Chapter 4 – In the Basement
The constant sound of weeping and painful moaning finally woke me up, taking me from my sheltering state of oblivion, throwing me back to my not-so-sweet reality.
Not sweet at all.
As soon as I moved the least bit, waves of pain hit my face. My left cheek burnt, it felt like the cheekbone had been shattered – later on I found out it hadn't, it was just dark purple all over. My right cheek wasn't much better on – apparently I had been tossed on the hard concrete floor, probably pushed around at night by my cage mates. It felt raw and burnt – along with my right arm – but still not as much as the left side. Disoriented and hurt, I opened my one and half eye (the left was partially shut by the blow), nauseated with the horrible smell and taste of the piece of rag stuffed in my mouth. (To this day I refuse to consider what the rag had been used for, before. Considering its state, it's a good thing that I never found out.)
Goddamn fucking Rufus, I screamed inside my head. Your mother told you to be a gentleman, you asshole!
Unless that behavior was that family's standard for a gentleman. Which probably was.
Trying to move, I found my hands attached behind my back. That only brought me an additional discomfort – my wrists. They were tied together too tight; I could barely feel my hands. What is this for? I thought angrily. I'm inside a goddamn cage, it's not like I could go anywhere.
If you die here, I told myself, it's natural fucking selection. You had no fucking business coming here. What did you expect – being treated with tea and crackers?
Tea and crackers. Breakfast, uhmmmm, my stomach roared. I was so hungry. Cutter's small fried chicken leg had been the last thing I ate in... how many hours? I couldn't tell if it was day or night, there was not a window in that room.
The room.
Look around, Laura, I told myself. Sit up and see where you are. Face the music! You can't keep in denial forever. Keeping your eyes closed won't help you.
So I slowly sat, first looking at the bars in front of me. That was a pretty narrow cell, not designed for a good stretching of legs. When I looked at my right, I almost wished I hadn't. There were three other girls and one young man sharing my cage, each in a more deplorable state than the next. They were tied and gagged just like me – except for one girl, but she didn't make a peep, staring at a fixed point with glazed eyes. They had plenty of cuts and bruises all over, featuring dry blood and dirt on their skin. Their clothes were thorn for the most part; only the girl in the middle wasn't that lucky, having only her panties to cover her.
The scarier part, though, wasn't their wounds. It was their expressions. Their faces were blank, the eyes were lifeless, as if they had seen too much horror and were ready to give up. As if they wanted for it to end soon.
Remembering random scenes from the movies, it didn't surprise me.
Natural fucking selection, I accused myself again. These poor people did not have a say on this; you had. You are here because of your own brilliant choice. Now deal with it.
The weeping sounds came to me again. They came from the diagonally opposite side of the room. I bent closer to the bars and peeked.
There were two other women cuffed to the wall, arms raised high above their heads. One of them had a large bandage covering part of her chest, new blood making its way through it, wet-shiny.
I didn't want to see any more of that, so pulled back and rested my back against the wall. And waited.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
After a while (one hour, three hours? I couldn't tell) I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. I held my breath in expectation; the moans across the room silenced. First I saw an old pair of boots stepping down, then a blue-a-long-time-ago pair of jeans, followed by a familiar "Burn this flag" shirt.
My heart raced, and I completely forgot to breath. Fear? Oh no. Excitement! Again I felt like the 12 year-old girl about to meet her favorite New Kid On The Block.
Finally I could see his face as he deliberately slowly approached the cage. And I wasn't disappointed. Rob Zombie had cast Bill Moseley very well, because they indeed looked very much alike. The real Otis, though, was even more impressive; he had this strong sexual aura about him, and something that screamed "dangerous". His expression was darker and his eyes were colder than Mr. Moseley's, a beautiful pale blue. They had the same long, fine gray hair, and the same lean, strong body. The real Otis looked a bit dirtier, too, as if it were possible.
Yum, I salivated.
Suddenly I forgot my precarious situation and became self-conscious. My face, I thought, goddamn it! I'm gonna kill RJ with my bare hands! I can't meet Otis Driftwood with my face all swollen and scratched! And my hair, it must be a mess! Instinctively I tried to reach for my hair, just to remember that my hands were still tied. I couldn't even smile with that gross rag inside my mouth – I wasn't going to make an impression, I could tell. All I could do was stand up and wait expectantly, burning holes on him.
Otis stood there, looking at the four of us girls for no more than a few seconds. He produced a key from his jeans pocket, opened the cage door and, without giving me a second glance, grabbed the girl on my right by the arm, pulling her out. At that, she seemed to come out of her stupor briefly, but her resistance was meaningless to Otis. He locked the door again, as the terrified girl whimpered behind her gag. The man spat an impatient and almost condescending "Shut your mouth, bitch!" and dragged her upstairs effortlessly.
