Horror / Urban Legend (Analysis)

I stood shivering on the highway in the cold drizzle of an early night, my thumb poised for the passing cars streaking by with a hiss on the shining asphalt. Behind me the sign – San Carno 30 mi – reflected in the glare of lonely headlights and slick rain. I had been there for over two hours, my shoulders hunched with cold as I slowly tread backwards over crunched gravel and scoured the distance for a car that would be my salvation. My hair clung to my cheeks in sodden patches and the flannel of my shirt was damp with icy rain. The horizon was hazy in the moonlight, the fields around me dark shadows bathed in murky light and gentle rainfall.

My jaw chattered and my hands trembled. I wondered what it felt like to curl up in a field of sodden grass to hide and seek comfort in the wet embrace of the field. Perhaps my body would become warmer if I surrendered to the rain and the damp earth.

I blinked as a glow reached my eyes from the highway. A car. No. The headlights were too high. A truck, maybe a good sized pick up. I moved closer to the road, thumb held high, squinting as the lights bore down on me.

“Please, please, stop,” I begged in a whisper. The truck roared towards me, its speed undiminished. I raised my thumb higher, feeling exposed and alone.

It slowed as it approached. My breath caught in my throat. Twenty feet from where I stood, the truck, an older model Ford, came to a rumbling, catching me in the glare of its headlights. I did not hesitate, I stumbled towards the cab with shaken urgency, pausing at the door to look inside.

The driver, warm and dry, reached for the passenger side and rolled down the window. He eyed me with scrutiny beneath wild, furrowed eyebrows.

“What’re you doing out here by your lonesome?” he asked me in a gravelly voice.

“I – I need a ride,” I blurted in a shaky voice, my body shaking terribly.

He eyed me with a troubled look, almost grandfatherly with his greying, bushy hair. Long creases lined his face like hard crags, but his eyes were kind.

“Hop in,” he said gruffly and popped the lock on the door.

I fought tears of sudden gratitude as I opened the door and crawled up into the seat, feeling the immediate warmth surround me. Hastily, I rolled up the window as he gave the truck gas. My body gave a violent shudder and I rubbed my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

One eye shot in my direction.

“For getting your seat wet,” I said, sheepish.

He grunted.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He concentrated on the road as the truck rumbled down the highway, rain sloshing beneath the tires. Cigarrette ashes littered the dashboard and an old, yellowed map lay in the groove next to my seat. The hands that held the wheel were gnarled and weathered with age and hard work.

Not a serial killer, I thought to myself. Just a nice old man heading somewhere at night.

“Are you driving into San Carno?” I asked lightly, folding my arms across my chest.

“Passing through,” he said.

I watched the dark fields roll my outside and hoped I’d never see them again.

“I guess you could drop me off somewhere within the city limits. That would be ok,” I told him.

The eye darted in my direction again. HE wasn’t a large man, rahter slight in build, his worn flannel shirt nearly as faded as my own.

“Thanks agains for picking me up off the highway. I was simply freezing,” I shivered agains, the cold from outside pressing against the windows.

“If you’re planning to wander San Carno alone, you might be better off freezing out there in the cold,” he said frankly, his eyes never leaving the road.

I prickled somewhat, my defences suddenly up.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice sore.

He pursed his lips. “You’re just a kid.”

“I know that.”

“Where are your folks?”

An image of my mother came to mind, her arms slung around the bull neck of a drunken Stever, her body swaying to a tinny country song on an ancient radio.

“Gone,” I said flatly.

He shrugged. “It’s not my business.”

“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I said quietly.

“Perhaps not.”

I thought of my bed at home, thrust into the corner of a cluttered living room, paces from the dim light of the hall. You could see shadows there in the darkness, tall shadows of people moving in the night, the sound of bare feet slapping the wooden floor as they moved towards you.

“I’m going to San Carno. I’ll go to school, maybe find work.” I realized I was saying it more for my own benefit that the old man’s.

His lips tightened, but he said nothing. One hand left the steering wheel and fished a cigarrette from his front pocket, lighting it between his lips witha quick, practiced movement.

“Can I bum one?” I asked.

An eye found me. Wordlessly, he reached for another cigarrette and handed it to me. He passed me his lighter.

“Thanks.” I fumbled with it, my hands awkward. A long flame shot towards my face, singing my nostrils with scrid smoke. The nicotine made me shiver and my legs feel weak. God, the cigarrettes were strong – nothing like the rolled tobacco my mother smoked at home.

The old man was smiling to himself. He took long drags from his own cigarrette, exhaling plumes of dark smoke.

“I’ll drop you off in San Carno,” he said. “If that’s what you’ve made up your mind to do.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt comforting to hear him agree to my plan.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a tiny puff of cigarrette. We were passing other cars now and I could see the lights in the distance.

It occurred to me that this man might have a grand daughter my own age, somewhere out there, warm and safe in a home sheltered by his love.

I was a stranger he would drop off in San Carno.

I curled my legs into the seat and leaned back, my skin warm and dry. I remembered nights at home, my mother working nights at the diner, the traler dark and rank with the smell of beer and old dishes. The sound of Steve snoring down the hall. The sound of Steve grunting and stumbling to wake up.

The world outside was cold and lonely, but life inside could be much, much worse.

• * * *

True to his word, my savior dropped me off on the outskirts of San Carno.

“Here,” he said, pressing a few bills into my hand. “Get yourself a place to sleep.” He nodded towards a strip of glowing motels. “And tomorrow find yourself one of them government people. They’ll fix you up.”

I nodded numbly, my hand on the door.

“Don’t,” he said, his eyes serious. “Stay out here alone. That’s the best and only advice I have to give you.”

I thanked him and stepped outside, leaving the warmth of the truck behind. I watched him drive onto the freeway, the rear lights blinking farewell.

The rain hadn’t subsided and the chill had intensified, creeping into my bones with icy fingers. My eyes were heavy and I felt tired as I gazed upon the towering lights of the city before me.

