In the Cellar
Angel
THE OTHER CAPTIVES hate Bart. He refuses to obey the rules—and he talks. Sometimes, he just yells his name through the penetrating darkness. Other times, he cries for his mother until he collapses from exhaustion. Doesn’t he understand that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? The penalty for disobedience is the music. It is voice activated. When the system detects the cadence of speech, the music commences. It loops for fifteen minutes at a time. The hammering crescendo in the bridge drives the captives to the brink of madness. As an extra deterrent, a strobe light flashes with brilliant bursts of blinding white illumination that pulse on and off. Since Bart arrived, there is seldom a reprieve from the torture.
The others would kill Bart if they could reach him. It takes very little to turn reasonable men into killers—all you have to do is remove physiological and safety needs. Leave them in the cold darkness of the unknown and debase them by forcing them to urinate and defecate within the cells that imprison them. Stripped of compassion, people transmute into animals. But men are already animals. I learned that at a young age.
My father enjoyed a challenge, until he conquered it. He would haul us out to cross-country ski in the dead of winter when the wind shear dropped the temperature to arctic conditions. Whenever I fell, my family would leave me behind to flounder in a swirling blizzard as Dad pushed onward, driven by his mission to beat his best time on the trail.
In the summer, we’d pile into the car and drive five hours into the wilderness. He’d make us portage through mosquito-infested bush with a thirteen-metre, fifty-two kilo skull rowboat. With Dad at the bow and Mama at the stern, my sister and I would try to support the middle. We’d tramp through thorny brush with the boat crushing our shoulders and my sister complaining that I wasn’t carrying my share of the weight. At the choppy lake, Dad would remove a stopwatch from a deep pocket of his cargo pants and begin the timer. Together we’d push the boat into the frigid water and his booming voice would command, “Sit in.” Before I managed to settle into my allocated seat in the coxed four, I’d hear, “Sit ready.” I’d clutch my oar in tense anticipation, but my arms would tremble with exhaustion from the terrible hike. Perspiration would sting my eyes as I waited for the dreaded call of, “Ready all—row!”
He’d grow frustrated and annoyed with my ineptitude, even though he’d never taught me sweep rowing and I was too young to compete. By day’s end, I’d be in agony. Mama would be furious at me for spoiling everyone’s fun. She’d threaten to give me something to cry about if I didn’t stop blubbering. During the trip home, I’d sit with my blistered hands clamped over my mouth and nose to muffle my despair.
My sister was six and a half years older than I was, so Dad had already instructed her on the intricacies of any childhood milestone I was ready to tackle. He tolerated me, but didn’t enjoy my company. It’s hard to hide that from a child. But until that night when I was thirteen, I hadn’t accepted how disposable I was to my family.
When my sister entered university, she entered a rebellious stage and defied Dad by dating an older man. It was a magical time! I’d huddle on the pink carpet of my bedroom floor and press my ear against the closed door. The sound of arguing would pierce the air from downstairs, and my heart would soar with glee. My imagination conjured scenarios that would ingratiate me to my parents. I’d gush over the spongy polyester dress with the heinous dropped waist that made me look like a deformed troll. I’d try harder at school and earn top marks. I wouldn’t talk too much or too loud, I wouldn’t exaggerate, and I’d never tell another lie or make up another story. If I could be what they wanted while my sister disappointed them, my parents would learn to love me.
After my sister took a job that enraged Dad even further, I did everything I could to be the perfect daughter. When I brought home an A+ on my first chemistry test that September, Dad actually congratulated me. I held that tiny bit of praise close to my heart, but I ached for him to tell me that I made him proud.
A week before Halloween on a Sunday night, I was home alone. My sister was at her part-time job, serving lifelong alcoholics watered-down beer in a dismal bar that I imagined smelled of urine and vomit. My parents were out—I don’t recall where—and I was in my bedroom rolling smoke bombs for my Halloween costume. I was going as a smashed television and had cut the bottom off a large box, made holes for my arms and head, and painted the box black. I wanted fumes to ooze from the crumpled tinfoil screen, so I was using ammonium nitrate, which I took out of a drugstore cold pack, mixed with a bit of water to dissolve the granules. I’d soaked folded sheets of newspaper in the solution and sun-dried them on the patio. When I lit the rolls, the smoke would enthrall Dad. He’d be so proud.
With the costume finished, I crept down the hallway to my sister’s room. She’d tossed an array of colourful blouses and dresses across her double bed. A slew of makeup and hair accessories littered her bureau. Hung over the corner of her mirror was a necklace that her boyfriend had given her. Tiny blue gems twinkled on a gold pendant. I snagged the chain and ran to my bedroom. I wanted to try it on and watch the light reflect off the miniature tanzanite stones. I longed for the day that someone would love me enough to bestow gifts.
The necklace, along with the other gifts, had upset Dad. He claimed that men did not give presents without expecting something in return. But those same tokens had charmed Mama. Shiny baubles turn a woman’s head and make her vulnerable to seduction, regardless of her age.
From below me, I thought I heard the front doorbell ring. I froze with the pretty necklace draped across my fingers. A few seconds passed before the doorbell chimed again. I stuffed the trinket into my sock drawer and ran downstairs. Peeking out the window, I saw my sister’s boyfriend standing on the porch with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket.
Confused, I opened the door. “She’s at work,” I said. “She won’t be home until after ten.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know. She told me your parents were out tonight, too.” He stepped into the foyer. “Didn’t you invite a friend to hang out with you?” He peered over the top of my head and into the living room. “Aren’t you afraid to be here alone in the storm?”
