Violent Acres

You can read Part 1 of this story here.

I am lying in the middle of a hot, dark, empty room.

Wait.

I take that back. The room isn’t completely empty. I am in here, after all. And over in the corner is a bucket–that’s where I’m supposed to go to the bathroom. A couple of feet away is one of those two pound containers of cheesy goldfish crackers—my breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively. Everything else has been removed from the room–including the light bulbs.

My clothes are filthy and stained with sweat. My hair is limp and greasy. The hair under my arms and on my legs has grown out and I am itchy all over. I feel like I have just swallowed handfuls of cotton, my teeth feel like they are all wearing little sweaters. I can’t stand the stench of myself.

I have been laying here for two weeks.

The very worst part is the thirst. It claws at the back of my throat. I quit eating the crackers simply because the hunger is easier to deal with than the feeling of my tongue, swollen and dry.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a car listening to my brother urging me to run. I had planned to, but I never got the chance. My Mother watched me like a hawk and when we reached her destination, she brought me here.

Now, I see her once daily. She comes in every afternoon and dumps my bucket. Sometimes she insults me, sometimes she kicks out at me, but most of the time she ignores me. I used to ask her for water, but now I just lie on the floor and stare at her shoes. She wears a different color of high heel every day.

I only stand up straight once a day, when I hear the click of tiny pebbles hitting my window. Then I go to my window and my boyfriend throws me up a roll of toilet paper. I stuff my pockets with handfuls of it and throw the roll back down to him. Then, he throws me up a bottle of water. It is always lukewarm, but I guzzle as much of it as I can anyway. It tastes delicious. Sometimes, he throws me up a candy bar and I take a few bites and throw it back down. He used to throw me up books and I would throw them out the window every time I heard a noise outside of my door, but that just got too tiring.

Directly beneath the window is flat pavement. Otherwise, I would have jumped. But jumping seems kind of pointless if I only end up breaking my leg.

A couple of yards away from my window are some rosebushes. Every time I use the bucket, I wad up my toilet paper and throw it out my window aiming for those rosebushes. Later, all the neighborhood kids I used to sit for will come by and pick up those wads of toilet paper before my Mother sees them.

My boyfriend says they are figuring out a way to get me out.

I used to say ‘I know.’ Now I just change the subject.

I ask my boyfriend where my Mother’s husband is. How come he isn’t living here if they’re married?

My boyfriend tells me that Gene is waiting to move in after the lease on his apartment expires. My brother told him that this won’t be until the first week of September.

“Months,” I say, “Months with no food or water or shower or toilet.”

“She can’t leave you up there that long!” my boyfriend insists.

I laugh and say, “Don’t you understand, Derrek? She says I’m not worth the energy bills anymore!” I laugh and I laugh.

It seems like I’m always three seconds away from hysteria these days.

I tell my boyfriend that I am tired. I’ve got to lie back down. I don’t understand why I’m so sleepy all the time when I spend my days doing nothing at all, but I am. He tells me he will be back tomorrow. I tell him to bring more water.

One night, my door slams open. The hall light is on, so I can see my Mother semi-clearly. She is holding a bundle and she’s obviously in a rush.

“Stand up!” she snaps.

She thrusts a sweater in my direction. “Put this on!” she orders.

I go to take my shirt off, but she stops me. “Just put it on over what you’re wearing!” She holds out a hairbrush and hair clip. “Brush your goddamn hair and put it back in this clip!”

I immediately start brushing. “When I call you, you come downstairs right away,” she orders. When she walks away from me my door is slightly ajar.

My brother peaks in my room.

“What is going on?” I whisper.

“Someone called the police,” he says.

“Derrek’s Mom?”

“No, they won’t listen to her ever since she helped you run away. I think it must be the parents of some of those kids you baby-sit for…”

I crane my neck so I can hear what is going on downstairs. My Mother is saying, “Why, that’s just ridiculous!”

I can’t make out the answering murmur, but I do hear my Mother say, “Of course you can.” Then she calls my name.

I think, Oh thank God.

There are two policemen at the front door. Obediently, I stand beside my Mother. She says, “See? Does she look abused to you?”

“How are you?” they ask me.

“Fine,” I answer, but I try to widen my eyes in such a way as to communicate to them that I am not fine.

“Ma’am,” they say to my Mother, “We’re going to have to interview her alone for a minute, if that is alright with you.”

All confidence, my Mother says, “Of course.”

A police officer leads me outside towards the sidewalk. He says, “We’ve been hearing some pretty interesting stories about you….”

I say, “Listen, you’ve got to help me. My Mother has got me locked up in a room—

He says, “Sounds to me like you’re grounded.”

“No,” I begin again, “It’s not like that. You see, there is nothing in this room—

He interrupts me again, “Yeah, when I ground my daughter, I take away her television set, too.” He smiles a little.

“Listen,” I demand, “It’s not like that at all! There’s a bucket—

“You know what I think?” he interrupts again.

I say nothing.

“I think you’re a spoiled brat.”

“Huh?”

“Look at that sweater you’re wearing,” he continues, “Isn’t that one of those expensive sweaters? That thing is probably worth more than my daughter’s entire wardrobe.”

I am incredulous. “This sweater? It’s not even mine! My Mother….what she is doing is abuse!”

“I don’t see any bruises on you,” he says, “All I see is a spoiled girl wearing a fancy sweater who needs to shape up and listen to her Mother and quit making up stories to scare the neighborhood kids.”

I am speechless.

It is hopeless.

When the police leave, my mother holds out her hand. She wants the sweater back. I give it to her. She wants the hair clip, too. It’s all hers. Then she leads me back up to my room.

