would go everywhere. Or would they blow back down into her throat? After a minute he removed the gun and hung his head.
“I’ll do what you want me to,” she quietly spoke. “I’ll sit here and be quiet. I’m sorry.” She stared at the veins in his arms, at his dirty-blonde hair, at the mustache hairs that ran down over his top lip.
“My wife…the woman you saw me kill? She cheated on me. She used to sit right here,” he looked over at the spot on the couch where he’d been, pointing at it with the gun.
“Right next to me,” he went on, his voice so profound. “And everything was fine. Normal. Quiet. Sunday afternoon type of shit, you know? Dinner, TV, bed. Normal.” He moved to reach over for a cookie. He broke it in half and held it up to her face.
“Open,” he told her. She parted her lips and he pushed the piece of cookie into her mouth. It was soft and chewy. The food he gave her was always delicious.
“But you know what wasn’t normal?” he asked. He said the word ‘normal’ with enormous detest.
Sophie shook her head and he held the gun to his own head.
“The shit up here, the shit in her head, she was crazy. She got a job at this…place,” he rubbed his fingertips together to rid of crumbs and reached back for the other half. She opened her mouth without him having to tell her and he shoved it in. He studied her mouth as he wiped her saliva off onto his jeans. “Some stupid job working at some call center. The kind of lousy job people with no proper education get.” He stood up, still looking down at her. “Ae? When you’re young and stupid you like other young and stupid people, I guess. Anyway, I guess she liked some guy that worked there, at her stupid job, some chump, and…when the storm hit she didn’t want to stay here, too much damage. Oh, the roof leaks,” he mocked her. “I thought she was staying with her sister.” He paused. Then his voice darkened. “Hey, guess what? She wasn’t staying with her sister.” He went back and sat on the couch. He was exceptionally quiet for the next few minutes, just watching TV.
“This is the best episode,” Sophie said. “The first one, when the father dies, and…everyone is fucked up but…not really because he died, just cause…they’re like lost, like, just in general. And then like…how someone dies at the beginning of every episode – do you think that was a way for us to see that the problems that followed, with the characters, were just like…trivial?”
He placed his dark eyes on her and remained quiet for almost a minute.
“You think a lot for a…how old are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes a bit.
“Fifteen,” she said, her throat tightening.
He looked back at the TV, perplexed. He’d thought she was older.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “You think a lot for fifteen.” His voice got deeper and hush at the same time. He studied the TV.
“Do you think I’m fat?” she asked. “Mom would never let me eat cookies because she says they make you fat. Or watch TV.”
“You’re not fat,” he simply said, sounding bored with the question. He didn’t take his eyes off the TV.
“Yeah…” he said after a minute. “It kind of helps them discover who they really are – death, when it happens, is a chain snapping in half. Other people around us have to die to remind us we don’t have as much time as we think we do.”
He scratched his head and was about to ask her something. She couldn’t wait.
“So you think everything but death is trivial?” he asked, looking over at her.
“Oh…I mean…”
“Well,” he suddenly laughed. “What the fuck do you now, huh? You’re just a child. Just a baby girl.”
“I’m fifteen,” she argued. She was surprised that she had the gall to raise her voice at him.
“That’s nothing. Raindrops.”
“Life just gets…harder and more…painful, right?” she guessed.
“No, people do.” He frowned and stared down at the coffee table. “And yeah…I guess…they make life harder or…life makes…look I dunno. I dunno.” He sounded like he was getting angry all over again. “I do know that when my dad died I felt free,” he explained. “And when my wife…” he smiled. “They both treated me like I didn’t matter. They treated me like shit. Nothing was ever enough. Nothing. All the work I do…” he shook his head, disgusted. “Like shit…” his voice trailed off. He looked around the house.
“No one I know has died yet,” Sophie shared.