San Carno. I had been here but once in my short life – in happier grade school days, shuttled by the strength of a yellow school bus. A group of excited children, suddenly walking the bustling streets of the big city with its cafes and people in suits, chauffered to the museum by the guiding hand of our teachers. I stood on the lighted strip alone, my limbs weary from travel, my eyes aching for sleep. In my hand were thirty crumpled dollars, given to me by an old man who’d picked me off the street. The people with suits had long since gone home to cozy apartments and the cafes were all closed for the night – their places now taken by shuffling creatures in dark, tattered clothing and bars open beneath neon lights.

The Sandman Motel. The Travel Inn. Darker, seedier buildings looming on the edge of the street. Cars crawled along the curb, stopped by women with skirts and umbrellas. Men perched together in hunched circles on street corners; people were darting from one to another, calling to each other in the night.

I was seventeen years old, tall and lanky for a girl, my hair cropped to my chin in a dark, chunky bob. My mother had named me Martha, but I’d been called Marty from the start.

Deciding on the Travel Inn, I turned to cross the street, pausing to check for cars and then scurrying across, hands deep in my pockets. I held my head down as a man passed me on the other side, peering out at me from beneath a low fitting hood. He slipped into an alley between two dark, gated stores and disappeared into the shadows.

I turned right and followed the row of slient storefronts to a gulley guarded by a dripping chain link fence, bordering the parking lot of the Travel Inn. A hushed silence hung over the parked cars; rain drizzled by faints lights outside closed doors and drawn curtains.

Everyone slept soundly as I searched for the manager’s office, my eyes hopeful on the sign that blinked “VACANCY”. I padded towards it with a rush of rainwater flowing past my feet, feeling droplets coarsing down and falling from my face.

I stood on a sopping straw mat before the office door. A sign had been taped to the side and written in felt pen – “Ring for service”. Pressing the bell with two fingers, I waited, drawing my icy hands into the sleeves of my flannel shirt.

There was no sound or movement from within. I pushed the bell again, harder, straining my ears for something from inside.

Nothing. I clenched my teeth, rocking on my heels.

In smaller print, beneath the instructions to ring the bell were more words – “Closed from 1am to 4am”.

What? Was it that late already? I looked around, confused. I didn’t have watch, so I had no idea what the time was, but I hadn’t thought it was past one o’clock.

I waited a few more minutes, then let out a hiss of frustration. It was after one. It had to be. There wasn’t anyone coming to answer the door.

“Damn it,” I muttered. I would have to try the Sandman – providing I wouldn’t find a similar situation there.

Hugging my arms tightly across my chest, I headed back to the icy street.

I didn’t even have to bother going to the Sandman office to find out that I was out of luck. The neon letters below the sign were clear enough – NO VACANCY.

I paused on the sidewalk, my eyes searching the parking lot, seeing the cars parked at the foot of each room – cozy and settled for the night. Rain coursed over windshields and ran along gleaming hoods, but inside the cars were dry. Inside lay sleeping families, warm and safe in the confort of the motel, while I stood forlorn on the edge of the street.

I was momentarily overcome with the urge to pound on a door, to wake the occupants and bef for shelter.

“Let me use your car if nothing else!” I’d plead.

I turned to the street behind me, with its beckoning lights. I’d never felt so tired in my life.

The only places open at this time of night were pubs and bars. There were no glitzy clubs or all night restaurants in this part of the city – everything was dark and small, hidden in the crook of older buildings and down side alleys. People lurked at the entrances, passing in and out of doors that let a low murmer out onto the street.

They were the only refuge available to me now, beckoning to me through the rain.

I hurried past the gulley, with its slick rim of mud and chain link fence and then scampered across the street corner to the dark building I’d walked by earlier. A short distance away, a prostitute was prowling her turf on sharp stilletto heels, rain running from her umbrella to the street.

Chin down, I half ran to the first light bar I could find, tucked beneath the crumbling shadow of a cuilding that rose sharply into the starless sky. A man stood hunched at the entrance, mumbling to himself in a low voice. Bloodshot eyes gazed at me from swollen sockets and then looked away, distant in thought.

I whispered an apology and puched my way through a heavy oak door into the bar. A haze of smoke greeted me, hovering over the dimly lit interior. Patrons sat loosely scattered at worn wooden tables etched by neglect and wear. A man laughed sharply from the bar counter, nursing a large mug of beer. Neon signs glowed faintly from the walls – Coors, Heineken, Captain Morgan. I couldn’t see any women, just baseball caps and unkempt greasy locks of male hair.

I was uneasily aware of my age and obvious lack of maturity. The bar was stuffy and the air was bad, but at least it was warm. But how long would it be before I was recognized as a minor and cast back onto the street?

My shoes squished loudly as I wandered inside, provoking a few sudden stares from those I passed. They glanced up from their drinks and smoking cigarrettes, briefly caught my eye and then returned to their own worlds as though I’d never been. No one seemed to pay me any mind.

I figured it was no use to simply slip into an empty booth in a corner and hope I wasn’t noticed. if I was to be kicked out, it might as well happed now while I could still deal with the prospect of going back outside. I approached the bar and propped myself up onto a stool a few seats down from the man who’d laughed earlier. I leaned my elbows onto the scratched surface of the counter and propped my chin onto my hands.

The bar tender was busy wiping glasses at the other end of the counter, hodling them to the light for inspection. Funny, I thought. Such attention for detail in such a delapitated place. The stools were all ripped, their stuffing exposed and the tables were beaten and scratched – yet the bartender took care to clean the glasses.

Hmmmph, I thought, leaning forward with sleepy eyes. The counter was rough and scoured beneath my hands, but, strangely enough, it was spotlessly clean. I closed my eyes, colors swimming in my head. My hair trailed droplets of water to my fingertipy, but they were warm and soft.

The bartender ignored me, busy with his cleaning. I thought he may have spotted me from the corner of his eye, but I couldn’t be sure. Either way, he made no move to serve me or throw me out. He seemed haughty and remote, with his smartly shaved goatee and slick black hair.

Bars were open until two or three, weren’t they? It seemed that I would have a place to doze for a few hours.

I barely felt my eyes close and my mind drift into darkness. Blinking, I sat up sharply. The bartender had disappeared. The man a few seats down was hacking, smacking his lips loudly after each gutteral spasm.

