His Revenge In My Bed

22. Josie

I gripped the long thin wooden stick I had found in the garden. And I walked toward the back of the house, mommy said that's where we keep animals.

That's where she kept my pet.

In the corner, there was a small cage. Inside the cage, a boy was sitting on the floor.

He was much bigger than me, but he looked small because he was curled into a ball.

He didn't have a shirt on, just dirty blue shorts.

His skin was covered in grey dust and dark streaks of mud.

His hands were pulled behind his back, held together by thick white rope that bit into his wrists.

I stared at him. He looked like the animals at the zoo, but his eyes were different. They were red and puffy.

I reached out with my stick and pushed it through the bars. I poked his shoulder. It felt soft, then hard.

"Doggie," I whispered. I poked him again, right on his rib, "Wake up, doggie. I wanna play!"

The boy’s head snapped up. His hair was messy and stuck to his forehead with sweat. He didn't look like a dog. He lunged toward the bars, his teeth bared, making a sharp snapping sound with his jaws. I jumped back, my heart thumping against my ribs like a bird in a box.

"I’ll kill you!" the boy screamed. His voice was scratchy and loud. It hurt my ears. "I’ll kill you and I’ll kill that monster woman! I’m going to get out of here and I’m going to break both of your necks!"

I felt my lip tremble. My eyes got hot. "Mommy!" I wailed, "The doggie is mean! The doggie is mean to me!"

I heard the click-clack of pretty heels. Mommy appeared out of the dark. She was wearing a beautiful dress and her hair smelled like flowers. she knelt down next to me and put her soft, warm hand on my shoulder. She looked at the boy in the cage, but her eyes weren't kind anymore.

"Oh, Josie," Mommy said, her voice sounding very sad. "The doggie is being very mean, isn't he? He’s a bad dog. He doesn't know his place."

"Yes, he is a bad dog!" I said, glaring at him.

She looked at me and tilted her head, "What do we do when a dog is bad, Josie? How do we teach a bad dog to be good?"

I looked at the boy. He was still glaring at me, his chest moving up and down fast. I thought about my picture books, "Hit it?" I asked in a small voice, "We hit bad things?"

Mommy nodded. She gave me a big, proud smile, "That’s right, my clever girl. You have to be the boss. If you aren't the boss, the dog will hurt you. So, why aren't you doing it? Why are you letting him be mean to you?"

I looked at the stick in my hand. It was long and had a sharp, pointy end where a branch had broken off. I stepped closer to the bars. The boy growled at me, a low, scary sound in his throat just like a bad dog.

"Bad doggie!" I yelled. I swung the stick as hard as I could.

Smack.

The wood hit his bare arm. A red line appeared on his skin almost instantly. He let out a sharp gasp and tried to move away, but there wasn't much room in the cage.

"Again," Mommy urged, "Harder, Josie. He didn't learn yet. Show him who owns him. Harder!"

I swung again. And again. Smack. Crack. Smack.

"Bad doggie! Bad doggie!" I shouted. I was breathing hard now.

Mommy was watching me and she was happy.

"Now, use the pointy end," Mommy whispered. Her hand guided my arm, pushing the stick deeper through the bars, "Poke him. Right in the soft part of his stomach. Make him understand, Josie. Harder. Go harder."

I pushed the sharp end of the stick into the boy’s side. I pushed with all my weight.

The boy let out a loud cry. It was a high sound that echoed off the stone walls.

He collapsed onto his side, sobbing and shaking.

Tears ran through the dirt on his face, making clean tracks down his cheeks.

He tucked his head into his chest, trying to make himself small, trying to hide from the stick in my hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry... please, I won't do it again..." the boy begged. His voice was broken and full of pain.

"Say sorry to Josie!" I yelled, stomping my foot on the floor. I wanted him to say it louder. I wanted him to mean it.

He was crying so hard his chest was heaving. There was a dark spot of red blood on his belly, right where Mommy and I had poked him with the sharp edge of the stick together.

"S-sorry... Josie..." he whispered. He wouldn't look at me. He just kept his eyes on the floor, his shoulders trembling as he gave up.

I looked down at him and puffed out my chest. He looked so small on the floor, like a bug. It made me feel big.

"That's not good enough!" I shouted, waving my stick in the air. "You have to say it like you mean it!"

I poked him again, right in his shoulder. He flinched away, making a tiny noise like a hurt puppy.

"See, Mommy? I'm making him listen!" I laughed and turned to look at Mommy.

Mommy reached down and stroked my hair, "That’s my girl," she whispered, "You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. A Van Alen doesn't beg, Josie. A Van Alen makes others beg. Don't let him stop crying until he knows his place."

"It's my name..."

The voice was small, and it came from the dark corner of the cage. I stopped poking him and tilted my head.

Mommy’s hand went still on my head. She slowly turned her face toward the doggie, "What did you just say?"

The boy looked up. He wasn't hiding his face anymore. He glared at Mommy, "Van Alen is my name!" he shouted, "Not hers! It’s mine!"

