Chapter 13 – A Perfect Week

The several following days happened without major incidents – I mean, of the bad kind. They were full of good stuff, I didn't want them to end, and I remember them dearly.

Purposely, I spent time with each member of the family. Despite of everything, I felt that I should.

Of course, my rational side would throw moral issues at me, all the time. It told me that I was doing something very wrong, immoral, by hanging out with people that had very little – or none at all – good about themselves. But I didn't feel that way; I simply didn't feel like I was doing something wrong. I wasn't harming anyone.

Sure, I wasn't making any effort to stop the Fireflys to continue kidnapping people, nor helping the hostages that could still be saved. But what could I have done? If I were careless and sounded preachy, I might have ended back in the basement. That situation, I confess, bothered me a lot when I thought of it – so I tried not to think about it too much.

I had all the intention to make the best of my time there.

On those two and half days, I spent lots of time with Baby. We danced a lot, playing loud music in her old cassette player. I showed her some cool hairstyling tricks, and she showed me how to polish nails in a way that they last longer. We laughed at stupid TV commercials, and I patiently listened to many of her stories, mostly related to men. She even offered me to go down in the basement and "pick someone" to either torture or have sex with – alone or with her – but I politely declined.

One day she was bored of staying in the house, so she invited me to go shopping at a larger town forty-five minutes from Ruggsville. We hitchhiked our way there – first time I've ever done it! – and we annoyed the driver all the way, singing aloud and giggling. He found it cute at first, but I am sure he was about to throw us out in the middle of the road. Good for him that he didn't try.

We visited a couple of clothing stores (not that Baby needed any more!), a music store and a drugstore. By "shopping", Baby had actually meant shoplifting, and the next thing I know, she was stuffing cassette tapes, lipstick and pills inside my purse. But there was not saying no to that girl, so I played along – and shamefully confess, I had fun. Before getting another hide back home, we eat ice cream and talked a bunch of silly things, laughing all the way.

For the first time I spent some time with Tiny. I learnt that he could speak, but he didn't like doing much of that – he preferred to observe, for whatever reasons. He could usually be found by the little creek in the property, looking at the water for hours at a time; or taking care of his little garden, where he enjoyed working on; and sometimes he just sat alone in the woods, thinking.

So I'd simply join him in one of those places, and do most of the talking. He didn't seem to mind listening to my stories; I mostly told him fun episodes about my school, my family and friends. I also felt comfortable enough to confess certain concerns about my career and my future.

Tiny hadn't gone to school; and his appearance, added to his constant silence, made people assume that he was stupid, or had mental problems. I knew better than that. He understood everything that I said, and he was very sensitive in his own way. His only fault was having been born in that family, and having gone through that unfortunate accident that got him so badly burned. He was very self-conscious about his burning scars, walking around all day with a paper bag over his head, or a mask; but I assured him that he didn't look bad at all. Eventually, he felt comfortable exposing his face around me.

Sometimes I would join him outside after dinner, when we'd just sit quietly watching the stars. We also watched a couple of old horror movies on TV. In one of the few times that Tiny spoke, he told me that he was a big fan of "The Creature of the Black Lagoon" and "Frankenstein".

Mama made me some company as well. Several times I offered help in whatever tasks she was doing, and that way we had some time talking. Not that she – or anybody – did much about cleaning and organizing that house... But there were meals to be prepared, dishes to be washed and put away, and laundry mainly. Baking was one of her few hobbies – sometimes she would bake cakes that wound up in the trash, because nobody ate them, and soon there she was again, baking another one. I would join her to watch soap operas, and she'd speak about the characters as if they were real people.

Mama didn't talk much about herself, but couldn't shut up when it came to her kids. She obviously loved them and was very proud of each of them – and that included Otis, who was not even her son, but she considered him so.

When we weren't talking about soap operas or her children, mama would give me impertinent suggestions about my dressing habits ("You are such a beautiful girl, but you dress like a nun! If you'd like I can land you one of my dresses..."), criticize my lack of makeup ("Try this lipstick and this eyeliner – it'll look great on you!"), or give me crude and unwanted advice regarding Otis, which I won't repeat here for modesty's sake.

