FORTY-TWO

Dagne

The handle has been broken off on the inside of the truck door. Only the end of the cable shows through the hole it’s left in the panel.

“Not much further,” Digits announces cheerily as we fly down a dirt road toward God only knows where—probably my death.

I grunt in answer, my fingers creeping over the rim of the metal to try and get enough purchase on the cable. If I can open the door, I can tumble out. The impact might injure me quite bad, but would it be worse than whatever Digits has planned?

We stopped off at some shitty house this morning, and he shoved me down a trapdoor to a dusty basement while he went about his “club business.” Whatever it was, I’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t belong to the same club he displays on his back. More likely this shady asshole has started a new one, gone out on his own to pet his ego.

“What kind of leverage am I?” I ask quietly, curiosity getting the better of me.

He said that’s what he wanted me for, but so far I’ve seen no evidence of him trying to use the knowledge that he has me for any greater good.

“Insurance policy,” he answers, turning the wheel and guiding us around a right-hand bend.

The truck comes to an abrupt stop, and he twists in his seat to smile at me. I inch toward my door.

“I wouldn’t bother tryin’ to open it,” he says smugly. “I’ve got the kid-lock on.”

Shit. I move my redundant hand to my mouth instead, tapping out a frantic pace on my bottom lip.

Digits climbs out, rounding the vehicle to let me out also. I slide up in my seat, taking in as much of my surroundings as I can in case I’m able to call for help later. It’s no use; trees and cornfields could place us anywhere. I try in vain to spot a road sign, property name, or letterbox anywhere as I climb down from the truck cab, but it’s to no avail.

We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.

“This way.” He takes ahold of my arm and jerks me roughly in the same direction as him.

I stumble along behind, wincing every time my foot slips on the uneven ground since his grip tightens in response. We trek into an open field, through the rows of corn, and to a small four-foot square clearing with a scarecrow perched in the middle.

“Perfect.”

I note for the first time the bag in his other hand as he drops it to the ground with a puff of dust. His hand releases my arm, and I decide that if I’m going to die I’d rather do it trying to be free.

I turn and strike my first footfall when the crack of a gun has me diving for the cover of the corn. Some fucking heroine, I am.

“Stupid fuckin’ girl. You want me to knock you out again?”

I roll to face him, shaking my head.

“Then get over here and do as I say.”

I push to my feet and walk to the scarecrow, standing at the base of it as he keeps the gun trained on me.

“Rip that fuckin’ thing off the post.”

I draw a deep breath, eyeballing the notch on the end of his gun as I nod. The hay protruding from its weatherworn clothes scratches at my skin, yet I persist in the knowledge this crazed man behind me could inflict so much worse.

The scarecrow lies in a heap at my feet in no time at all, and I turn to face Digits again, waiting on my next instruction.

“Strip.”

Fuck. No.

“Why?”

“So I can paint you in oils, Dagne,” he snaps. “Why the fuck do you think?”

I’m going to die in a cornfield. A motherfucking cornfield.

Digits frowns as I break into raucous laughter, my sanity slipping away in the direness of it all. I hazard a glance at him as he stands perplexed, and the sight makes me laugh more.

“What the fuck is so funny?” he snaps, shoving me roughly against the pole.

“A fucking cornfield,” I splutter out as my laughter turns to tears. “Corn. I hate corn.”

He tucks his fingers into the top of my shirt, his gun pointed at my head with his other hand, and jerks down on the fabric. It rips a little, two more solid yanks getting it started properly. My shoulders hurt where the straps have dug in before the cotton gave way, yet I choose to stare at the sky and silently cry as he literally peels my clothes from my body.

I don’t have it in me to physically fight him anymore. I’ve tried and failed so many times, that I’m afraid if I fail again I won’t have any strength left in me to endure what he’s about to do.

“You’re a coward,” I leer at him as he yanks my boots off, gun firmly planted in my gut.

“Really?” He laughs, short and bitter. “So what does that make Hooch? Pretty sure the guy’s so soft he has a fuckin’ vagina.”

I shunt my knee toward Digits’ face, yet he reels to the left, avoiding contact. The gun slips down my stomach until he has the business end pointed at the apex of my thighs.

“Try that again, and I’ll have a much sloppier hole to play with.”

He continues to undress me, the overcast day providing some respite as the sun comes and goes in bursts. I stare up at the clouds, losing myself in their beauty, fantasizing what it would be like to walk among them … anything to take me away from reality.

“Turn around and hug the pole.”

I refuse—my final stand.

He manhandles me into position instead, the splintered wood stabbing painfully at my chest and stomach, and lancing my arms as he pulls them tightly together.

I don’t recall how I end up tied in place, how many times he wraps the nylon rope around my wrists and elbows, or what kind of knots he does. I block it all out and choose to watch the beetle that climbs the pole past my face instead, drawing patterns in my mind between the hues of its brown back.

I find solace in nature, and in the most ugly of experiences, I find she’s at her most beautiful.

The stalks of corn sway on the breeze that kicks up as Digits’ unwelcome hands rove over my body. I tune into their mesmerizing dance, feeling my own body gently lilt to the same rhythm as I block out the vulgar suggestions and empty threats falling from Digits’ mouth as he takes my body without permission.

The yellow tufts erupting from the ears change in hue as they move in and out of the sunlight, and in those golden shades I find myself lost in a memory. Golden sands; the first time I’d seen the ocean, a year after leaving home. I was struck by my insignificance in that moment, and it’s all I can do now to remind myself that these moments Digits takes from me, no matter how painful, will only be a fleeting flash of color against life’s backdrop.

I am me, who I am as a person, not what my body is in this moment.

He’ll never be able to take that.

My arms tire, and the splinters dig in as I sag without his brute force holding me up. He’s finished, but I get the feeling the game has just begun. A camera shutter sounds, and I lift my head enough to see him standing to the side with his phone held high to capture me in my freshly ravaged shame.

“Been nice knowin’ you, Dagne,” he announces cheerily as he packs his loose items back into the bag: a roll of tape, an unused length of rope. “I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you’d been put in my path for a reason.” His hard eyes hold mine, and I find nothing. No emotion. No regret. No recognition of what he’s done. “Now I know why.”

His boots crunch into the distance as the daylight fades to the warm hues of the afternoon. My clothes lay flat, within grasp if my hands were free, taunting me with their comfort and familiarity. The beetle returns, crawling over my arm as it makes it’s way back down to the earth below, and as I wince through the pain of a dozen new splinters, I sink down to join it.

Resigned.

Redundant.

Ruined.