Mommy just kept smiling that pretty smile. She looked down at me and gestured toward the boy with a wave of her hand.

"Josie darling, did you see how he talked to your mother?" she asked softly. She leaned down so her face was level with mine, her eyes wide and sad, "He’s trying to steal your name, Josie. He’s being a very, very naughty doggie."

She looked at the stick in my hand and then back at the boy.

"I think he needs to be reminded that a doggie doesn't have a name," Mommy whispered, "A doggie only has a master. What are you going to do about that tone of voice, my little princess?"

I frowned, I didn't know what to do next. So, I looked down, "I don't know..."

She sighed, "Josie, sweetheart, show him the metal bucket," she instructed, "The one with the ice water in it. If he wants to pretend he’s a Van Alen, maybe we should give him a bath. A long, cold bath. Maybe then he’ll remember that his only name is 'Doggie.'"

I clapped my hands, "Yes! A bath! He's super stinky! You're a bad, bad doggie," I said, putting my hands on my hips and mimicking the way Mommy stood. "And now you have to get wet."

Mommy started to tip the bucket toward the cage, and he tried to scrunch himself into the corner. The ice-cold water exploded through the bars.

"AGH!" He let out a strangled, choked shriek as the liquid hit his chest, his head slammed back against the stone wall.

"More! More!" I jumped up and down, watching the water soak into his shorts.

"I think that's enough for now," Mommy said, standing up and smoothing out her dress. She looked down at the shivering boy and then at me. She leaned down and kissed my cheek. "Now he’s a good doggie. You did so well, Josie. You’re such a good girl."

I looked at the boy. He was making tiny, whimpering noises now. I felt a weird feeling in my tummy, like I wanted to cry too, but Mommy was smiling, so I smiled back. I gripped my stick tight and watched my doggie cry in the dark.

I leaned closer, my fingers pressing against the cold, iron bars. The boy lifted his head, his face wet with tears and mud. His eyes—those deep, blue eyes—looked right into mine. They weren't just any eyes. They were his...

"Zane?" I whispered.

The boy opened his mouth, and a small, broken sound came out. "Josie... please..."

The world started to spin. The shed's walls began to melt away like wet paint.

I gasped.

My eyes flew open. My chest was heaving up and down so fast it hurt. I was sitting straight up in a bed. My heart was thumping against my ribs.

I looked around the room. The lights were on, the warm, yellow glow of the bedside lamp. I was wearing my soft, clean pajamas. A thick, heavy blanket was pulled up to my chin.

I had clothes on.

I had clothes.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing my hand against my face. It was just a dream. Just a bad dream."

But my hand was shaking. I looked down at my fingers because I remembered the feeling of the wooden stick in my grip. I remembered the way the bark felt against my palm. I remembered the sound of the smack against skin.

It wasn't a dream.

The truth hit me like a blow to the stomach.

It was a memory.

A dark, ugly memory.

This was the place where the year of therapy had finally collapsed. For ten years, those doctors had sat across from me in their chairs, using their calm voices to help me build a wall.

They told me to categorize my life: This is the present. This is the healthy part. This is the box where the scary memories stay locked.

They told me I was a victim.

They told me the bad things were things that happened to me. And there was no doggie, no Zane, no cages.

But now the wall was gone.

The box had shattered.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, but they were the hands of a girl who had known exactly what she was doing.

I remembered the stick. I remembered the way Mommy’s hand had felt on my shoulder, not forcing me, but guiding me.

I remembered the way I had wanted to be the one holding the power.

I remembered the way the fear in Alexander’s eyes had made me feel… big. Important.

A sob ripped its way out of my throat, the memory was so clear I could taste the dust of that basement. I could hear the sound of the stick. I could hear the way he had begged for mercy, the same mercy I had been denied last night in the garden.

"I did that," I whispered to myself.

The coldness I had felt in the garden, the ice-water, the wind was nothing compared to the freezing void that was opening up inside my chest.

For days, I’d been sobbing, literally begging the walls of this room to tell me why. Why me? What did I do to end up in this hell? I kept searching for some mistake I’d made, some reason I deserved this nightmare.

Now, I finally had the answer.

I had been his torturer first. I was the one who began this. He wasn't just my captor; he was my mirror. He was only finishing the game I started when I was five years old.

The room was still, and I stayed curled in a ball, my skin crawling with the memory of that wooden stick.

"You're finally awake."

The voice came from the dark corner near the window. I jumped, my heart slamming against my teeth. Alexander was sitting in a high-backed chair. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt them.

"Come here, Josephine," he said.

I stayed frozen. My mind was still in that shed. I could still see the red mark on his belly. I could still hear his little-boy voice begging me to stop. The guilt was a heavy, wet blanket suffocating me.

"I said," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, "come closer."

I pushed the blankets off. My legs felt like they were made of lead. I stood up, my knees knocking together. I took one small, trembling step toward the dark corner.

"Stop," he said.

I froze.