I wanted a cigarrette – something to keep me awake. I didn’t was to fall asleep in a place like this – not if I could help it.

“Hello.”

The voice startled me. I looked to my right in surprise, eyes suddenly wide.

A man leaned up on the counter, standing beside me with a lazy smile on his face.

“Uh, hi,” I stammered, inching back a little.

His smile grew longer, his sharp black eyes trained on my face.

“Aren’t you a little young to be hanging out here?” he asked in a husky voice.

Oh, no, I thought. This is it. I would be thrown out into the cold. This guy must be the bouncer, I figured, eyeing his taughtly muscled arms. The bartender must have alerted him to my presence.

I looked down, face burning. “Oh, um -“

He gave a slight wave of his hand. “Hey, don’t worry,” he crooned, leaning forward. “I won’t tell.”

I recoiled somewhat, expecting his breath to be fould with alcohol. It wasn’t.

“Relax,” he said. His eyes were flashing. “Take it easy.”

I took a good look at him then, forcing myself to tek in his sharp, chiseled features and dark, lank hair. He was curiously pale, with high cheekbones and a pointed elfin chin. A thin scar ran across one cheek and a lock of hair fell across eyes as black as coal.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the empty stool next to me with his hand. He looked amused.

“Yes,” I said. “Um, I mean, yes – go ahead.” I couldn’t stop him from istting in a public place.

He propped one elbow onto the counter and rested his head on his palm, his eyes never letting me from their sight. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh, shaking his head.

I backed away, stunned.

“Excuse me,” he said, still chuckling. “But it’s just that you look so funny sitting there like a drowned rat.”

I swallowed loudly and said nothing.

“I’m Mario, by the way,” he told me, holding out his hand.

I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to feel his pasty skin on mine.

“Oh, ok.” He raised an eyebrow, withdrawing the hand. “At least tell me your name.”

“Marty,” I blurted.

He seemed to consider it, nodding his head. “Like as in Martin?” He laughed again at his own joke, revealing small pointed teeth.

“No.”

“What then?”

“Martha.”

“Ahh,” he rubbed his chin with two fingers.

I stared at him, the muscles in my face twitching.

“Nice,” he drawled, giving me another languid smile.

I played with the sleeves of my shirt, uncertain of what I should do. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the bartender lurking nearby, standing still and motionless to the side.

Mario snapped his fingers.”Tony!” he called.

The bartender drifted towards us, towel in hand.

“Get my special friend here a drink, on me,” Mario instructed. Tony nodded.

“Uh, no,” I protested. “Really – I don’t want -“

Mario held up a hand. “Now come on, Martha honey. Don’t tell me you don’t drink,” he chided.

“No – its – just -“

“Just what?” He leaned forward, his eyes penetrating mine. “Tony makes an excellent drink, don’t you, Tony? It’ll relax you, I promise.”

My eyes darted from Mario to the waiting bartender. Tony glared at me, his expression cold and fierce.

“You’re insulting him, Martha,” Mario chided. “I wouldn’t insult Tony if I were you.”

I glanced towards the exit, my heart suddenly loud in my chest. Smoke guarded the door, hazy in the distance. Mario pressed up against my shoulder, watching me.

“Ok,” I said, my voice weak. Mario smiled again, reclining back. One drink, I thought. I wouldn’t even finish it. Just to get them to leave me alone. Tony smirked and turned away.

I would leave at the first opportunity. Rain and cold were a welcoming thought compared to this place.

“Now,” Mario purred. “Tell me – who are you running from little Martha?”

I turned away to escape his leering face.

“Is it your daddy?” he continued. “Does he beat you?” He leaned forward, his voice now barely above a whisper. “Does he touch you?”

I flinched as the bartender slid my drink before me, its clear liquid sloshing inside a broad tumbler.

Mario was chuckling. “Such a shame. You’re pretty, you know that?”

I took a sip from the drink, shuddering at its bitterness. I had to get out of here – fast.

“You’re tall enough to be a model,” he was saying. I felt a hand reach out and touch my hair.

“Please,” I heard myself saying. “I have to get back home.” His hand lingered on my head.

“You live in San Carno?”

“Yes,” I said firmly.

“Liar,” he drawled in a mocking voice.

I took another sip of the drink, aware that Tony was watching us from the other end of the bar. The man at the counter had left – everyone else seemed oblivious to my plight.

If I screamed for help, would anyone come to my rescue?

“Go on,” Mario was saying in my ear. “Drink.”

“Fine.” My voice was distant, as though it belonged to somebody else. Hands shaking, I held the glass to my lips, swallowing as much as I could in one large gulp.

“Whoah – let me get that,” I was vaguely aware of Mario patting a napkin to my dripping chin.

I leaned back and nearly fell off the stool. Clawing at the counter, I tried to steady myself.

“I don’t – I don’t feel so – oh my god.” My breathing had become rapid and my head was spinning wildly. I felt Mario take my arm. I let him.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he was saying, over and over as he held onto me. “Drink too much, you silly kid?”

Darkness passed across my eyes and I felt sick to my stomach.

“Hold on, hold on,” Mario was saying.

I grabbed him, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me.

The last thing I remember before passing out was letting Mario lead me away by the arm, holding me to my feet. Where he took me, only the watchful eyes of Tony knew.

• * * * *

My first thoughts upon waking were ones of warmth and safety. In my mind I lay in a soft, cozy bed, snuggled in blankets up to my chin, my body sheltered from the cold. Someone was cooking fried eggs in the kitchen just for me, the aroma wafting through the room. I stretched my limbs and curled up, my eyes slowly blinking me into consciousness.

I was indeed lying on a bed. I was fully dressed, shoes still tied on my feet. But there were no blankets, just a hard, dirty mattress beneath me and a bare steel frame, jutting from the foot of the bed like a cage.

I jerked awake. A naked bulb was burning overhead in a room as bare as a cell. The walls were without windows, the paint yellowed and peeling. There was a single door directly across from the bed, dark and heavy. I sat up abruptly and nearly fell back. My head was pounding and my limbs felt like lead. I didn’t like the way my vision blurred the contours of the room or the way the light hurt my eyes.

