Chapter 37 Monroe
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
Spring Break, Junior Year,
Sigma
I’m pretty sure I have concussed myself.
I’m not sure if it’s the same day or a different day. Muted sunlight shines through the dull, cloudy sky. Was it like this when I passed out?
It takes considerable effort to roll onto my side.
My head throbs.
I should drink water. Do pain pills count as food?
Standing is out of the question. Slowly, I crawl to the bathroom.
Wrapping my hands around the ledge of the porcelain countertop, I hoist myself up. My limbs shake with fatigue. Cupping my hands under the faucet, I bend down to slurp the pooled water.
When is the last time I showered? Maybe a bath tonight. Or today. Or, whenever. Does it even matter?
The putrid, metallic scent of bloody, used tampons and homemade pads fills my nose, which is fitting since I’ve transformed into a member of the walking dead.
Back to work.
I don’t bother to look at my reflection. I don’t want to know, nor do I care.
Sitting on the window ledge feels too precarious, so I wheel over Kieren’s desk chair. With an elbow propped on the windowsill, I wearily rest my chin in my palm.
What was I even doing?
Right.
Scraping.
I’m past hungry.
I don’t get out of bed on Saturday until what I assume is late afternoon.
I smell, or I think I smell, so I decide it's time to bathe.
Floral-scented body wash mixes with the foul odor of decaying blood. Little flies swirl around the full wastebasket, landing on the mirror as I finally work up the courage to look at my reflection.
I don’t know this person.
Purple rings encircle my bloodshot eyes. My skin is ashen. My face gaunt.
I have no fight left in me.
I barely flinch at the scalding water as I carefully lower myself into the tub.
My head lolls to the side, and I sense myself drifting.
But that’s okay.
The devil can take me.
I’ve had enough.
Try one more time. Try.
TRY!
My eyelids flutter open. The bedspread, the pillow…
I don’t remember getting into bed. Pushing myself to a seated position is a momentous task.
I hobble over the window, teetering with each step.
One more time, I tell myself.
I wrap my fingers around the metal handle, squat slightly like a professional weightlifter, and yank…
A strained groan fills the room as I pull, and pull, and…
“FUCK!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
I stumble, the abrupt shift throws me off-balance.
“No,” I laugh, hysterical in my delirium. “No, you can’t. No, it’s not possible!”
I wrap my hands around the handle once more, pulling, jimmying the frame, pulling more, until crisp, cold air floods into the room. Dropping to my knees, I inhale the glorious fresh atmosphere. Relief floods my system. Oxygen.
Moisture clusters along my lashes at my victory. I’ve done it…
Blinking my eyes open, I look outside and to the right of the open window.
The fire escape is within reach. Granted, I’ll have to carefully balance on the windowsill and swing a leg over the railing in a tricky maneuver that could result in falling to my death, but I’ve never been scared of heights.
My grandmother used to tell me how I would climb anything remotely climbable, determined to see how high I could get, and then jump.
She said I was convinced I had the ability to fly and would flap my arms like a deranged chicken with each leap.
By some miracle, I never broke any bones.
Scaling this fire escape won’t be a problem, although I do question the imbecile who designed a fire escape that didn’t run directly under the window for easy access. But then again, this is a fraternity, likely built by men, for men, and only a man could have designed something so inferior.
Hastily, I start shoving critical belongings into my backpack.
Computer, charger, wallet, purse, a few items of clothing, and my toothbrush.
Gagging at the smell in the bathroom, I tie the trash bag closed in the small waste can.
I know what I’m about to do is disgusting, wrong in every sense of the word, but as I watch the blood-filled trash bag drop three stories and land behind the bushes that ring the lower level of Sigma, I feel nothing but triumph at my purge.
Hopefully, a wild animal finds it and decides to take up residence in the bushes.
Hopefully, that animal is a fucking wolf.
I ready myself, leaning my hip onto the windowsill, but I pause and wonder if I should take Kieren’s ceremonial mask as evidence.