“Yes they have,” he said. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off. Sophie found it hard to breathe again. She watched as he came over to her. His hands were resting at his sides. She looked at the gun he was holding. Her eyes traveled up his legs. She thought about Brandon. She thought about his penis. She wondered what this man’s penis looked like.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing will matter tomorrow. The sky, the ground, won’t be no different to you my little angel. I didn’t know you were only fifteen,” he said. He seemed torn. He seemed upset, as if she should have told him.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” he said, angering. “WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT HUH!” He picked the chair up next to him and threw it clear across the room. Sophie shut her eyes and started crying. She tried to move but the knots were tight as ever. They hadn’t slacked at all.
“Please don’t kill me, please.” She stared down at the floor. “I’ll do anything – I don’t wanna die yet.”
“Then what am I supposed to do with you? What am I supposed to do…someone’s gonna come and look for you.”
“No…” A tear rolled down her cheek and across her lip. She couldn’t wipe it away so she licked it instead. She felt a little urine trickle out of her and warm her leg. Urine and blood…
“They won’t. They don’t care. The only person that cares where I am right now…is you.”
He watched her closely as she lifted her eyes and looked up at him.
“Let me be your companion,” she gently requested. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Stop saying that, stop it.” He aimed the gun at her. “I don’t need companions. I’ve never even had a dog. Yeah, yeah…” he waved his hand around. “What are we gonna do? Play Barbie?”
“I don’t play Barbie,” she said tiredly. Then she hung her head. The smell of urine was taking over the room. He looked down and saw the darker pattern on her jeans where she’d wet herself. She started crying, ashamed. He knelt down and reached for the roll of duct tape and pulled another piece away. She started crying harder as he placed it over her mouth, his fingers pressing into her face. Then he grabbed the handkerchief and covered her eyes with it.
“Phillipe,” he said. “My name is Phillipe Turner.” He stood up and backed away from her. He couldn’t stand the smell of her anymore, the smell of urine, how desperate she looked. He turned and went upstairs.
She spent the next few minutes listening to him up there pacing around. He came back down and got behind her and untied the rope.
“I don’t want you to move until I say move. Understand?”
She nodded evermore as she felt the rope loosen from her legs. She slid down the chair a little, her arms moving upward but still tied. He stopped. Why’d he stop?
He came around and knelt down in front of her, the gun in his hand. He quietly observed her.
“It’s a shame…” he said. “You would have turned out to be a very pretty young woman I bet.”
She observed him in the same intense way he did her. He stood up so her eyes were at level with his waist.
“Okay,” he placed his fingers on the tape on her mouth and yanked it off. “You have five minutes to clean yourself up – and by that I mean five minutes from the time you leave this chair. If you’re not back in this chair in five minutes then I’m just gonna shoot you. It needs to be done anyway.”
He got behind her and untied her hands. He was still hesitant. Who knew what she?
??d do? His wife said she loved him. His wife promised she’d be good. His wife said till death do us part. Well…it did do them part.
He laughed at that thought. Sophie didn’t know what the laugh meant, but as soon as she felt the rope drop from her blistered skin she quickly moved her arms and he grabbed them, holding them in a solid grip behind her and she felt a pain spread through her shoulder but she did her best to keep the scream in.
“I said…don’t move, now didn’t I?” he lectured, pulling on her wrists so the pain worsened.
“I’m sorry,” she panted. “I just want to rub my sore skin. Please? Please…can I have some ice or something?” She was embarrassed by her state. She never knew what humiliation was until she sat there, smelling the way she did and feeling the way she did. “Just take an ice cube and run it across my face and wrists if I can’t do it.”
“Listen, you just asked to go to the bathroom so we’re going to the bathroom. You can run some cold water on your face but remember you have five minutes. Now…let’s…go.”
She stood up and felt the stickiness between her thighs. Her sadness and fear was starting to change into anger. How could he treat her like this? She looked up at him when he noticed blood on her pants and blood in the chair.
“Do you have any lotion?” she asked him. “For my skin…where its irritated?”
“You’re a fucking priss, you know that? And no. My cunt wife does, but I don’t want you smelling like her. The way you smell now is better than