Where was I? I reached up to rub my eyes. Oh my god. My heart lurched as I remembered Mario, like a spector from a bad dream.

It was him, I thought wildly. He took me here.

I tried to get up, my mind whirling, but my body wasn’t responding. I rolled over, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. With a crash, I landed hard on the floor, my face grinding into a bald carpet stained with ash.

Got to get up. Got to get up. Got to get out.

I was attempting to prop myself up by the elbows when I heard the click of a lock. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the door open.

Mario walked calmly inside, stark and pale against the dark hall outside. He kicked the door shut with a bang.

“What the -??!!” I cried, wailing.

He said nothing and started to loosen his belt.

“Where have you taken me?!” I screamed, feeling my voice crack.

He shot me a look of annoyance.

“Let me out!” I bawled, tears beginning to roll hotly down my cheeks.

“Shut up,” he barked, watching me with disgust as I writhed on the floor. I collapsed helplessly, resting my head against the stinking carpet. A sob wracked my body.

I heard his belt thump to the floor.

“Oh god,” I moaned, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded.

“What?” My head popped up. “No, no! Oh no!”

“I said,” he snarled. “Take off your clothes.”

“Please!” I begged. “Please don’t make me -“

He lunged at me from across the room, taking something from the back of his pants. With one swift movement, he grabbed me by the shoulders, lifted me and whacked me hard upside the head with something hard.

Pain exploded in my ears and I gasped. I felt Mario drag me up onto the bed and yank my head up by the hair. Something cold pressed into my neck.

“Take off your clothes,” he said in an icy voice. “Or I’ll kill you.” The cold object pressed harder against my skin. A gun.

“Oh-” I gasped. “Ok, ok.” I couldn’t see, but I felt the area around my eye begin to swell, sending stabs of pain shooting through my head.

It’s funny how many times you hear these stories – of young kids alone in the big city, suddenly caught in a nightmare. The organ stealers. The people who prick you with HIV infected needles. Urban legends.

You never think you’ll be one of them.

Mario was tugging my pants down and tearing at my underwear, still holding the gun to my neck with one hand. His breath was coming fast, hissing against my ear.

I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes tightly at the sudden touch of his skin against mine.

I concentrated, grabbing onto distant thoughts, clinging to visions in my head.

I remembered Stever, looming over my bed in the darkness, grinning at me by the light of the hall.

He turned his head to the trailer door, his profile sharp in my mind.

“Mommy’s not coming home tonite,” he was saying. “Working late.”

“It’s just you and me baby,” He turned back, leering. “Just you and me. Don’t you just love our nights alone together? I know you do.”

His face drifted closer, growing larger and larger until all I could see was the ghastly gleam in his eyes.

“No, no,” I was moaning. Mario’s hands were on my head, pushing down. I cried in pain as he ripped into me and began thrusting, his breath coming in low, animal grunts.

Concentrate, I told myself through gritted teeth. You’re used to this. Put up with it and he’ll go away. Just like Steve.

Until the next lonely night.

No, no. This was different. Do what he says and he’ll let you go. Do what he says and you’ll be free.

He was rocking against me now, pulling painfully at my hair. I clutched the mattress with my fingernails and bit my lip until it bled.

And then he groaned loudly, leaning up hard against me. As quickly as he’d attacked me, he backed away, hopping from the bed in a swift movement.

I lay bleeding and bruised as he zipped up his pants.

“Good girl,” he growled.

My body began to shake, trembling violently on the bed.

“Get dressed,” he ordered. I heard him retreave his belt and snake it wround his waist. The buckle snapped like a whip.

“Ohhhh-” I wailed, unable to speak.

He fumbled with something and then approached the bed. I felt him roughly tug my pants up over my hips.

“You probably want to sleep,” he was saying. “Sleep and forget.”

He yanked up my sleeve and pulled my arm painfully behind my back. He was running his hands across it.

“Here’s a little something to help you along,” he told me.

I felt a sharp prick as he jabbed a needle into my vein. I cried out.

He was chuckling. “Sweet dreams, Martha.”

I barely recall him leaving the room.

Oh no. Oh no. HIV. HIV. HIV. HIV.

And then, once again, darkness.

• * * * * *

I awoke suddenly, my eyes snapping open with a start. I found nothing but blackness.

I was still lying on the bed and all though there was no light, I knew I hadn’t been taken from that dirty, yellow room. There was a terrible cramp in both of my arms; they had been positioned behind my head and sharply lashed to the bed frame by a thick rope. I tugged on them and felt pain shoot from my arists to my shoulders, the rope biting into my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the pounding in my head, and realized that my whole body hurt horribly. Blinking, I stared into the darkness, feeling exposed and care to things I couldn’t see. The room seemed an endless chasm without shape or form; the blackness tickling me from all corners, pressing down on me from above.

I shuddered miserably, straining my arms painfully on the ropes. my skin prickled from a sudden chill and I started to tremble.

If only I could crawl deeper into my clothes and hide from the darkness.

I remembered nights in the trailer, lying tucked beneath the sheets, blankets pulled to my chin.

Don’t forget your toes – cover them well. Leave nothing exposed, lest you find it gone in the morning. Something will come in the night…... and it will touch you.

And so I had covered everything, sometimes even my head. But Steve had always managed to find me.

What would find me now? My eyes darted wildly across the shadows as though I expected them to move.

I desperately needed to use a washroom; my bladder was painfully full. I strained to contain it, writhing uncomfortably on the bed.

Would somebody come? The thought of Mario petrified me, but I hated being tied and alone. Perhaps he’s finally let me go.

Gritting my teeth, I let my breath whistle through my teeth. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold my bladder and my arms were now throbbing with a constant ache.

Something moved to my left. I didn’t see – just heard. A low scrape from the corner of the room, almost like a quiet shuffle. I did not dare to breath, waiting.

Was I dreaming? I was alone, wasn’t I? I listened, waiting for the sound to come again. But there was nothing. Just silence. A deep, forboding silence, as though the whole room was holding its breath with me. My skin went completely cold.

