Ensnared
Page 46
I’m not sure if it’s determination to find Morpheus or my dark side’s desire to delve deeper into Jeb’s mind, but I move forward.
Using the diary to trigger the latch, I peek inside. A gym with weights, a stationary bike, and a treadmill sit beneath blinking, dim fluorescent lights. There are no occupants, so I step in. A punching bag shaped like an egg hangs a few feet away from a wall of broken mirrors. The front faces me with painted eyes, round cheeks, and a mouth—a creeped-out, nursery rhyme version of Humpty Dumpty.
A hiss comes from the back of the bag. Trembling, I watch as it makes a slow revolution and somehow locks into place in spite of the twisted ropes that wait to unwind.
My breath gusts out of me. It’s Mr. Holt’s face on the other side. Not a flat drawing, but a flesh-and-bone, three-dimensional face, snarling. This is the Mr. Holt I knew: his once handsome features sharpened by anger and discontent, his cheeks hollowed out by too much alcohol and lack of proper nutrition.
His eyes, like the other Mr. Holt’s, are formed of lit cigarette butts.
He scowls. “Trip me again. I dare you, worthless little punk. Make me spill my beer. That’s what you get. Stop crying, dammit. That’s what happens when you leave your toys out. No! Your mom shouldn’t have to pick them up for you. It only makes her share your punishment. It’s your fault she’s bleeding. Your fault.”
The childhood pictures I’ve seen of Jeb’s agonized gaze burn into my brain. This is what he suffered every day. I’m amazed he survived at all. No wonder he always blamed himself for what happened to his mom and sister.
Mr. Holt’s tongue continues to flap, the words degrading and hate-filled.
Something snaps inside me—the part that wants revenge for all he did to the boy I love. I lash out and slap his lips so hard the sound echoes sharply and my hand stings.
The bag spins around slowly. “Hahaha! Was that supposed to hurt? Your baby sister hits harder than you.” Mr. Holt spits out a tooth, some blood, and a stream of obscenities.
I can’t move. I actually left a mark on him . . . I cut his lip and broke a tooth. How many times has Jeb been here, pounding his father’s face? Judging by the bruises and gashes on this bag, he probably lost count. If he felt as unfulfilled as I do right now, it didn’t do him any good.
I rush from the room, my spirit heavy and dismal as I shut the cruel taunts of Mr. Holt behind the door.
Jeb, what have you done to yourself? He’s fallen so far into despair and bitterness, it’s as if he were dead. A vast hopelessness lodges in my soul and strangles all hope.
Legs heavy, I stumble around another twisting curve in the tunnel and reach the third doorway.
“Morpheus!” I shout again, voice cracking. I don’t want to see any more. Jeb’s not the boy I once knew, and I don’t know how to get him back . . .
Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.
A motorized sound draws me to the door made of bark and willow leaves.
I hesitate. If each door symbolizes what’s behind it, this one has something to do with the willow tree that joins my and Jeb’s backyards. We used to play chess under it as kids. Then when we became a couple, we’d go there to be alone.
It doesn’t make sense that he’d put Morpheus in here, but the vibrating sound hasn’t stopped. “Morpheus?” The hum intensifies. I take a breath, tap the knob with the diary, and peer inside.
Snowflakes fall from the rafters. It smells like real snow, though it’s not cold on the skin, only glistening. Black lights and fog complement the dreamy atmosphere. Unlike the other two rooms, this one’s not demented or disturbing.
It’s beautiful.
I step inside, cautious. The front half is decked out like a prom scene: silver pillars wrapped in greenery, an arch swathed in purple velvet, and white tulle draped around a wicker bench. Shiny Mardi Gras masks hang from rafters on varied lengths of string—purple, black, and silver.
A replica of the dress Jenara made me for prom is arranged atop the bench—white lace, pearls, and airbrushed shadows. I inch closer, intrigued by the wrist corsage in a clear plastic box. Upon spotting the ring nestled inside one of the roses—tiny diamonds forming a heart with wings—I drop to the seat, my body weak. It looks exactly like the one Jeb gave me when he proposed. The one I wore on my neck that fused with my Wonderland key and heart locket beneath the press of Morpheus’s magic.
