Mud Vein - Fisher Tarryn - Страница 5

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I stare blindly at the snow outside as he stands at the stove. The stove is gas; brand new from the looks of it.

When he comes back to the table he’s carrying two plates, each piled with scrambled eggs. The smell makes me sick. He sets it down in front of me and I pick up the fork.

Weapons, we have so many: forks, knives … you’d think if someone were coming back, they wouldn’t provide us with these things to attack them with. I voice my thoughts, and Isaac nods.

“I know.”

Of course he had already thought of this. Always two steps ahead…

“Your hair is different,” he says. “It took me a minute to recognize you … upstairs.”

I blink at him. Are we really talking about my hair? I feel self-conscious about my white streak. I make sure it’s tucked away, behind my ear.

“I grew it out.”

Put food in mouth, chew, swallow, put food in mouth, chew, swallow.

We don’t speak about my hair anymore. When I am finished eating, I announce that I need to use the restroom. I ask him to come with me. The only bathroom in the house is the one in the bedroom where I found Isaac. He waits outside the door, knife in hand. Before we leave the kitchen he upgrades to a larger one. It is almost funny, but not. Big knife, big wound. I had settled for a steak knife myself. They are easy to handle and sharp as hell.

I relieve myself and step over to the sink to wash my hands. There is a mirror hanging above it. I look at myself and flinch. My hair is limp and greasy, the inch-wide streak of grey that showed up when I was twelve is startling against my pale face. I have done everything to rid myself of it: dying it, cutting it, pulling it out strand by strand. Color won’t take to the grey. I have sat in dozens of chairs over the years and every stylist has said the same thing. “It doesn’t make sense … it won’t take the color.” No matter what I do, it always comes back like a stubborn weed. Eventually, I let it be. The old part of me won out.

I turn on the water, it sputters like the croup for several seconds before a weak brown stream comes dribbling out. I splash it over my face, drink some. It tastes funny—like rust and dirt.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Isaac hands me his butcher knife. I have to put my knife down to hold it, since my wrist is a gimp.

“Me too,” he says. “Don’t let the bad guys get us.”

I grin—I actually grin—as he closes the door. His humor always shows up at the oddest moments. I thought I was the bad guy, I didn’t think I’d ever be at the mercy of one.

When he comes out, his face has been washed, too, and his hair is damp. There is a trickle of water running from his temple.

“Now what?” I say.

“Are you tired? We could take turns. Do you want to sleep?”

“Hell no!”

He laughs. “Yeah, I get ya.”

There is a long awkward pause.

“I’d like to take a shower,” I say. What I don’t add is, in case the sick fuck touched me…

He nods. I climb up the ladder to get something clean to wear. It makes me sick, putting on clothes that someone chose and put here for me. I wish I had my own, but not even the pajamas I’m still wearing are mine. I study the contents of the wardrobe. Almost every article of clothing is something I would have chosen for myself—except for the color. There is too much of that. This is creepy. Who would know me well enough to buy me clothes? Clothes that I actually like? I pluck a long sleeve yoga top from a hanger and find the matching pants underneath it. In a drawer are a variety of panties and bras.

Oh God!

I decide to go without either. I can’t wear underwear that some sicko bought and folded into a drawer. It would feel like was touching me … there. I slam the drawer closed.

Isaac helps me down the ladder. Since my attack on the door, my wrist has swollen to twice its size.

“Keep it elevated and out of the hot water,” he says before I go into the bathroom.

I find soap and shampoo under the sink. Generic stuff. The soap is white and smells like laundry. I keep the shower to five minutes even though I want to stay longer. The brownish water never gets really hot and it has a strange smell.

I get out and dry myself with the lemon-colored towel that is hanging on the towel rack. Such a cheerful color. Such an ironic color. And so thoughtfully hung here for us. I rub at my arms and legs trying to capture all of the drops. Yellow to soften the blow of the snow and the prison and the abduction. Maybe whoever brought us here thought that the color of this towel would stave off depression. I drop it on the floor, disgusted. Then I laugh, hard and shrill.

I hear Isaac knock lightly on the door.

“You okay, Senna?”

His voice is muffled. “I’m fine,” I call out. Then I laugh so hard and loud he opens the door and lets himself in.

“I’m fine,” I say to his concerned face, trying to stifle my laughter. I catch the laughter behind my hand as tears begin to leak from my eyes. I’m laughing so hard I have to hold myself up by the sink.

“I’m fine,” I gasp. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Like I can be fine. Are you fine?”

I see the muscles in his cheek flicker. His eye color is metallic, like a tin can.

He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away. I’ve stopped laughing.

“Don’t touch me.” I say it louder and harsher than I intended.

He tucks his lips in and nods. He gets it. I’m crazy. No new revelations there. I sit on the bed with the knife and stare at the door while he takes his turn. If someone were to walk into the room right now, I’d be useless—knife or not. I feel like my body is here, but the rest of me is down a deep hole. I can’t reconcile the two.

Isaac takes an even shorter shower than I do. I wake up a little when he gets out. He walks out in a towel and heads to the wardrobe. I see him looking at the clothes the same way I did. He doesn’t say anything, but he rubs the cotton of a black shirt between his thumb and forefinger. I shiver. Even if this did have something to do with one of my fans, why Isaac? I stare at the knife while he gets dressed in the bathroom. It’s brand new; the blade shiny spotless. Bought just for us, I think.

For lack of anything better to do we go back downstairs to wait. Isaac heats up two cans of soup and puts some frozen rolls in the oven. I am actually hungry when he hands me the bowl.

“It’s still light outside. It should be dark by now.”

He looks down at his food, purposefully avoiding my eyes.

“Why Isaac?”

Still, he doesn’t look at me.

“Do you think we’re in Alaska? How they hell did they get across the Canadian border with us?”

I get up and pace the kitchen.

“Isaac?”

“I don’t know, Senna.” His voice is terse. I stop pacing and look at him. He keeps his head bent toward his food, but lifts his eyes to my face. Finally, he sighs and sets his spoon down. He spins it slowly counter clockwise until it’s come full circle.

“It’s possible we’re in Alaska,” he says. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

I nod. I’m not tired. Or maybe I am. I lie down on the couch and curl my legs up to my chest. I am so afraid.

No one comes. Not for two days, then three. Isaac and I barely speak. We eat, we shower, we move from room to room like restless shadows. As soon as we walk into a room, our eyes go to the spot where we’ve hidden the knives. Will we need to use them? How soon? Who will live and who will die? It’s the worst form of torture a person can imagine—the wait to die. I see the not knowing in the dark circles that have developed around Isaac’s eyes. He sleeps less than I do. I know I can’t look any different; it’s eating at us.

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