Once, when I’d been only ten, I’d run away from home, taking with me the only friend I’d ever had. We had headed for the hills that rolled the misty horizon behind us one early summer morning – quietly slipping from our beds out onto the muddy trails that snaked away from our homes. I don’t know where we were planning to go – I think it has something to do with being ten, frustrated and imagining that the world outside would fullfill all the dreams that had been taken from you at home.

Trekking up dewy underbrush and gnarled roots, we had halfway scaled a small mountain by early evening, our clothes dirtied and sodden with sweat. Panting, we’d paused beneath a canopy of saplings, fishing tobacco from our packs.

“Maybe we can camp at the top for the night,” my fried had suggested, the last rys of sunlight trickling through the trees to our feet.

So we had continued on, foraging our way upwards, clinging to branches and weeds, birds twittering from the tree tops above.

And then, suddenly, my friend had stopped. A hushed silence had fallen over the mountain, so that even the trees seemed to stand still. I remembered the absence of the birds, the absolute quiet all around us. Not an animal moved. I’d been suddenly afraid, my skin gone cold.

My friend’s eyes had gone wide, her face pale.

“Look,” she’d whispered, pointing at the sky. “Look!”

A circle of crows flew overhead, black and stark on the dying horizon, silently lingering in flight. Watching.

Crows are scaverngers. They pick at the flesh of dead animals, biding their time until a predator has finished with its kill.

They are said to follow the trail of a mountain lion, circling overhead like watchful sentries guarding their prey.

“What is it?” I’d hissed, pausing beneath her.

“Shh,” she’d said. “Listen.”

They were flying over our heads then. And somewhere to our left, something moved. I don’t recall ever having run so quickly in my life – we had practically thrown ourselves down the mountain, stumbling and tearing through trees and brush, never once looking back. We’d arrived back at the trailers that night shaken and bruised, my clothes torn and my skin scratched.

But I’d survived.

That silence. That strange, unnatural silence that lingers before the storm.

The corner of the room was quiet, lurking in the dark shadows that drowned me. A tear rolled from one swollen eye and I began to blubber, pleas of mercy escaping lips now cracked and dry.

All I had were memories. Andie, my childhood friend, stood frozen in my mind, forever painted beneath the sapling and faded light of a day long gone by.

She had died only a year after that evening on the mountain, trapped in the flaming inferno of her family’s trailer.

They said her father had fallen asleep smoking in bed, too drunk on moonshine to put out his cigarrette. I had watched it go up in flames with a crowd of others, clinging to my mother’s faded sundress on the muddied trail by the clearing. I’d seen the flames licking the night, roaring from the roof into a starless sky, bursting from shattered windows and engulfing the whole trailer in minutes as we stood by, helpless as though hypnotized.

“Don’t look, honey,” my mother had whispered, holding my head to her breast. “Shhh. Don’t look.”

But I couldn’t help it, my eyes were mesmerized by the pulsing fire, my face touched by its heat. And all the while I could hear Andie’s mother, apart from the rest of us, on her knees in the mud, clutching her head and wailing.

“Oh my God they’re in there! My babies! God – someone do something!!! PLEASE DO SOMETHING!!! Don’t let them burn – oh God, DON’T LET THEM BURN!!!”

The sound came again – the scrape across rough carpet of something being dragged.

My head snapped towards the corner, my breath caught in my lungs.

I searched the room for the source of the movement, straining to see beyond the darkness.

My mind formed a shadow through the haze, a shape darker than black, looming from the corner of the room.

Shuffle, scrape.

“Andie?” I called out in a whisper.

The shadows moved, a tickle ran across my skin like a gentle sigh.

“Andie,” I said, my voice shaking. “Andie is that you?”

I wondered briefly what she’d look like now, after all these years. Would she come to me the way she had been – blond, bangs limp over shining eyes? Or would I find something dark, rising from the ashes of the fire that had taken her life?

“Oh Andie – I’m sorry,” I whimpered miserably. “I’m sorry I did not get you out.”

There was a click ahead of me and the sudden sound of a lock turning. Then came a blinding light and pain flashed across my eyes. I squeezed them shut, losing control of my bladder.

“Hey, Mario – look?” A voice sneered. “She peed herself!”

There was a shuffling of feet and the sound of something being dropped to the floor.

“Yeah, yeah,” I recognized Mario’s icy voice.

“And she’s drooling.”

“I said alright.”

Something was thrown on the bed. So there were two of them now – Mario had brought a friend.

I tried to speak, but my voice was cracked and weak – my throat dry and in need of water.

“What did you say?” I heard Mario ask sharply.

I moaned.

“Hey!” I felt a sharp kick to my thigh. “My friend’s talking to you! Open your goddamn eyes, bitch!”

I did as I was told, finding myself eye to eye with a long, pockmarked face and hairless head. This man’s nose was crushed flat in its socket and he sported six earrings on his left ear. He must have seen the terror in my eyes, because he gave me a toothy smirk, revealing broken teeth stained and rotted from neglect. He flicked out his tongue like a purtid snake and let out a hiss of foul breath across my face.

“Hey bitch,” he growled. “I’m the Gasoline Man. I like to watch things burn.”

I started to cry again, shaking against the bonds that tied me to the bed.

“Shut up,” Mario spat at me, an ugly scowl creasing his face.

The Gasoline Man giggled and stepped away from the bed, taking his place next to Mario. I could see a gun dangling from Mario’s right hand – a cleek, black Beretta 9 mm.

Steve collected guns; on some days he would take beer cans out back and line them up on a fallen tree.

Bang, bang, bang.

He’d once pressed the cold metal of a Beretta into my hand and led me back into the trees.

“See there?” He’d pointed to a branch overhead. “See that bird there, honey?”

I’d nodded, my body tingling from the morning cold.

“Shoot it,” he’d told me, grinning.

I’d shaken my head in protest and received a slap to the cheek.

“Shoot it, you stupid kid!” he’d barked. “Now! And don’t you dare miss!”

And so I had, lucky on the first shot, tears streaming down my face at the flurry of feathers that fell to my feet.

9mm’s don’t leave much bird behind. I wondered whta they could do to a human head.

Mario smiled. “Like it?” He waved the gun at me.

“Thirsty,” I croaked.

