He paced. His dark clothes blotted out the light. “Who are you?” “Nobody.” Somebody who’ll get you for this. “What do you do?” “I teach—” He lashed the hose across my skin. Dear God! The pain took hold of my breath and my breast burned as though it had burst into flame. “What do you do?” I panted. “Nothing.” “You stupid?” “Yes.” “You a hideous frog-squaw?” No one except my mother Agnostine had ever called me that to my face before. “Yes.” “You deserve to live?” The pain eased. At least for that split-second, I understood that I was still alive. “Please...” Blinding tears flooded my eyes. He dropped the hose and raised his right hand. A knife! He raised his clutched hands high above his head. I stared up in horror and knew he would plunge that knife into my chest without hesitation. I wanted to shout—What did I do! The one thing that made me Brendell Kisêpîsim Meshango, the gift that kept me sane during moments of misery, sprang up and sent a charge of electricity through my body. My legs flew off the bed and toward the man. He sidestepped, and I kicked air. “Wrong move, Brendell.” He lowered his arms. I didn’t see the blow coming. * * * Even in my state of lethargy I realized time had abandoned me. I was so cold. And wet. A liquidly substance that I refused to look at lay on my torso. I remembered the knife. Was I dead now? Is this what death felt like? No, my head and jaw hurt too much. The room stank. A blend of sweet and sour, like a mixture of menstrual blood and vomit. “Who knows best?” I felt a mixture of joy for being alive and hatred because I couldn’t retaliate. “You do.” “Who are you?” “The frog squaw.” “You stupid?” His voice held no emotion. “Yes.” “You ugly?” “Yes.” “You deserve to die?” I thought of begging, but instead whispered, “Yes.” “You deserve to be forgiven?” I stiffened with fear. Did I? Claustrophobic silence pushed me to the edge of hysteria. My mother once told me she’d been cursed the day I was born. If she couldn’t forgive me, why would he? “I hope so.” Once again, I heard the rattle of glass and the flick of a match, a stark glare filled the room. He stood at the bottom of my bed with his hands behind his back and his balaclava covering his expression. Uncertainly threatened to suffocate me. “The only important thing is what you think. That’s all that matters. Nothing else.” I gasped for air, but he didn’t move, didn’t pull the hose from behind his back. Instead, he stared down at my nakedness with eyes that were anything but lust-filled. What? I lowered my eyes. My breasts, thighs, legs, crotch were covered in blood. The sight of an erratic latticework design drained all the will left in me. My blood? But I felt nothing. “Oh, please.” He hung his head and looked down at me with a sad expression; I saw evidence of some mad thing obsessed with death. My death...? “Please forgive me.” “I want to forgive you. I want to believe you’ve changed.” “I have.” “Who knows best?” “You do.” “Who are you?” “I’m nobody. I’m—I’m—” “Who understands you?” “You do.” “Who can forgive you?” “You can.” “Am I your dream come true?” “Yes. You, only you.” “Good girl, Brendell.” A sigh escaped me. Had I just averted another lashing? He floated toward me, arms outstretched. Warm tobacco breath covered my face. “Sleep,” he said, applying hard pressure to the carotid arteries in my neck. Despite the restrains, I fought to free my hands. Rope cut into my wrist. The pressure to my neck was excruciating. Pain, terrible pain. I twisted. I used my chin and tried to shove his hand away. Pressure built up in my head, behind my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning. Choking. The pain—bad! Then the room blackened and his voice faded as I drifted off on the frangible pieces of my soul. “Remember Brendell. Don’t make me hurt you.” Hurt me? But wasn’t I dead now? * * * Morning sun cut through the window, burning my eyes. I blinked and turned away. My body had the clean scent of mill soap. I lifted my head and the room spun. My eyes gazed downward for only a moment before searching for him. My skin was clean and uncut. He sat on the chair beyond the chesterfield, head low, body bent forward, still clad in black, still wearing black leather gloves. He tugged at the balaclava’s neckband and stood. I no longer felt cold though I didn’t feel warm either. “You