Chapter

By A Thread

Joe was strained, his left ribcage bulging through. It was difficult to draw in breath but only into his left lung. He was hopelessly tethered but only on his left side. His right side dangling carelessly free. He tried to stand as tall as he could and reach up with his free hand to undo his wrist but he couldn't quite reach it. He tried swinging to and fro in hopes of reaching the end of the rope that was tied off adjacent the door which was a good 15 feet away. This was incredibly painful every time his feet lost traction and he found he could only get the rope to move a few feet in any direction, far from his intended goal. He surrendered to his inequities. Furthermore, he admonished himself for even trying. What was he doing? It was his first instinct to try because of how unnatural and uncomfortable this felt, but if he was smart, he'd just do his time until Tomlinson said it was over.

Tom didn't return to the shed. He didn't work on his shoes at all that day. Whether he decided to spend his attention on Scotty making sure he stayed out of trouble or, knowing that man, making sure he got into trouble so he'd have an excuse to discipline him; or maybe he just decided to let Joe stew in this predicament; he wasn't sure. For all Joe knew he left for town or to his pa's house like he said he was going to. But there was no way to be sure of this. He was too far away from the corral to hear if Tomlinson had saddled the horse and ridden out. If Tom had left then Scotty was alone with him. In a soft voice, fearful of Tom overhearing if he was still here, he cried out for him.

"Scotty? Scotty? Are you there? Where are you?" Up in his room maybe tied to his bedpost or locked in the closet. Wherever he was he could not help him.

Straining. Struggling to keep on his toes. To lessen the pain. Pulling in each breath with force. It'd have been easier to give in to crying had that not required so much strength to his lungs. The tears fell on their own independent of him actively weeping. He begged for relief. It would not come so easily.

He hung there for what seemed like hours.

~.~

It wasn't until late afternoon when the shed door finally opened but it wasn't whom Joe had expected. He could tell by the faintness of the footfalls. The heap of garden tools by the door was being fumbled through, he could hear, by small hands.

"Scotty are you okay?" The boy didn't answer. Something is drawn up then from among the tools.

The meek figure had stopped moving behind him. Joe struggled to turn to see him. The boy stared up at Joe stagnant and dumbfounded.

"Scotty. You got to get me down." The boy frightened at the implication. "This… hurts Scotty." Joe forced out through pained breaths. "It hurts, to breathe." The boy looked down at the pale he held by the handle.

"Scotty. What's taking so long?" The patriarch's voice broke through from the outside cutting through his incommode. The boy left Joe and scampered out the door.

"Don't go Scotty. Don't go." He panicked. Scotty left, stripping Joe's hope away and taking it with him. His heart fell to the floor beneath him. Scotty did not make it back out to him.

~.~

Hours more went by. Joe's hand from what he could make of it had swollen to twice its normal size. It was fat and numb. In time he stopped being able to see it. This was when night had fallen and the shed had lost its light. They went and had supper without him. The scent drifted to the shed to taunt him. He was hungry and sore; and thirsty. The same pains he felt when he was trapped in that cellar came back to him and more. His body ached from the beating and being strung up as he was. There was no rest from it.

The scents eventually faded. In time so did what little light that drifted from the house. He knew they had shut up and gone to bed.

Tom was having Joe spend the night out here. This was a night Joe wasn't entirely confident he would live through being in the hopeless predicament he was in. The barometer dropping and no way of keeping warm. When people die of exposure, could it be something like this? The only noteworthy heat that came from him was the fire in his ribs and the heat in his swollen hand. Every other part was painfully cold and only got worse with the passage of time. He could not have any hope of falling asleep.

He dwelled in his misery relisting his pains. Going over them again and again noting each one like it was possible to forget them otherwise. His side burned. His wrist was numb and his hand swollen with the lack of good blood flow. The whole time it was difficult to draw in a good breath. A good breath was just out of reach, unobtainable. It taunted him. He would set to fits of yawning, his bodies futile attempt to suck in a deep breath, but could never quite get the relief he sought. He was hungry and thirsty and cold. He was feeling in so much pain that it made him nauseous; but as bad as he wanted to vomit he could do no neither because there was nothing in his stomach to expel.

He's got to get out of this. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he did but he could no longer stand the pain. He couldn't stand by and wait for rescue, wait for Tomlinson to get the inkling to let him go. It just hurt too much. There was just too much at stake.

He reached up nice and tall again, just like before, but he refused this time to give up until he was out. His swollen hand made all that more of a challenge for him to get the rope around but he worked at it, refusing to give up. He breathed deep labored breaths and focused with intensity, standing on his tippy toes as high as he could to give himself all the leverage he could. Losing his balance time and again before catching himself. He felt himself getting dizzy and stared at his mark with blurred vision but still vehement attention. He pulled at the rope stretching it, loosening it as best he could. Then twist and turned his hand causing the rope to dig in and scrape into his flesh. This was causing what was a minor irritation, the least of his pain to grow tenfold. Still he worked past it doing his best to ignore it, and keeping his focus on the victory of release.