He sighed dramatically. “Well now. That’s too bad, you know, because I don’t know just yet whether or not I’ll let you drink.”

Gasoline Man snickered.

“You know,” Mario continued. “I just never saw the point in giving a condemned man a last meal, know what I’m saying? I mean, why fatten up something you’re just gonna kill anyway? Why feed anything that’s as good as dead?”

The pounding of my heart had become so loud that I could hear it in my ears.

“Yeah bitch,” Gasoline Man cut in. “That’s why we’re here – to decide whether or not you’re fit to live.”

“And to drink,” Mario sneered. He pointed to my arms. “See that rope? No – I guess you can’t. If you could, you’d see that it was dirty – REAL dirty. You see – if you’re gonna die, then what’s the point in tying you up with clean rope? Might as well use the filthiest rope around. Your skin might be nice now…. but once you’re dead, it sure won’t be.”

Gasoline Man laughed. “Yeah man. I like the old days. When they used to tie up condemned prisoners with rusty chains for the execution. No point in wasting good equipment on a dead man.”

I could barely breathe – sobs choked the air from my lungs, sending tremors through my whole body.

“Pleassse,” I begged with a rasp. “Pleeeeease.”

Gasoline Man cocked an eyebrow. “The thing is – if we kill you, in what MANNER will we do it?” He eyed Mario.

“Noooo,” I moaned.

“You whine too much,” Gasoline Man hissed. “Bet you’d whine plenty more if I poured gasoline over your pretty little head.”

I gasped.

He bent down and I saw him raise a can of petrol to the bed, resting it on the edge of the steel frame.

“Oh no, no,” I said, suddenly finding my voice.

“No,no,” he mimicked me.

“The building!” I cried. “It’ll burn down!”

“I don’t give a fuck about the building,” he snarled. “It’d be worth it to watch you burn.”

I shook my head violently, hot tears pouring down my cheek.

“Ever seen burnt skin?” he sneered. “If you have, you’d know why there’s no point in using CLEAN rope.”

Mario stood by, silent, his arms folded across his chest. I looked at him imploringly, but his cold eyes only danced with amusement.

“I’ll do whatever,” I pleaded. “Anything!”

To my horror, Gasoline Man unscrewed the cap and gave the can a little toss. Hot petrol poured out in a wave, soaking into my jeans and skin. I screamed.

“What do you say,” he laughed, splashing more across my chest. “Should we play a little Joan of Arc?”

He tossed the can to the floor and pulled a lighter from his pants. Holding it to his face, he lit a flame so that it flickered in the darkness of his eyes.

“What do you say, bitch?” He lowered it to the bed, letting it hover over my leg. Oh god, the fumes. Don’t let them ignite… “Shall we have a barbecue?”

I closed my eyes, waiting for the searing pain. Let it be over quick, I prayed. Oh please don’t make it hurt too much. I thought of Andie, trapped in the trailer, forced to endure the flames. Oh Andie – was it bad? Was it really bad?

“Not bad,” Mario was saying. “She’s being pretty good.”

“Yeah – NOW. But that’ll change. Wait until she starts to burn. She’ll scream.”

I heard the chill of Gasoline Man’s horrid laughter, ringing through the room like a ghastly echo.

And then, mercifully, I fainted.

• * * * * *

“Get up!”

Someone was kicking me in the ribs. I felt something snap inside me and I screamed in pain. Barely conscious, I couldn’t even open my eyes.

“Drink, bitch, drink!” A voice ordered. Cold glass pressed against my lips and cool liquid poured down my chin. I gulped it down, feeling it run down my parched throat with relief.

And then, once again, blackness.

• * * * * * *

I awoke feeling drugged, my body strangely disconnected from my mind. I could feel a distant pain in my side, but it seemed far away, like it wasn’t really mine. Blinking, I opened my eyes, petrified at what I would find. My pants were stained with oily petrol and urine, but otherwise I was still the same. But my hands. Wriggling my fingers and bending my arms at the elbow, I realized I’d been left untied. The room was lit by the same naked bulb, but it was flickering now, buzzing slightly as it went dim and then bright again.

The previous events were still fresh in my head, rushing across my mind like pictures from a horror movie.

They hadn’t burned me. Somehow, they’d decided I was fit to live.

And to drink. My throat felt better, having lost some of its earlier dryness.

I eyed the room with apprehension, my mind exhausted with fear. I had to find a way out before they came back – somehow I had to get out of this room.

Propping myself up by the elbows, I felt my head swoon. Whatever drug they’d given me, at least it dulled the pain. There must have been some of it in the last drink.

Groggy but determined, I sat up. The pain flashed in the distance, teasing me. I opened my eyes wide, trying to stay alert.

There had to be a way out of the room. Gathering myself to the edge of the bed, I dropped my legs to the floor.

Steady now. I clutched the bed frame and pulled myself up on wobbly legs. Stand, damn it! I forced myself to take a step forward.

I surveyed the walls, letting my eyes run along the cracked plaster. I glanced up at the roof.

There were no vents, no holes or point of breach visible anywhere.

Concentrate.

Behind the bed. Perhaps there was something there. Grabbing the frame with both hands, I gave it a sharp tug, feeling my muscles scream despite the drugs. The bed inched forward slightly and I peered down at the wall.

Nothing.

Come on! I felt tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. The floor. Beneath the carpet.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled to the wall and clawed the edge of the carpet, trying to pry my fingers beneath it. Grunting, I tried to pull it up – but it didn’t budge. The staples held firm as I attempted to put all my weight behind my effort.

Helpless, I fell back with a cry.

Oh god, no.

Half crawling, I slid towards the door, reaching for the knob. I yanked it hard, but the lock wouldn’t give. Pulling myself up, I leaned forward to inspect it. There was no keyhole The lock must be outside, completely inaccessible from where I was.

I threw myself at it, landing with a crash.

“Open, damn you!” I screamed, hurtling myself again to no avail. “Open!!”

Bruised, I landed on the floor in a heap with a wrenching sob. I was going to die in this filthy room.

God, why had I come to this blasted city? Wiping my eyes, I thought of the old man who’d given me the ride on the highway. Why hadn’t I listened to him? He’d warned me.