No, I decide. No one will take me seriously unless I have real proof that Sigma is behind the disappearance of Rory.
I need those emails between Kieren and X, not to mention a body.
They’ll think the mask is nothing more than a costume and that I’m nothing more than a lunatic.
An idea sparks in my mind. Kieren’s ring.
If Rory’s body is found, the brand on her ass cheek like mine, the Sigma symbol set in the middle of crossed lines, combined with Kieren’s ring, might be enough to arouse suspicion.
It wouldn’t be enough for an indictment against Kieren himself but certainly shine a scrutinous spotlight on Sigma as an organization.
And, if I can get this story in the right hands, perhaps it will be enough to open an investigation.
I mean, I know nothing about the law, but the brand is practically a fucking monogram.
Later, I tell myself as I swing a leg over the ledge. I take a deep breath, and…
Tires.
Gravel.
Shit.
I scramble back inside the window, barely shutting it, when Kieren’s black BMW pulls into the back parking lot. Jumping out of view, my heart pounds. Blood rushes to my head, and I brace myself against the wall until the dizzying blackness in my vision subsides.
Shit!
I toss my backpack onto the bed and frantically unpack, returning each item to its original spot so nothing looks out of place. Footsteps thunder down the hall like a death march. I hadn’t gotten this far. I hadn’t planned for this scenario.
Grabbing my textbook, I leap onto the bed.
A key turns in the lock.
Anxiety snakes up my throat like a vine as I pretend to read, and I don’t know if it’s instinct or learned behavior, but I know exactly what to do. I should spit in his face. I should hide behind the door and throw this book at him.
But I won’t.
Because right now, I need food more than I need redemption.
The door creaks, announcing his presence. My eyes flick up to meet his. Dark, roiling, hostile.
He drops his duffle bag to the floor and wrinkles his nose. I can only imagine the stench in this room. If I were a braver person, I’d wear it with pride, but I’m not.
I’m hungry and I’m weak.
I’ll get food, then I’ll escape.
He saunters over to the bed, crossing his arms in disdain when he stops.
“Well?” he asks. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak, intentionally keeping my voice soft and meek. “You were right.”
His lips quirk in satisfaction.
“Did you miss me?”
I nod, averting my eyes in submission. I know it’s what he wants to see, and I know it’s the part I need to play if I have any hope of getting the fuck away from him.
He kneels, leaning forward to run his hands up my thighs. This is the first time his touch has felt foreign and unwanted. I allow it, willing my mind to go numb, willing my heart not to feel.
“Is my puppy hungry?”
I nod again as my mind fights to hold back tears that desperately want to fall. I don’t want him to know the depth of my hunger, or to understand food is a weapon he can wield.
“When is the last time you showered?” he sneers, curling his lip in disgust. “You look like shit.”
“Yesterday,” I mumble.
“Take a shower and put some fucking makeup on. I’m not taking you to get food until you look presentable. I’ve got things to unpack in my trunk. You’ve got…” He looks at his watch, contemplating how generous he wants to be with his time. “Twenty minutes. When I’m back, I expect you to be ready.”
I hold my breath as Kieren leaves, locking me inside once more. My fingers shake as tears plop onto the open pages of my textbook, my eyes glaze over, and my mind short-circuits.
A monologue plays in my head like an involuntary reaction, repeating over and over to do what she wants. I can’t make it stop, so I squeeze my eyes closed, hearing my own voice narrate as if it’s a movie.
Play along. Play the good girl.
You know how to do this, Monroe.
Pretend everything is fine. Get the food.
If she thinks you are angry, she will punish you.
Do what she wants.
Be a good girl.
Get the food.
But is this a memory, or have I become clinically insane?
I hear the textbook thump closed before I realize I had moved my hands.
Crawling off the bed, I peer out the window.
The trunk of Kieren’s car is open as he leans inside, reaching for something.
I squint in curiosity, but as he straightens, there is no mistaking the four-gallon jugs he wrestles free.
Bleach.