I watched in shock as they disappeared from my view. I took a glance at my remaining cell mates – they were quiet and blank-faced as before. I wondered if they had even noticed what had just happened.
Fucking son of a bitch, I thought in disbelief. He didn't pick me! He barely even looked at me!
I know – that kind of situation tends to awaken a variety of feelings in the victims involved. Anger, fear, helplessness, hate, regret, panic. But jealously isn't commonly one of them. I was furiously jealous of some unbathed, smelly psycho who had chosen to mess with another victim instead of me.
Ah, the ironies of human nature.
It is probably my hair, I tried to console myself. Then I sat down and did the only thing I could - wait.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
Time ticked – again, I don't know how long. I was too hungry to think or try and make a plan; I was in pain, uncomfortable, and pissed off. My cage mates didn't provide me with the distraction of a good conversation, so on top of all I was bored.
Interesting – and stupidly – enough, I wasn't afraid. Looking back, I can only say I was in deep denial. That, or I was taking the whole time-travel thing as a semi-dream, not really thinking it was real. Or both combined. Or perhaps RJ's blow did something strange to my brain.
By the time I heard new descending footsteps – jumpy, faster than the previous – I was annoyed, thinking of a way to convey the message "I want to get the hell out if here!" Not knowing Morse Code, or anything clever coming to mind, I had my hands tied. Literally.
Baby jumped the last two steps, looking vivacious and well-humored. "Good-morning everybody!" she yelled, as if she were a self-help coach beginning a seminar entitled "10 Steps Towards Success" or "You Can Dream It – You Can Do It!"
"How is Veronica today?" she asked one of the women cuffed to the wall – the one with the bloody bandage – in a sing-song rhythm. "Did you sleep well?" There was no answer. The woman remained perfectly still, her body hanging heavily from her wrists, head bent against her chest. Baby grabbed her chin and moved her head from side to side. "Oooh, I think we have a sleepy kitty here. Kitty, kitty, kitty," she called in an infantile voice "time to wake up and see the sunshine!" As she released the woman's chin, her head fell back to her chest. Baby turned to us, an affected puzzled look on her face. "Did she die?" She bent and produced a small, sharp-looking knife from her boot. Naturally as one would do any everyday task, she pressed the tip of the knife on the woman's face, bringing it down and drawing blood. There was no reaction. Baby shrugged with indifference and walked towards our cage. "Yes, I guess she did!"
One of the girls beside me started to weep quietly. Baby stood in front of her. "And you, what are you crying for? You ain't liking our hospitality? That is so rude!" she emphasized with annoyance. "But you-" she pointed the knife to the girl beside her "if you behave yourself, I'll take you to my room later and we can listen to some music together! What do you say?" she exclaimed, looking very animated. As the gagged girl emitted a curt, non-identifiable sound, Baby giggled. "Okay then! I'll see you later!"
Then she turned to me. I stared back, defiantly. "Now, you... I don't know what they are gonna do with you" she said, faking concern. "I thought that we would get to know each other and become childhood friends," she said in a whinny tone and a sad expression, as a child who had been denied candy "but mama says that's a bad idea, that you're a fucking pig 'cause you were trying to spy on us and shit."
My eyes narrowed in confusion and indignation. Uh? What was she talking about? And why was she insulting me by calling me a fucking pig?
"And then, my daddy called last night to warn us" she stared at me, her arms crossed on her chest, changing her weight from one feet to the other. "He said to watch out with you, that you were acting strange and shit on his museum, saying that you were traveling and a bunch of shit that didn't make sense. Cutter is good in reading people, you know. He can smell a cop a mile away."
I opened my eyes wide, getting it. She meant a cop! I shook my head vehemently and tried to talk, frustrated that I could not. Yes, damn right I was spying on them, but a cop? It would have been funny if it hadn't been scary. I could not allow them to think that, or... I didn't dare to think or what.
"I could take it easy on you and finish this now," she whispered with a frown, fidgeting with the knife still smeared with the dead woman's blood. Then she opened a wide smile. "But I won't! My brother Otis loooves cops, he feels all warm inside when we even mention them. So I'm gonna go upstairs now and tell him about you, then the two of you can have some fun together. Bye!"
The "the two of you can have some fun together" part would have sounded very exciting and a motive for rejoice at any other time... but then, right at the "we think you are a cop" moment, it sounded downright scary. Otis didn't strike me as the type who makes friends with police officers, or finds them cool and interesting in any conceivable way.
Shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck, I cussed inside my head.
I had to stop watching those movies, I oddly thought. I was raised in a catholic school, for crying out loud, and for the most part I avoided using bad language. Now I was starting to acquire 'Fireflys & Partners'' poor vocabulary. My grandparents would have had a heart attack if they heard me.