hungry?” “Yes.” “Cooked you an omelet.” I hate omelets. “Thank you.” He set half a plate next to me on the bed and then did a very strange and wonderful thing...he untied one of my hands. He slid the plate closer. I strained to sit up and almost made the mistake of asking for a fork. I averted my eyes away from my own nakedness. I scooped a small amount of cold egg into my mouth and nearly gagged. “Why did your husband leave you?” I nearly choked. He knew that? How did he know that? “Because… Because I am stupid and ugly?” Damn. I hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question. I tensed, hoping I’d manage the pain this time. “Only I know what you need, Brendell. Eat.” Without argument I obeyed. When my plate was empty, he asked me whether I needed to go and I almost allowed confusion to ruin everything. But survival kicked in. “Yes.” His eyes moved over me, then he nodded and brought me a deep bedpan that I didn’t recognize. I stared at it for a second before my thoughts cleared. Propped on one elbow, I hoisted my buttocks up while pushing the dish underneath. He returned to the kitchen nook and lowered his head. I closed my eyes and worked fast. When I finished, he gave me some paper towels, then handed me a plastic bag and a damp cloth. He removed the dish. I wiped my hands quickly, efficiently. I put the paper towels in the bag. He tied my free hand. I barely glimpsed his hand before he applied pressure to the tender hollow of my neck. His grip was powerful. The pain was unbearable. I fought to escape but—Sweet Jesus. I couldn’t breathe. Choking. My eyes felt as if they were popping out of my head. I tried to scream... * * * Groggy, my eyelids weighed down by drug-induced sleep, I heard the distant cry of a lone eagle and felt like weeping with him. Was he calling to me? Attempting to say goodbye? Promising me that he’d fly overhead as my daughter spread my ashes across the water? Zoë had been silent when I stated that request. A movement stirred the hairs on my neck. Shoes scuffed across the red carpet and the darkness transformed into dim light. “Can I trust you?” he said. “Oh, yes.” I didn’t believe that for a moment. “How do I know you won’t betray me?” I struggled to find an acceptable response and realized warm blankets covered me. My arms were tied, but my legs were free. What did that mean? “I won’t. I promise.” “Do you have any idea how much it pains me to punish you?” He moved closer, one arm behind his back. “Don’t take pleasure in it, Brendell. Thought it would be easy, but it’s not.” Did that mean there would be no more pain? Oh, thank you! “Actually, Brendell, think I could hurt someone who hurt you. Maybe that’s how I prove my loyalty. I could be your one and only personal avenger.” His words seemed to bring him peace and he moved closer. He stopped at the end of my bed. “I could make your ex-husband pay for deserting you, Brendell. “I don’t care about him.” I tried to raise my head. “Can I trust you, Brendell?” A tremor passed through me. I groped for the words that would appease him. He went to the nook and dragged back my only stool. He positioned it between the woodstove and the bed and sat. “Yes, you can trust me.” “Prove it, Brendell,” he whispered, his right arm behind his back. With his free hand, he smoothed the hair off my cheek. Then he grasped my chin so I couldn’t turn my head. He shifted, slipping his hand out from behind his back and resting it on the bed beside my head. I felt something hard and cold touch my cheek. It moved along my throat...touching my chin…my lower lip. I smelled...oiled metal. He tucked his thumb in my mouth and forced my lips apart. Oh dear God! He pressed the barrel of the gun against my teeth…between my teeth. I tasted cold steel. I tried not to gag. I hoped someone other than Zoë found me. He withdrew the gun and let go of my chin. The stool squeaked, and he walked to the kitchen window, his arms folded across his chest. I cried without sound. He grabbed something from the counter and returned to the side of my bed. I stiffening, expecting the excruciating pressure. But this time I felt a prick on the tender area of my neck while my mind registered on the word syringe. “I’ll be watching. Listening. I know everything. All the time wondering, should I hurt Zoë? Make her pay for your crimes?”