“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. I have plenty of gifts.”
“This would look adorable on Shelley, with her heart-shaped face.”
My mother’s voice startled me awake. I sat up, my heart pumping hard, half expecting to see her, only to discover that I was still in the room, still curled up on the floor.
My mother’s voice continued to play in my head on a continuous loop. I pictured her standing at the kitchen table in her snowflake-printed bathrobe with her basketful of gifts: the melon-printed cap, the snowball-maker, the faux-fur glovelettes, and the turquoise watch …
And I threw up in my mouth.
“Please!” I shouted over and over again as if the monster might hear me and change his mind. I crawled to the door and listened for him to come.
But it was silent now.
There were no other voices and not a single footstep.
The only sound was the rushing of water, as though through a pipe, reminding me I still hadn’t showered. The thought of taking off my clothes, after finding the underwear, was even worse than the smell of my skin, the stench of my sweat (like concentrated vinegar).
Door hinges whined from the end of the hall. I poked my face through the cat door and waited for the click of the latch and the jostling of keys. It took twenty-two steps before his legs were finally within view—faded jeans, frayed hems, brown heavy work boots.
“Please,” I begged. “What do you want? What can I do?”
Why was I here?
Who were the others?
The dishes rattled as he set down a tray. I caught a glimpse of a red plaid shirt and a bright green watch. No tree-limb tattoo. Was it farther up his arm? Or maybe the monster bringing me food wasn’t the same one who’d taken me.
“Who are you?” I pleaded after thirty-six tally marks. “Do you work for him? How much is he paying you? My parents will quadruple it.” I stuck out my hand, trying to grab at his boots; I knew them by heart—every mark, stain, stitch, and scuff. I noticed on days when his laces were double-knotted, and when the leather was damp, when I could smell the rain-soaked hide.
On some days, I’d have given anything for him to come into my room and beat me—to throttle my neck, throw me against the wall, cut me with a knife, or set my hair on fire. At least then I would’ve had a fighting chance. And at least then I might’ve felt on the outside a fraction of what I’d been experiencing on the inside—that gnawing-singeing ache.
“Let me out!” I shouted after thirty-nine tally marks, throwing myself against the door and pounding it with my fists. I grabbed the side of the cabinet and tried to rip it from the wall. But I fell back—hard—hitting my head on the bed frame. A spray of flashing lights shot in front of my eyes. But still it didn’t stop me.
I hurled the trays, chucked my boots, rattled the chains, kicked the table.
Shook the fridge.
Tossed the snacks.
Pulled the drawers.
And threw the clothes.
I flipped the mattress, tore up the sheets, screamed myself hoarse, and thrashed until I saw blood.
Needless to say, I was a very naughty girl, and it got me absolutely nothing, except a big mess to clean, an egg-shaped bump on my head, and a gash by my eye. The blood from the gash pooled onto the cement. I watched it for several seconds, wondering how much blood one would have to lose before passing out.
And what would happen then?
Would trays of food collect in the hall? Would the monster assume I was dead and come inside to check?
What would it take to die? How long would I have to bleed? My heart pounded at the flurry of questions, at this sudden surge of power.
And then I saw it.
As if by fate.
A box of Cocoa Loco brownies.
I must’ve whipped it across the room without having noticed the smiling square of chocolate on the cover of the box. Otherwise, I would’ve paused, because they were Shelley’s comfort food of choice, with the layer of chopped walnuts and the drizzle of white frosting.
Had the guy assumed they were one of my favorites—maybe from spotting them in the forefront of our snack cabinet, through the window in the kitchen? Or maybe he’d seen my mom stocking up on boxes at the little red store in town.
The funny thing was we’d only kept Cocoa Loco brownies around for Shelley’s visits, and so finding them in the monster’s cabinet, among all of my favorite go-to snacks, and knowing he’d misunderstood, as trivial as the detail was, gave me a smidge of satisfaction.
He didn’t know everything about me.
I held the box against my chest, thinking how it’d never failed to make Shelley’s face light up. When her boyfriend, Mitchell, lied about his boys’ night out, or when she’d bomb a test at school, all I had to do was flash the Cocoa Loco name, and all hope would be restored.
The light in the room blinked once before going out completely and leaving me in the dark. But suddenly that was okay, because I had the box of brownies.
I navigated to the bed, pretending to be in Shelley’s basement during one of our sleepovers, imagining we’d just watched a scary movie and decided to call it a night. “I miss you,” I whispered into the darkness, snuggling the box closer and picturing Shelley’s smiling face.