I trace the box’s lid where a gold ribbon binds it. With one tug, the bow poofs into a golden, glittering fall of letters that form a message in midair—
Things I once hoped to give you:
1. A magical wedding . . .
Choking back tears, I take out the ring and loop it onto the string alongside the diary’s key at my neck, tucking it under my shirt to keep it safe.
A picnic basket sits at my feet beneath the bench. There’s another ribbon, and when I untie it, more letters form a glimmering parade through the air:
2. Picnics at the lake with your mom and dad . . .
I sniffle and make my way to the middle of the room, where reproductions of my mosaics float next to Sold signs. I tug a ribbon loose and free another message:
3. A lifetime of shared successes and laughter . . .
Overcome with emotion, I turn toward the humming noise along the back wall. A motorcycle idles high up in the rafters, amid strands of white Christmas lights. A bow is tied on the handlebars. I free my wings and rise. Snowflakes and a soft breeze wind around me as I settle atop the seat, returning me to all the times I rode behind Jeb, my arms wrapped around his sturdy form. Completely at ease, yet so unbalanced. So perfectly, erringly human.
I stiffen my chin against a quiver and slip the ribbon loose from the handlebars:
4. Midnight rides across the stars . . .
The lovely words glisten all around me, feeding my need for more. There are too many ribbons and objects to count. I fly from one to another, unwinding more wishes: for little girls with my hair and eyes, and boys who have their mother’s stubborn streak; for the safety of one another’s arms every night; for growing old together and cherishing every wrinkle, age spot, and gray hair; and on and on and on.
My chest swells—so full it could burst. The room is a shrine to everything I’ve ever hoped for. Things Jeb wanted to give me. His heart shines in all he created here; his selflessness, his nobility and devotion, the desire to make others happy. His true character hasn’t been destroyed. It’s just been shelved, suppressed.
Using the diary to trigger the latch, I peek inside. A gym with weights, a stationary bike, and a treadmill sit beneath blinking, dim fluorescent lights. There are no occupants, so I step in. A punching bag shaped like an egg hangs a few feet away from a wall of broken mirrors. The front faces me with painted eyes, round cheeks, and a mouth—a creeped-out, nursery rhyme version of Humpty Dumpty.
A hiss comes from the back of the bag. Trembling, I watch as it makes a slow revolution and somehow locks into place in spite of the twisted ropes that wait to unwind.
My breath gusts out of me. It’s Mr. Holt’s face on the other side. Not a flat drawing, but a flesh-and-bone, three-dimensional face, snarling. This is the Mr. Holt I knew: his once handsome features sharpened by anger and discontent, his cheeks hollowed out by too much alcohol and lack of proper nutrition.
His eyes, like the other Mr. Holt’s, are formed of lit cigarette butts.
He scowls. “Trip me again. I dare you, worthless little punk. Make me spill my beer. That’s what you get. Stop crying, dammit. That’s what happens when you leave your toys out. No! Your mom shouldn’t have to pick them up for you. It only makes her share your punishment. It’s your fault she’s bleeding. Your fault.”
The childhood pictures I’ve seen of Jeb’s agonized gaze burn into my brain. This is what he suffered every day. I’m amazed he survived at all. No wonder he always blamed himself for what happened to his mom and sister.
Mr. Holt’s tongue continues to flap, the words degrading and hate-filled.
Something snaps inside me—the part that wants revenge for all he did to the boy I love. I lash out and slap his lips so hard the sound echoes sharply and my hand stings.
The bag spins around slowly. “Hahaha! Was that supposed to hurt? Your baby sister hits harder than you.” Mr. Holt spits out a tooth, some blood, and a stream of obscenities.
