I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Melvin Royal, but I am. Seeing him here, asleep without a care in the world, is such a shock that it feels like a punch to my heart. A fatal blow. I feel a scream gathering in my throat.
Kill him is the next thought that rushes into the void of my mind, and I bend my right elbow and lunge. I’m trying to bury it in his throat, lean my weight on the point of it until I shatter his hyoid bone, and for a second it feels like I’m going to accomplish that. I feel my elbow bear down on his throat and I start to push . . . and then he’s rolling away. Laughing.
I claw at Melvin, drag my fingernails through any piece of him I can reach, and take strips of flesh off him as he escapes. I’m yanking savagely at my pinned wrist now, and every pull sparks an agonizing burn, like fireworks in the palm of my hand. I don’t care. The fury in me is stronger than the fear, the pain—stronger than anything.
Melvin, rolling to the far edge of the large bed, stares at me as I flail at the edge of my reach. He props himself up on one elbow and watches me with awful fascination. I’m livid with rage, burning with it like a candle, and it doesn’t leave room for more sensible emotions, like fear or confusion or horror.
I just want to kill him.
“Is that how you thank me for letting you have one last comfortable rest?” he says to me. “I should have put you in the cellar. Let you worry about the rats and roaches for a while.” He twists and looks at the deep fingernail gouges I’ve left in the flesh of his side. He’s lean now. Fit. He’s been spending his prison time lifting weights, I think, but he’s the pale color of something that lives in caves. He was only allowed an hour of yard time a day, I remember. It didn’t do him much good. He’s grown a beard. But other than those changes, he’s exactly as I remember him.
He’s capable of anything, and I damn well know it. I’ve seen it, in decaying flesh and broken bones and drying blood, a sculpture of horror and agony he made. But cowering isn’t something I do anymore. “Put me in the cellar. Rats and roaches would be better company,” I say. It comes out more like a growl. I wonder if my eyes are bloodshot. It feels that way. Feels like every vein in my body is bursting with fury. “You bastard.”
He shrugs, and that slow, cool smile makes me want to claw it off his face. “You were such a nice woman when I married you. Look what being single’s done to you. I don’t like the muscles, Gina. When I start cutting, I’ll get rid of those first. I like my ladies delicate.”
My white-hot anger flickers a little, but I deliberately feed it images of his victims. I’d rather be enraged than terrified, and those are my only choices now. This is what I signed up for, back on that road in Tennessee when I thought about darting into traffic and ending it all. I told Sam that I’d rather give my life this way, keeping Melvin occupied, tied down, so that he could be found.
Rage is better than fear. Always.
“I’m not one of your ladies,” I tell him. I wonder how many bones I’ll have to break in my hand to pull it free. Three? Four? He’s put the cuff on very tightly. But he’s too calm. Too prepared. This is a trap, and I think he wants me to hurt myself.
“You’re my wife, Gina.”
“Not anymore.”
“I never accepted that,” Melvin says, as if that settles everything. He checks a watch he has on the nightstand on his side of the bed. “It’s nearly seven. You should have something to eat. It’s going to be a very long night.”
I realize now that he’s wearing faded old pajama bottoms. They’re a little large on him. Antiques, like the gown he’s put on me. “Where are we?” I ask. “How did you get me here?” It’s not Tennessee. It doesn’t feel like that, smell like that. There’s a different weight to the air here, and it’s warmer.
“This place belongs to a friend of mine,” he says. “A grand old place, back in the day. The front of it used to look like the White House, but you can’t tell it anymore, between the rot and the kudzu that’s taken over. As to how I got you here . . . let’s just say I had some help.”
“A plantation,” I guess, because this all feels Southern Gothic, and the kudzu gives it away. “You think you’re the lord of some decaying manor now?”
“Think of it as a place where special events are filmed. Commission pieces get done here. My friend’s got a few other location sets around. You’ve even found a couple of them. The warehouse was one. That cabin you blew up was another.”
Special events. I remember the darkest trade that Absalom does, in rape and torture and murder on film, with a sick, gritty taste in my mouth. “You were part of it,” I say. “Absalom.”
“I was a customer who graduated to being a supplier,” he replies. “I had talent. Made a good career out of it for nearly ten years. I was careful. I suppose I got careless, at the end. I should have put that last one in the lake while I had the chance. If I’d cleaned up the garage the night before, like I intended, we’d still be married.” He pats the mattress. “Still sharing the marital bed, too. I know you’ve missed it. I have.”
He sounds so normal. Wistful. It’s disorienting. Who would I be now if he’d kept hold of me for these past nearly five years? What would he have done to our children? I don’t want to imagine it, but I do: poor, passive Gina Royal, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes for long, scuttling through life with rounded shoulders and the mentality of a victim. Showing her children nothing but submission.
My kids might be damaged now, but I have fought for them. I’ve made sure they’re strong, independent young people. He can’t take that from them. Or me.
“You going to rape me, Melvin?” I ask him. “Because if you try, I’m going to rip as many pieces off you as I can reach.”
“I’d never do that to you. Not to the mother of my children.” I’ve gotten to him a little. He stretches and tries to make it look natural, but I can see he’s frustrated. I’m not playing the role of cowed victim. I’m not submitting. “Not that I can see her much in you now. Look what you’ve done to yourself. And for what? To survive? Not worth it, Gina, especially since you’re going to die this way.” His eyes take on a wet, opaque shine, like ice. He’s already started taking me apart in his head.
“Fuck you,” I tell him. I start working on the cuff. The pain is extraordinary, a supernova of red-and-yellow flares that burn like phosphorus as I twist my hand. Something gives with a wet, crisp snap, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I don’t feel anything for a blessed second. It’s like my body is trying to give me time to escape.
I break another bone, and my fingers burn like I’ve lit them on fire. I let out a cry, but it’s an angry one. A victorious one. Pain is life. Pain is victory.
I’m going to get free, and I’m going to kill him.