Fear

By Amethyst Turner

You crept up on me in dark corners

You smothered me as I grew

And now that I'm trapped here with no way out

It has again come back to you

XXX

Libby cleaned so furiously she made herself sick.

After two minutes bent over the toilet, she ran to the kitchen to throw the empty bottles in the recycling bin outside. She didn't need Mrs. Springs walking into a forest of brown glass. Oh! There were more on the couch. Libby rushed to the living room and yanked the cushions from the couch, collecting a total of seven more bottles from the seat.

She found ten more in the bureau drawer where Amethyst used to sleep and six more in the girl's cardboard box.

When she returned to the living room, five minutes had passed since she'd hung up with Annelise. She'd be there in five more. In a frenzy of panic, she dumped Amethyst's clothes and blanket out of the cardboard box and stuffed the thing in the garbage.

It had been so long since the house saw company. What had Libby's eyes adapted to that a foreign mind would puzzle over?

She folded the clothes and blanket, shoving them in the drawer. Then she remembered the fridge door, which Richard had torn off in a drunken rage two nights before. Yes, that would seem strange. They'd been using styrofoam coolers and would be until they could afford a new fridge.

What could she do, though? If she could fix the fridge, she would have already.

The deep ring of the doorbell sent a violent shiver through Libby's spine. Deep breaths, she told herself. But the air couldn't seem to get past her throat. How long had it been since she had talked to anyone but Richard, Amethyst, and the police? How long hat it been she'd had a conversation with another woman?

As frightened as she was, her heart still thrummed away with anticipation. She tapped her stomach, sighing at the baby. "This is for you," she told it out loud. She gave the broken refrigerator one last disapproving glance before calling out, "Coming!" and running for the door.

XXX

Amethyst and Sophie both overflowed with questions, but neither knew how to ask them.

Once the bonds had been broken, Sophia ran her hands along her wrists, sighing in relief as blood reached them again. Freedom, finally. She felt as though she'd been tied up her for years.

She could feel Amethyst's eyes on her. The little girl stared with intent, as though reading a far away sign. Sophia glanced at her, expecting her to look away. Instead, Amethyst met her gaze and stared harder.

"What?" she asked, shaking her hair into her face. She was used to strangers staring at her -- people liked to throw scornful glances her way and tuck their purses further inside their jackets. But Amethyst's stare was less skeptical. She seemed lost in simple wonderment.

"You . . . you look like a person I know," she squeaked out. The little girl looked at the floor, her cheeks flushing pink.

Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Someone you know? Who?"

She looked up, little pink lips clamped shut. Amethyst shrugged.

"Alright then," Sophia said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Okay."

"How did you get here?" She watched the girl's frown deepen. "I hitchhiked. But nobody would pick you up. You're too small. How'd you end up here, then?"

Amethyst glared at the floor. "I was . . . I was playing outside. And he took me here."

Sophie felt a pang of sympathy in her heart, spreading in ripples through her chest. She wanted to reach out and hug the little girl, stolen away from a lovely, normal life to come here. "So you live near?"

"I don't know." The girl shrugged again. "I don't live anywhere."

"Really?"

"I don't have a home."

"Me neither."

XXX

Annie brought a basket of warm cookies with her. Yes, what a hospitable thing to do. She had microwaved an entire package of month-old chips ahoy cookies and put them in this wicker basket that she found in the closet, full of her mother's old knitting things. It smelled of dust and old, wrinkled hands.

But warm cookies, they were. She rang the doorbell.

She had not seen such a sad house in a long time. The grass had grown to such lengths that it covered the walkway, making a shadowy forest over their entire yard. Ivy snaked over the siding and the uncurtained windows, shutters hanging down with discarded nails pointing askew.

An overwhelming sadness washed over her as the doorbell sounded. What would it be like, she wondered, to be this isolated? To not know what your house looked like from the outside? To be Elizabeth Turner?

Then again, what would it be like to torture your child enough that she ran away and would not return for anything?