Anger welled in my chest. Why hadn’t he rescued me? Why hadn’t he taken me somewhere safe? I remembered the thirty dollars in my pocket and dug for them, ripping them from my pants. If he’d cared so much, why had he given me money? Why hadn’t he taken me to his home?

Why had my mother married Steve? I tore at the bills, shredding them in my hands. Why had she let him torture me?

Why do some people have warm houses and beds? Why do some people have people who love them?

Why not me?

I tossed the scraps of money to the carpet and buried my head in my hands. Unsatisfied, I smashed my fist into the door.

And then I heard the familar click of the lock.

Scrambling away from the door like a crab, I watched it slowly begin to open. A foot stepped inside the crack.

“You make too much noise.” It was Mario’s voice, flat and hollow.

I glanced up, fearful.

“You should know better.” He shook his head as he shut the door behind him. “I would never put you anywhere you could get away from. What do you think, huh? I’m stupid or something?”

He looked down with disgust. “Get up,” he ordered. Beneath his right arm, he held a bundle of dark clothes. His left hand clutched a pair of spiked heels.

I rose to my feet, eyes never leaving him.

He tossed the clothes at me. I caught them reflexively.

“Put them on,” he barked.

I complied, shaking them out to see what they were. A tiny black halter top with a matching miniskirt.

My god – what is this?

Determined no to risk his wrath, I removed my shirt and shrugged on the halter top, trying not to cringe beneath Mario’s crawling eyes. My pants followed, until I stood before him in a skirt barely long enough to cover my butt.

“Good. Now these.” He threw the shoes at me as I began kicking off my own.

He was glaring at me, scrutinizing my body, sending goosebumps tearing up and down my skin. I gave an involuntary shudder, teetering on my heels.

“Come here,” he snapped.

I hesitated, perhaps a bit too long for his liking. He lunged forward and grabbed me by the hair, cranking my head down to his chest. He began smearing something across my lips. I eyed the gun tucked into the waist of his pants. My fingers twitched with uncertainty.

“Hold still,” he spat. “And don’t even think about it.” My eyes came next, the pressure of his hand painful around the swollen lids. I cringed.

Makeup.

He held my face up to his, peering into me with a sneer.

“Good enough.” He released me suddenly and I stumbled back with a start.

He put his hands on his hips, gun bulging from his belt, mocking me.

“You are going to work for me,” he stated.

A hooker. He wanted me to be his whore.

“You are going to come with me,” he continued. “And you are going to stand outside on the street until someone comes to pick you up.”

Outside. Did he say outside? My heart beat madly in my chest.

“When someone drives up,” he instructed. “You are going to tell him – twenty, eighty, one hundred. No more, no less – do you understand?” That’s twenty for a blowjob, eighty for straight sex and one hundred for kinky. Got that? Twenty, eighty, one hundred. Say it like that. Our customers know the deal.”

I was trembling. I was going outside. Leaving the room. I tried to contain my excitement, determined to keep him from seeing the hope in my eyes.

“Now,” he said gravely. “You are coming with me.” He pulled the gun from his belt. “No funny business. You first. Down the hall, down the stairs. You run – I shoot. You move from that street without a ride and I kill you. Got that? I’ll be watching you – just remember that?”

I nodded numbly and he gestured for me to move. Awkward, I tripped forward on my heels, catching myself before I fell. I felt spindly, wobbling terribly as I stumbled past him to the door. He opened it for me, prodding me with the barrel of the gun.

“Outside,” he said gruffly, marching me into the hall. “To the right.”

There was no light in the corridor. I held my hands out before me and began walking stiffly down the concrete hall, my steps echoing through the building.

I was going outside, I thought as I approached the stairwell. Even if I was picked up by a John, I would get away from Mario. The John would drive me from this godawful place and somehow, I’d get away.

I felt my way along the wall, carefully navigating the stairs.

“Hurry it up,” Mario hissed. I could see his shadow, looming over me in the darkness of the hall.

Itching to escape the stale air of the building, I finally made it down to a set of double doors, secured by a heavy chain and padlock.

Mario pulled out a ring of keys and released the lock with a resounding clang.

“Straight ahead. To the curb,” he ordered, leaning towards my ear. “And don’t you dare run,” he whispered in an icy voice.

I shuddered, shaking my head.

The door was opened and a rush of cold air swarmed over me. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Mario jabbed the gun into my back.

“Move it.”

I found myself standing on the same strip I’d walked – when was it? A day ago? Two nights? My stomach suddenly growled noisily. Night hadn’t left this place, nor had the cold. But at least it was dry. Lights blinked from bars across the street and I could hear muffled voices in the distance. There were no cars in sight. How close was I to the motels?

I glanced back to find the doors shut behind me. Somehow I could feel Mario’s piercing eyes on my back, watching me from some unseen place, his finger poised on the trigger of his Beretta.

I shivered in the cold night, my skin puckered. Trembling, I wobbled forward, one step at a time until I stood on the curb. The towering lights of the city shone over the street, illuminating dark alleys and caged storefronts. Damp light streaked over silent buildings, running into the gutters below.

I crossed my arms across my chest and waited, teeth chattering. Freedom lay in all directions, but I was unable to reach it.

Johns were people. They had emotions, feelings. A John might insist on getting what he wanted, but what was to prevent him from dropping me off at the police station when he was done?

I nearly laughed. Fuck you, Mario.

It crossed my mind that Mario’s “customers” might have an agreement with him to return his girls to him after they were done. I’d heard about such things in the past. Johns were often fearful of pimps.

With any luck, however, my broken body might instill sympathy on whoever picked me up. Perhaps he would see my swollen face and take pity on me.

My heart fluttered at the sudden glare of headlights on the street. A car was slowly rolling in my direction, crawling along the sidewalk towards me.

My mind shut out the horror of the past days – I saw only survival on the horizon, only the need to escape.

It was a black, late model Mercedes, sleek and sharp in the night. It slowed as it approached me, coming to a complete stop directly in front of me. A window rolled down. I could see the outline of a man inside.

Body tense, I toddled forward, leaning towards the open window.