"Down on the floor," he ordered softly. He tilted his head, and a bit of light caught the cold smirk on his face, "On all fours. Like a good little dog. Crawl to me."

The word dog hit me like a punch.

Doggie. My doggie.

The memory of my five-year-old self laughing as we drenched him in ice water flashed behind my eyes. I felt sick. I felt like I was going to throw up the soup Aisling had fed me. My hands shook so hard I had to clench them into fists.

Slowly, I dropped to my knees. The carpet felt rough against my skin. I lowered my hands to the floor, my head hanging low. I felt the heat of shame rising up my neck, but beneath the shame was a paralyzing, bone-deep fear.

I began to crawl.

Hand, knee, hand, knee.

Every time I moved, I expected to feel the sting of a stick against my back. I stopped just a few feet from his boots. The black leather was polished so bright I could almost see my own terrified face in them.

"Look at me," he murmured.

I lifted my head, my hair falling into my eyes. Alexander leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked... peaceful. He reached out and ran a hand over my hair, his touch light and airy.

"I’ve been so nice to you tonight, haven't I, Josephine?

" he asked. His voice was gentle, like he was talking to a pet he actually liked.

"I mean, look at you. You have these soft clothes on your body.

I made sure the heating was turned back up so you wouldn't shiver. I even let you have that big blanket."

He ran a thumb along my jawline, and I flinched, but he didn't pull away.

"We had an agreement, remember?" he continued, "You were supposed to earn every little thing. Every scrap of food, every inch of fabric. But I just gave it to you. I saw you out and I thought, no, let’s be kind."

He leaned in closer, his scent filling my head.

"I’m a very generous master, wouldn't you agree?" he whispered, "I’ve given you so much comfort that you didn't even work for. Most people would say I’m being far too soft on you."

I couldn't speak. My throat was a desert. I just stared at him, my hands pressing into the floor, waiting for the moment the kindness turned back into the hose.

"Well?" he prompted, his fingers tightening just a fraction on my chin, "Am I being good to you, Josephine?"

I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. A single, hot tear broke free and rolled down my cheek, leaving a wet trail, "Yes..."

Alexander’s hand moved from my chin to the top of my head.

He began to stroke my hair, his touch slow, exactly like someone petting a dog that had finally learned to sit.

It should have felt comforting, but it felt like ice sliding over my scalp.

Every time his palm smoothed down my hair, my heart gave a jagged little thump of terror.

"The tears," he murmured, "They don't do what you think they do, Josephine. They don't make me want to stop. They don't make me feel bad."

He leaned back in the chair, but his hand stayed on my head. He looked out the window at the black night, his face as still as a statue's.

"I don't feel guilt," he said, and he sounded almost bored, "I don't really feel much of anything at all anymore. No love. No heat. No big attachment to people. Nothing. It’s like a light went out in a room a long time ago, and I just got used to sitting in the dark."

He looked back at me, and his eyes were completely empty. There was no fire, no anger, just a flat, grey wall.

"Most people... they just don't reach me," he continued, "They talk, they cry, they scream, and it’s just noise.

The doctors say it's because of my childhood.

They say something happened back then...

something that snapped the wires. It made me unfeeling.

It made me cold. They have all these big words for it, but the truth is just that I'm empty. "

The memory of the basement, the stick, and the freezing water flashed in my mind. I was the one who helped snap those wires. I was the one who helped turn out the lights in his soul. I wanted to scream that I was sorry, but my tongue felt like lead.

"So, please," he whispered, his hand stopping its movement to grip a handful of my hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let me know he could, "Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to. Truly."

He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"You aren't the person I want to break. You aren't the one I’m really fighting.

But you are her weakness. You are the only thing she actually cares about, and that makes you a target.

You're just collateral damage, Josephine.

Like a house caught in the middle of a war zone.

The soldiers don't hate the house. They just have to blow it up to get to the enemy on the other side. "

He let go of my hair and stood up, towering over me while I stayed on my hands and knees on the floor. He looked down at me, and for a second, I thought I saw a tiny flicker of something... not love, but maybe a strange kind of pity.

"I don't want to hurt you at all," he said, "It’s not in me to enjoy your pain. Because I don't hate you, Josephine. To hate you, I’d have to feel something for you. And like I told you... I don't feel anything at all."

He turned away and walked toward the door, leaving me shivering on the carpet. I heard the soft click of the door locking from the outside.

I stayed on my hands and knees, my palms pressing into the soft fibers of the carpet. Every word he had said played back in my head, over and over, like a record that was stuck.

I don't feel anything at all.

I lowered my chest to the floor, resting my cheek against the rug. I didn't try to get to the bed. I didn't try to find the blanket. I just lay there in the dark, a small, broken shape.

The monster wasn't just in the room with me.

The monster was the history we shared, the blood on our hands, and the empty space where his heart used to be.

And for the first time in my life, I realized that some things stay broken forever.

No matter how much you apologize, the ice-water never gets warm.

The stick never un-breaks the skin.