She waited outside for a minutes or two, the cookies fading from piping hot to lukewarm. Annie rang the doorbell again, letting out a breath. She had to remind herself to be compassionate. This was not an evil woman. Just a lost one.

"C-coming!" came a faint voice.

Annelise closed her eyes. Be nice, be nice.

The door opened a crack, then all the way. Annie stared, unable to speak.

There stood a tiny woman, her skin covered with scrapes and bruises. Cuts snaked up her arms, purple marks dotting her neck. Her skin hung around her tired frame of a face, waxy and pale. Dirt sat beneath her fingernails, wrinkles pressed into her fraying dress. Her hair was limp and stringy, her face pinched and hawkish.

This was Amethyst's mother? How could something so shriveled and unlovely as this woman give birth to something as brilliant and beautiful as Aimee Turner?

A flash of pain shocked her heart as an image of the little girl flew in and out of her mind. Well, if she looked hard, she could see a resemblance. The dimpled chin, the round eyes, the tiny nose. Libby's face had the same doll like qualities as Amethysts, though the woman's china skin seemed cracked and melted.

The woman opened her mouth and closed it several times. "C-come in," she finally said. Her voice sounded weak and even wobblier than it had been through the phone's static.

"Thank you," said Annie.

Elizabeth watched her take off her coat, holding out her arm to take it. "Can I t-take that for you?" she asked, pointing to the basket.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Annie handed her the basket. "They're for you, after all."

Libby lifted the corner of the checkered napkin, unleashing the aroma of warm chocolate. "Oh my," she said. "Y-you shouldn't have."

"Don't worry about it." Annie thought of the empty Chips Ahoy package at the bottom of her trash can and suppressed a smile. "It was the least I could do."

"Th-thank you," she stuttered. "Uh, why don't you s-sit down?"

"Alright," Annie agreed. "Shall we sit in the kitchen?"

Libby hesitated, covering the cookies again. "I-it's real cold in there. The, uh, the f-fridge is broken."

Annie frowned. "How'd that happen?"

Elizabeth shrugged but led her into the kitchen to see for herself. Annie stepped away from the door, feeling a sudden gloom settle over her. The house was dark and chilly, the windows covered with thin blankets that blocked the sunlight. She walked past the frayed rug and worn-to-tatters couch, following Libby through the splintered door frame leading to the kitchen.

Sure enough, next to the rusty oven, the refrigerator belched cold air into the room. Annie stared at its open mouth, alarmed. "Well," she said.

Libby nodded, turning away.

"Can't you turn it off?"

She didn't answer.

"I mean, I'm sure there's a plug you can pull, or something."

Still, Libby remained silent, unwrapping the cookies without looking at Annie. Her shoulders shook, but whether from cold or from nerves, Annie couldn't tell. Frowning, she approached.

"Elizabeth? Libby, what's wrong?"

Elizabeth Turner shuddered, pushing the cookies away with a violent shove. She crossed her arms over her chest, sniffling quietly to herself like a child reprimanded for throwing a tantrum.

Annie dared to place a hand on her shoulder. "Is it me?" I can leave, if you want."

She shook her head. "I-it isn't you," she wept.

"Then what is it? You can tell me. I promise, I won't tell anybody else."

Annie watched Elizabeth shudder under the weight of her struggles, feeling torn between shoving the woman to the ground and leaving, and enveloping her in a tight embrace. Instead of choosing one, she stayed rooted at the spot, watching.

"I-it's just," Libby began, "I haven't b-been this c-close to anybody in . . . years, r-really. And I p-probably won't ever be a-again."

Annelise felt her face soften even before she had a chance to process what Libby had just said. "Elizabeth," she whispered. "I am going to help you, okay? I don't care what you've done. No one deserves that."

So Elizabeth dried their tears and they sat down to eat the cookies together. 

XXX

I am starting to sense your location
You are somewhere in the basement
Beating on a makeshift drum kit
Songs that I can hardly stomach
I'm floating up the stairwell
With my fingers shaking frantic
Thinking softly what a concrete mess we live in
And what an icebox heart I've been given

-Location, Freelance Whales