Release did not come. No matter how long he worked on fighting off that despair and zeroing in on his triumph it would not come. It refused to come. There was a point where that rope refused to move no more. He gave up this hopeless quest and fell into despair.

He wished he could sleep but would that even be the right thing at this point? What sleep would come would be a dangerous one. One that he knew better than to give into but if it did come he wasn't sure he would fight it. If it took him away from his reality he would relish in it. Let it come and take him away. Forget about his family? Wouldn't that grieve them? Who cares? They're not here. He is. They left him. He pictured them at home in front of a warm fire. One big happy family with him not in the picture. He choked on his own grief. Could what Tom said really be true? Were they really there? Did they really know what was happening to him. Furthermore, did they approve? No it can't be true. He's got to be lying. His family would never do this to him, no matter what Tom says. He's got to make it home to them. To tell them. Tell them about it all, but how? He looked up at the rope again.

The door opened. He heard going on's behind him. Somebody was fumbling with something behind him. The same cluttering from earlier were heard again but louder as the night has a way of amplifying sounds. He tried to turn his body to see which was difficult to do up on the balls of his feet. He caught site of the little one who was just coming over dragging something heavy behind him. He dropped a fire log at his feet and pushed it under, willing Joe to stand on it. The instant he did he was met with relief. The burning in his side had some repose. The pains were in no way gone but they were now manageable. Balancing on the log he could reach up higher than he had been able to do as of yet. He fumbled with the rope again. With his oversized hand the rope maintained its tight hold. It would probably be more efficient if he could get at the rope above.

"I can't get out. You have to help me get out. Get me a knife." The boy diligently ran off.

The minutes passed by and Joe waited for him to return.

He never did.

Where might he have gone? Joe wondered after the boy. Could he not find what he was looking for? He pictured him fuddling in and out of the kitchen drawers. No light to guide him. After enough time had passed and no sight nor sound of the boy had returned Joe got the sinking sensation that he was not going to return. He might have gotten scared or worse, gotten caught. He hated to think that the boy might have been caught in his indiscretions, so he brushed past that thought.

Joe was going to have to do this without his help. Without the knife. He must have given up looking for it or maybe he never looked for one to begin with. What Joe mistook for diligence was Scotty's way of backing out of the matter he wanted no more to do with. He did his part. He did more than Cartwright could have hoped for. He gave the older boy leverage. This was something he didn't have before.

He started pulling at his hand and pushing at the rope, but stopped as a thought flashed in his head. What if Scotty had been caught? This, he didn't want to mull over but now he had to. He had to consider that if Scotty had been caught than that would mean that Paul would be coming out here very shortly. He would see what had been done. He would see the log underfoot and Joe's attempt to escape. Right then he wanted to kick the log away. There was no way he could kick it far enough away so that Paul could not put two and two together. He is busted either way. Whether underfoot or not. It would be a foolish move of his to lose something in which he'd pleaded for all day to get. Relief from the pain. He would lose his leverage for what? A maybe? Maybe Scott had been caught. Maybe Tom would be coming for him. Maybe. As frightening as a prospect as it was to get caught with his feet on a log he would risk it. He determined he would not kick it away. He would get caught. So be it. Whatever happens from there happens. He would not get caught working the ropes though. He just needed a break. Respite from the pain. How would he explain the log though? He didn't want to get Scotty in trouble for helping him out but what explanation was there. Joe could not in no way reach it on his own. Who else could it have been? If Tom was coming out to him than that means the boy told on him. No. It could mean he put it together on his own. Just like he would put this together; but could Joe say it? Could he voice those words to save himself? Scotty did it.

In the time he was thinking through all of this, he waited. Listening for sound. Listening for movement. He strained to hear anything coming from the house. Any portent of Tom coming to expel more justice. He waited for all this, all that he had considered, to come into pass. What would he say? What would he do?

He waited, but nothing came.

The only sound he could make out was the thumping of his own heart. Nothing more.

He waited…. Nothing more.

He let go a tremulous breath and came to a place of resolution. The same resolution he'd acquired at Scotty's failure to reappear, he finally accepted with Tom. He's not coming. He doesn't know why Scotty hadn't returned but regardless Tom was not coming. Joe got back to work on himself.

He pulled at the rope stretching it, giving it width. Now he had the leverage he needed to do this. He stretched and pulled his hand, stretched more and pulled more. Finally at last it slipped past his thumb knuckle. This was the major hurdle. Once that had happened, the rest of his hand slipped through and gravity took him off the log and onto the hard dirt floor.