I lay there for two more weeks.

My Mother quits emptying my bucket every day. It is pointless, I barely go anymore. But when I do, the stifling heat makes the entire room reek of piss and shit. I am so filthy; I want to claw my own skin off.

I hear the click-click of pebbles hitting my window. I am too tired to get up. The pebbles are insistent, though, so I drag myself to the window.

“V!” my boyfriend says, “How about we get married?”

I stare at him silently.

“I’m serious!” he insists, “This is your Mother’s idea!”

“Wha…?”

“She says that she is thinking about letting you get married. She says it’s the best thing for the baby!”

“But I’m not pregnant,” I say. The wad of toilet paper currently jammed in between my thighs is proof of that.

“I know that! Jesus, you don’t think I know that?” he says, “My point is that’s what she’s been telling her husband! And really, who cares what he thinks as long as you’re free!”

“I’m only 15. You’re only 17. Isn’t that…illegal or something?”

“In this state it is. But if we go to West Virginia, we can get married as long as we have parental consent.”

“Your Mother,” I remind him dully.

“She said she’d do it! V, if we’re married, your Mother loses all of her legal rights to you! You will never have to see her again! You won’t even have to hide! You can go back to school! Your Mom is supposed to ask you about it today!”

I was starting to warm to the idea. It seemed too good to be true. But then he said:

“And V….I really do love you. We can make this work.”

Those two sentences told me all I needed to know. My boyfriend wasn’t going to view our marriage as a sham, something convenient we did simply so I could escape. He was going to take it seriously, like a real marriage that would last all of our lives. He loved me enough to want to be with me forever…or at least he thought he did. I loved him too (Because who wouldn’t love the boy who tried so hard to break you out of prison?), but I did not love him enough to seriously marry him. I did not love him enough to want to spend my life with him.

Because I was too young and immature to communicate my fears to him thoughtfully, I simply said:

“No. I won’t do it. It’s not right.”

Then I walked away from the window so I could lie down.

Sure enough, my Mother opened my door a couple of hours later and said, “You know, you can stay here for the rest of the summer. Or you can marry Derrek and get the hell out of my life for good.”

I said, “If you let me go, I’ll leave forever anyway.”

She said, “No, it doesn’t work that way. I’d still be legally responsible for you.”

“I won’t do anything wrong. I won’t get you in trouble.”

“I don’t believe a word you say,” She sneered, “If you want out of this room, marriage is the only way to do it.”

“No,” I said.

She slammed the door.

I lied there for two more weeks.

Every day she’d open the door and offer me marriage. The first couple of times, I would verbally refuse. But after awhile, I quit bothering to answer. Instead, I would just stare at her shoes. Every day, a different color high heel.

Early one morning, she opened the door and just stared at me. After 6 weeks without a shower, I must have been disgusting to look at. My hair was falling out.

Finally, she said, “I told Gene that you’re having trouble in rehab. Perhaps they won’t let you out this summer after all. Maybe they’ll keep you in for 6 more months. It’s a pity that you’ll miss school, of course, but we’ve really got to get you well.”

I said nothing.

“But then again, maybe you’ll turn your life around. Maybe the baby in your stomach will inspire you to stay clean.”

I hated her.

“Maybe you’ll decide to straighten up. Get married. Settle down and be a good girl. For the baby.”

Dear God, please give me the strength to kill her.

“Marriage or 6 more months of rehab….I guess it’s your choice.”

“Can I have a shower?” I croaked.

“Absolutely,” she said. “And a fresh change of clothes, too”

“Water?”

“I’ve got a cold bottle right downstairs in the kitchen. Hell, I’ll even order you a pizza.”

“Ok then.”

“I want your word.”

“I promise I’ll do it.”

She smiled suddenly and slammed the door. I heard the lock click. I should have known it was all a trick. I went to sleep.

A couple of hours later, the door opened again. “The arraignments have been made,” my Mother told me.

I stared at her dully.

“Come on, get up. Go get your shower. I’m sure you remember where the bathroom is?”

Tentatively, I got to my feet.

“I’ve still got a couple of phone calls to make,” she said, “You can take care of yourself.” Then she walked away again. Only this time, she left the door open.

I crept down the hall to the bathroom. On the sink, there was a fresh toothbrush and a cold bottle of water waiting for me. A new pair of shorts, a shirt, and a pair of panties were neatly folded and sitting on the toilet. There was a fresh towel on the towel rack.

It was like staring at a mirage.

The first thing I did was snatch at the bottle of water. I drank the entire thing in a couple of gulps. Then I ran the water from the faucet and started slurping more water out of my cupped hands. I drank and drank and drank until my stomach felt like a water balloon about to burst.

The second thing I did was brush my teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled.

Have you ever had a shower after spending a significant time dirty? If you have, I’m sure you know that it is the ultimate luxury. There is no greater feeling in the world than standing under a steady stream of water, a bottle of shampoo and a new razor blade within easy reach, holding a fresh bar of soap, washing away layer after layer of filth.

No. Greater. Feeling.

Because of this, I stood in that shower and I sobbed…big, choking, heaving sobs that doubled me over and almost brought me to my knees. I gasped and shuddered, I writhed and I wailed; I clutched at my eyes as if I were trying to push the tears back into the ducts.

This felt too good.

And what I had I paid for this? I was preparing to break a boy’s heart, lie to his face, use him as if he weren’t a person with feelings of his own, but a means to my end.

All that…for a shower.

It wasn’t right that it should feel so good.

It was at that precise instant that I quit believing in God.

You can read Part 3 of this story here.

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