I even managed to have a conversation with Rufus, if you can imagine that. He was the one I felt the most uncomfortable around, but I thought – what the hell, I'll give it a try. So one day I approached him, as he was bent over a car's open hood (that had belonged to one of their victims, if I have to guess), fixing something. I attempted to start some small talk, but I only got back some unfriendly stares and silence.

Finally I walked beside him, peeked inside the hood, and asked: "So, what are you fixing?" Rufus interrupted his work to shoot me a deadly stare, but I insisted, trying not to show that I was intimidated: "I don't know very much about cars, but I wish I did. What if I'm driving on a deserted highway, then out of a sudden the car breaks? I obviously won't be able to fix it, and there may be some crazy killer stopping to offer help-" I just realized the stupid thing I said, and tried to correct it:

"No comparisons intended! Anyway – do you think you could teach me a little bit?"

He stood straight in all his height, resting his hands on his hips and staring at me. That was so goddamn intimidating; I immediately regretted bothering him, unconsciously taking a step back. "Come closer" he instructed. As I reluctantly did, he turned to the open hood and pointed at something. "This is the radiator. You put water in here, and it keeps the car from overheating..."

That was the beginning. I got a complete "how cars work" class, and he seemed happily surprised that I was interested. That was the most I've ever heard him talking. We never really became friends – not even close! – but after that it was easier to talk to him, even if it was a mere "Good morning" or "Want more salad?" It felt less awkward that way. I even helped him to feed the animals one day, and he let me.

Obviously, most of my days were spent with Otis. We spent countless hours over and under his dirty sheets; I know by heart every old blood stain in them. But it wasn't only sex; we also did a whole lot of painting and talking.

Most of the time, Otis would paint and I would sit by and watch, with the excuse that I wanted to "learn from the master". I had to put up with him using lots of blood – he wasn't too fond of the acrylic paints I bought for him, claiming that only blood lasts forever... whatever that means. I did a couple more of my abstract works of art, but he didn't make me many questions, which was a relief.

Otis didn't like talking when he was painting. He took his work very seriously, and felt that talking would diminish its almost sacred importance. On the other hand, brushes aside, he could be a chatterbox – especially when I got him started about the importance of art, the roles of people in society, and the meaning of life and death. He would go on and on, so enthusiastic that it was scary, and pretty much sound like a lunatic. To this day, I have no idea what he was talking about; but I have had enough Philosophy classes to be able to bullshit my way through it, and actually maintain a conversation. Once Otis said how great it was to have someone with such brilliant ideas and intelligence to talk to, about those "important things" of life; I almost choked, since all I had done was blabbering incoherent, fancy-sounding phrases.

The toughest part of it all was convincing Otis to delay our sculpture making. He had been intrigued by my digitally-modified photos, believing that I made those macabre pieces out of dead people, just as he did. He was curious to see me working into something, and he was eager to teach me his own technique. I had to invent one excuse after the other: "Today I don't feel well", "I feel like painting instead", "I never create art on Mondays", "I am horny – shall we play?", "I'm feeling claustrophobic" and so on. One day he brought me down to the basement, insisting that I chose someone to kill so we could work on. I don't remember how I eluded him, but I was extremely relieved that I did. Having someone's death – and ghastly dismemberment – in my conscience is not something I would be able to handle.

Things that Otis wouldn't do: talk about himself and his past (although I touched the subject several times), make me personal questions (which was actually great) and show affection. Especially the later one. Showing affection is very much my nature, so I was all the time hugging him, kissing him, talking sweetly, wanting to cuddle... Otis would let me, but almost never returning it. He would look at me strangely, with suspicion, as if wondering what the hell I was up to. Love and affection were strange animals to Otis; aliens really. That family's love was the only one he'd ever known, and he didn't know how to handle anything outside it.