I was unaware of the thunderstorm because I’d turned up the volume on the radio before going upstairs. I glanced out the open door at the dark night. We were the last house on a dead-end street and mature trees shielded our property from our neighbours. The light from the front porch illuminated a sea of gold, orange, and red leaves blowing across the yard. A flash of lightning lit the skeleton branches of a sycamore tree. A sharp reverberation of thunder followed and I shuddered.
He took my hand and tugged me inside, out of the doorway. He reeked of cigarette smoke and something strong and skunky that made my nose crinkle. I tried to wiggle out of his clutch but he tightened his grasp and his sharp fingernails dug into the back of my hand.
“How about I keep you company.” He winked.
Before I could figure out what was happening, he’d locked the front door. I thought about running, but I heard Dad’s critical voice reprimanding me for my overactive imagination. I felt the sting of Mama’s slap, punishing me for being melodramatic. This was my sister’s boyfriend. He wasn’t a stranger.
“I don’t suppose your dad has a beer around here?” He strolled into the living room, took off his jacket, and dropped it onto my mother’s velour chair.
“You have to go.” My voice was shrill and I wrung my hands together. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
He laughed. “It’ll be our little secret. Don’t you want to get to know me better? Isn’t that the dream of every little sister, to be friends with her big sister’s boyfriend?” His eyes roamed over my body and I hugged my arms against my pyjama-clad chest, wishing I’d put on a housecoat.
He patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “I hear you don’t have any friends. That’s too bad. It must get lonely. How old are you—fourteen? Before you know it, the boys will be all over you. I bet you’re going to be a knockout when you’re older.”
“Thirteen,” I whispered. “I’m only thirteen. You have to go.”
He leaned against the back of the sofa and studied me. “Be nice. Your sister is nice. Don’t you want to be like her?”
I shook my head and took a step backwards.
I remember him jumping up from the sofa. I remember his calloused hands on my shoulders as he threw me to the carpet. His breath against my nose was rancid. The bristles from his beard scratched my cheek. The radio kept playing. A heavy metal band screeched something about the pieces being as good as the whole. Then the DJ was laughing, as if everything in the world was great. Vomit filled my throat and sick dribbled down my chin. Grunting, he flung my pyjama bottoms aside. His fingers were inside me. His sharp nails ripped and tore at my flesh. Turning my head, I focused on an image of a pink bunny that decorated the white flannel of my discarded pyjama bottoms. The pain was excruciating. I squeezed closed my eyes and sobbed in fear and misery.
When I woke, I was lying on the sofa in the den. The television was on and Desperate Housewives was playing. Gabrielle and Carlos were arguing about something. My hands flew across my body, feeling the flannel of my pyjama top. The stickiness against my inner thighs disgusted and humiliated me. Through my tears, I saw my pyjama bottoms flung across the bottom of the sofa. With shaking hands, I tugged them over my hips. Blood instantly stained the crotch and I cried harder. Outside, the thunderstorm quickened and flashes of brilliant lightning pulsed like a strobe light through the slit in the patio drapes.
The kitchen door slammed shut. Terror gripped me. I jumped to my feet, grabbed the fireplace poker, and hid behind the door in the den. My father’s angry voice drifted through the door. He and my sister were arguing. Mama was yelling at them that all she asked for was one night of peace.
I dropped the poker and stumbled down the dark hallway to the kitchen. My family stared at me but said nothing. “Your boyfriend was here,” I whispered to my sister. “He hurt me.”
My sister shoved me. “You’re a liar! Why do you always have to make trouble for me?” She stared at the blood on my pyjama bottoms and burst out laughing. “You got your period. You’re such a pig. Clean yourself up.”
My mother came out of the living room holding a man’s leather jacket, which my father snatched from her grasp. My sister lunged for her lover’s coat but Dad held it out of reach. He rifled through the pockets and pulled out a bag of weed and a fistful of condoms. Revulsion contorted his face, and he waved them at her as if she were the whore of Babylon.
“That’s it.” His voice was deadly quiet. “Gather up those ridiculous gifts. You’re returning everything and never seeing him again.”
I waited with Mama while Dad marched my sister up the stairs. I waited for Mama to ask me what had happened, to comfort me, to call the police. But she stood mute with her back rigid and no expression on her face.
Upstairs, the arguing reached fever pitch. I heard my sister say loudly that she’d left the necklace with the golden charm on her mirror. Dad was tearing apart her room. My heart hammered in my chest as he stomped to my bedroom.
Dad found the necklace in my drawer. Everything shifted as my parents and sister came together in a unified front. They branded me a liar and a thief. I’d stolen and Dad had proof of the crime. Theft was far more serious a sin than anything she had done.
Dad did confront her boyfriend about coming to the house. He claimed he had come inside when I begged him to because the storm frightened me. He said I flirted with him and it made him uncomfortable so he’d left. My accusation that he’d raped me outraged him. My parents believed him. After all, I had a reputation for exaggerating, lying, and making up stories. They never discussed the incident again.
A week later, at a little after midnight, I lit the smoke bombs in the basement. With the smoke alarms wailing, my family stumbled onto the sidewalk in their nightclothes and stood shivering in the freezing rain. The lights on the fire trucks washed the dead-end street in an eerie crimson glow that made the rain resemble showers of blood.
Bart is screaming again. One of the captives is begging him to stop. But he won’t. When you debase people long enough, they grow acquiescent. Or they fight back with more savagery because they have nothing left to lose.