The crash had hurt him but in a moment he felt more relief than pain. Blood began to flow to places it had for so long been denied. He reveled in this. He buried his head in the dirt and puffed out a dash of dust on his face. Cradled his arm against his chest. His hand throbbed with each pump of his heart as his body attempted to restore order. His body could finally relax. The blood rushed all throughout him, to every extension of his body to restore balance. It was a strange blend of pleasure and pain. The momentous of this made him dizzy. He became so dizzy in fact that he felt ill. He closed his eyes bidding his mind to stop spinning. Several minutes collapsed in a heap.

The initial rush was finally beginning to subside. He kept his eyes closed finally feeling at peace. A heaviness filled him. He was feeling so relaxed now that sleep enveloped him and he didn't want to fight it. This wasn't a dangerous sleep, was it? This was a well-deserved sleep, wasn't it? After all he'd been through? He let the darkness take hold. His lids were hot and heavy and it felt good to finally close them. Being on his knees on the dirt floor of the shed in the fetal position was in no way an ideal sleeping position. Any other condition then being strung up by one arm was ideal in comparison and it felt good to him.

As he braved to give into the sleep, a niggling provocation baited him.

What had he been through really? What was a triumphant battle won in his mind, would be seen as none other than more insolence in the mind of the pater.

He saw Tomlinson approaching, standing over him as he slept.

The pater!

He shot his eyes back open and looked about him, but he wasn't there. Even in the dark shadows where someone could hide themselves he wasn't there. Joe felt it in his isolation. He was alone. He picked himself off the dirt and sat back still cradling his arm. He wasn't here now but would be eventually. The man he's learned was down-right scary would come for him. He would see him out of his rope. What would happen to him then?

Joe was bound to get something worse. He'd take it, whatever it was. Joe's been hurt plenty in his life, from all the falls and scrapes, and fights he's been in over the years, he's gotten plenty of bruises in that time. This wasn't what scared him. He was used to them, he could take them, this man didn't leave bruises though, some but not too many. No. He did things to hurt him in ways that didn't leave bruises. Sometimes he'd hurt him and Joe was sure he'd get a bruise from it but nothing would come from that which would last more than a few days. So what made this man scary?

He ran through scenarios in his mind. He'd be put back in the cellar again. Fine, he'd take it. That had to have been better than hanging like he was, barely able to breathe, wanting for sleep. What if he doesn't put me back in the cellar? What if he finds something worse than that? Or if he does put me back but refuses to feed me or water me for days? What if he never waters me again? What if he lets me die down there? Or hanging here or wherever else? Joe couldn't come up with what all worse could happen but he had no doubt that Tom would find something.

He felt then that he'd have to put himself back in the rope. How? He'd need the log to aid him and the log would still be there. There'd be no way to hide what he has done or what Scotty had done on his behalf. Besides, it was difficult enough to get himself out, he imagined the near impossibility on putting himself back in. He couldn't even if he wanted to and he sure as hell didn't want to. He never wanted to be in that rope again. Not now, not ever. He'd just have to apologize and beg for leniency.

Apologies and forgiveness never worked.

No. He couldn't wait. He couldn't find out what else Tomlinson had in mind for him. He had to leave. Take off. Go home. That thought brought a comforting wave of emotion. That was what he really wanted to do but there was no one there. What if they were? What if they were just waiting for Tomlinson to tell them he was a better boy, before they came and got him? Did they know how bad Tomlinson was treating him? He replayed those questions. What Tomlinson was doing to him, would they approve? Would they reproach Tomlinson for his crimes, or reproach the boy for running. His family loved him. They couldn't believe that this was good. If they knew what all he was doing, they'd punch Tomlinson right in his nose.

That's what he believed. That's what he held onto, because believing in anything else only led to despair. He might as well die; but they weren't home. He'd just have to hide in the forest or somewhere until they got home; or he could make it into town. If the townsfolk, the sheriff, found out that Joe ran away, would they give him right back? There are no bruises. Joe was just being a bad child. He couldn't stay, he had to run. He couldn't wait for Tomlinson to find him. He was going home.

He drug the log that Scotty had brought out for him back to its place. He was not going to damn Scotty with his exploits. He peered out of the opening. Across the courtyard the house was dark. No light came from inside. The 3 quarter moon provided enough light to see his surroundings. What wasn't in shadows that is. Nothing stirred.

Again he wondered what became of Scotty. Where'd he go? He stared for a while at the dark house. He wanted to take Scotty with him. Away from his pa? Was that right? Would the townspeople understand that?

He'd have to venture up the stairs to get him. The best case scenario was he was there but who really knew anymore. He couldn't risk it all by going in for him. He'd do him more good if he got help, he determined.

Go. He told himself. Just go. You could come back for him. Once you've had a chance to explain yourself.

With that, he was off.