“Uh – twenty, eighty, hundred.” I barely recognized my own voice, a tremor in the night. I strained to see the man inside. He was looking me over; I could feel his eyes running over my face and body.

He nodded slowly and I heard a lock pop.

I grabbed the door handle with shaky hands, yanking it open. Slipping into the dark interior, I settled into a leather seat, closing the door behind me. The window rolled up automatically and the car began to move, gliding onto the street.

The stereo glowed in the darkness, the numbers of a digital clock beaming at me from below the dashboard. 1:15 AM.

The John said nothing, his eyes on the road. I could see his profile outlined against the window – a high rounded forehead, a young unlined face. Short, well groomed hair. A business man, a professional from the city.

So this is what Johns look like.

I glanced at him, hoping to catch his eye. He refused to look at me. I extended my legs below me, feeling my skin warm up. I tried to relax, but couldn’t keep from crossing my arms protectively across my chest.

We turned onto the highway, the car smoothly rolling onto the freeway, the city lights flashing in the mirrors.

Where was he taking me? Away from the city? Perhaps he had a private cottage in the hills, away from home. He was probably married – maybe he even had kids.

San Carno disappeared behind us, merely a glow on the horizon. Ahead lay the open fields I’d been so desperate to escape before.

I chewed on my lip, shooting looks at the driver, unsure of what to do.

Outside the grass was waving with dark fingers, sweeping as far as the eye could see beneath a starless sky.

“This is your first time out, isn’t it?”

His voice shocked me, the suddeness of it after endless silence. It was low and warm, almost a gently purr. I could see his head slightly inclined towards me, his eyes on mine.

I shivered. “Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”

He seemed to consider this, chewing on the edge of his lip. I decided that he looked none to pleased to hear it. I could see his eyes taking in the bruises on my face.

“Damn,” he cursed. “It looks like they beat you up pretty bad.” He said it matter of factly, his eyes returning to the road.

“Yes,” I said in a quivering voice. “They did.”

He sighed softly, his face growing serious. He had full lips, soft lips.

“Are you hurt bad?”

I paused, trying to contain a flood of emotions. “Yes,” I managed to say. “I’m hurt pretty bad.”

He slowed the car slightly as we approached an exit. We pulled off, driving into a side road that lead into the heart of the fields.

“Your face,” he said. “It’s all swollen. You look like you need a doctor.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. “Yes, I know.”

He was frowning, his nostrils starting to flare. “If only I’d taken a better look… ah shit.” He smacked his palm against the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

He kept driving, slowly now, his jaw clenched tight. I did not know what to say or how to continue. Did he feel sorry for me?

“Just my luck,” he was mumbling. “Just what I need.”

He looked scared.

“Damn fucking pimps.”

I choked on a sob. His eyes shot in my direction, then returned to the road.

“What do you expect me to do?” he demanded, his voice raw. “Drop you off at the next police depot, so you can feed them my plate numbers? Jesus. What a fucking mess.”

He sighed deeply, his expression a mixture of anger and fear.

“If you help me….” I tried to speak, but my voice was shaking badly.

He ignored me. “I have a family, you know. This could ruin me. How was I supposed to know?”

I began to cry, hot tears running down swollen cheeks.

“Calm down, please calm down,” he said, looking thoroughly distressed.

I could not stop; snot began to pour from my nose. “Oh god,” I wailed.

A hand began to awkwardly stroke my arm. “Oh Jesus,” I heard him saying. “Calm down, please.” I could tell he was feeling very uncomfortable, but as much as I wanted to, I could not stop crying.

“Tell me. Talk to me if you want. Tell me what happened. Go ahead. I’m listening.”

I clutched the edge of my seat and tried to find my voice. “He beat me,” I forced myself to say. “He tortured me – he kept me locked in this godawful ROOM!”

The stranger listened in silence.

“His, his friend.” I thought of Gasoline Man. “Oh god – They kidnapped me, drugged me, tied me up – forced me to work!”

“Typical. Fucking pimps. Should’ve know better than to pick someone up on that strip. Fucking owned by pimps.”

I turned to him, eyes desperate, suddenly charged with hope.

“Oh please, mister – I need help! You’ve got to help me – I’m hurt so bad – I think I have a broken rib. It hurts to breathe – I need a hospital. The police. I know where to find this guy, who he is! I can find him – put him in prison where he belongs. Please help me!”

His lips were tight. His hands clutched the steering wheel with white knuckles.

“I won’t even mention you to the cops. Why would I do that? Why would I hurt you if you save me?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. I saw him reach for something in his jacket.

“I have a cell phone,” he told me in a solemn voice. “I’ll call the police and you can tell them. They can’t trace it back. But remember – nothing about me.” Our eyes met and I nodded.

Falling back in my seat, I felt a sudden rush of breath escape my body like a giant weight lifted from inside. Half of me felt delirious with relief, the other half simply wanted to cry.

The man dialed the number on the phone, balancing the steering wheel with his hands. Holding it up to his ear, he paused.

“Yes, police?” he was saying. “Yes, I have a girl with me here – I think she needs to urgently talk with someone.”

My heart was pounding.

“Ah yes, I think she needs a hospital. She’s been beat up very badly – possibly raped.”

My nostrils flared, my chest rising and falling heavily with each breath.

“Yes, yes, of course. Here, she’s with me. She can tell you everything.” He turned to me and held out the phone. “Here you go.”

I smiled gratefully. “Thanks.” I raised the phone to my ear.

“Hi, police? My name is -“

There was a low chuckle over the phone.

“Martha.” A low hiss of breath over the line. “And you’ve been a very bad girl.”

My heart stopped, my skin went cold.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you – I had to be sure,” Mario said.

I couldn’t breath; I couldn’t swallow.

“I guess my instinct was right.” He laughed again, cold and hard.

“I guess it’s up to my friend to take care of you now.”

The car began to slow, pulling into gravel.

“It’s too bad. You could have pulled in quite a load of cash.”

Click.

The car came to a stop. Next to me, the man was grinning, his teeth bared in the darkness. There was no trace of uncertainty or fear on his face now – it was a mask of cold determination.

The last thing I saw was the can of gasoline at his feet before he pulled out the rope. And then I began to scream.

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