I can’t move. I actually left a mark on him . . . I cut his lip and broke a tooth. How many times has Jeb been here, pounding his father’s face? Judging by the bruises and gashes on this bag, he probably lost count. If he felt as unfulfilled as I do right now, it didn’t do him any good.
I rush from the room, my spirit heavy and dismal as I shut the cruel taunts of Mr. Holt behind the door.
Jeb, what have you done to yourself? He’s fallen so far into despair and bitterness, it’s as if he were dead. A vast hopelessness lodges in my soul and strangles all hope.
Legs heavy, I stumble around another twisting curve in the tunnel and reach the third doorway.
“Morpheus!” I shout again, voice cracking. I don’t want to see any more. Jeb’s not the boy I once knew, and I don’t know how to get him back . . .
Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.
A motorized sound draws me to the door made of bark and willow leaves.
I hesitate. If each door symbolizes what’s behind it, this one has something to do with the willow tree that joins my and Jeb’s backyards. We used to play chess under it as kids. Then when we became a couple, we’d go there to be alone.
It doesn’t make sense that he’d put Morpheus in here, but the vibrating sound hasn’t stopped. “Morpheus?” The hum intensifies. I take a breath, tap the knob with the diary, and peer inside.
Snowflakes fall from the rafters. It smells like real snow, though it’s not cold on the skin, only glistening. Black lights and fog complement the dreamy atmosphere. Unlike the other two rooms, this one’s not demented or disturbing.
It’s beautiful.
I step inside, cautious. The front half is decked out like a prom scene: silver pillars wrapped in greenery, an arch swathed in purple velvet, and white tulle draped around a wicker bench. Shiny Mardi Gras masks hang from rafters on varied lengths of string—purple, black, and silver.
A replica of the dress Jenara made me for prom is arranged atop the bench—white lace, pearls, and airbrushed shadows. I inch closer, intrigued by the wrist corsage in a clear plastic box. Upon spotting the ring nestled inside one of the roses—tiny diamonds forming a heart with wings—I drop to the seat, my body weak. It looks exactly like the one Jeb gave me when he proposed. The one I wore on my neck that fused with my Wonderland key and heart locket beneath the press of Morpheus’s magic.
I trace the box’s lid where a gold ribbon binds it. With one tug, the bow poofs into a golden, glittering fall of letters that form a message in midair—
Things I once hoped to give you:
1. A magical wedding . . .
Choking back tears, I take out the ring and loop it onto the string alongside the diary’s key at my neck, tucking it under my shirt to keep it safe.
A picnic basket sits at my feet beneath the bench. There’s another ribbon, and when I untie it, more letters form a glimmering parade through the air:
2. Picnics at the lake with your mom and dad . . .
I sniffle and make my way to the middle of the room, where reproductions of my mosaics float next to Sold signs. I tug a ribbon loose and free another message:
3. A lifetime of shared successes and laughter . . .
Overcome with emotion, I turn toward the humming noise along the back wall. A motorcycle idles high up in the rafters, amid strands of white Christmas lights. A bow is tied on the handlebars. I free my wings and rise. Snowflakes and a soft breeze wind around me as I settle atop the seat, returning me to all the times I rode behind Jeb, my arms wrapped around his sturdy form. Completely at ease, yet so unbalanced. So perfectly, erringly human.
I stiffen my chin against a quiver and slip the ribbon loose from the handlebars:
4. Midnight rides across the stars . . .
The lovely words glisten all around me, feeding my need for more. There are too many ribbons and objects to count. I fly from one to another, unwinding more wishes: for little girls with my hair and eyes, and boys who have their mother’s stubborn streak; for the safety of one another’s arms every night; for growing old together and cherishing every wrinkle, age spot, and gray hair; and on and on and on.
My chest swells—so full it could burst. The room is a shrine to everything I’ve ever hoped for. Things Jeb wanted to give me. His heart shines in all he created here; his selflessness, his nobility and devotion, the desire to make others happy. His true character hasn’t been destroyed. It’s just been shelved, suppressed.
