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“I just ain’t used to sharing my space, and she isn’t exactly cooperative on my boundaries,” I explain.
“I get she ain’t easy. Troj told me ‘bout last night. I got a couple of brothers heading outta state later this mornin’. It’s an overnighter at Lincoln to meet a buyer for some of the Utah supplies we’re storing, if you want in?”
“Sounds good.” I nod. “What about Rogue? She’s a flight risk.” As much as I need some space, I can’t risk her leaving the compound again, especially with me not here.
“I’ll put Thorne on to her, ain’t much gets past him. Go pack a bag, Brax is leading the boys out around eleven.”
I know she’s gonna be mad at me for running away from her again, but I have little choice. I can feel all the bad brewing inside me. It's only a matter of time before I crack and the evil seeps out of me. I can’t have Rogue know what I really am.
AGED 14
“Shit.” Mama cursing must mean something bad happened, and when I rush down the stairs, I find her in tears.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, it’s unlike her to cry when Dad isn’t around
“Your father will be home in ten minutes and I haven’t lit the fire. I cut my finger while I was chopping the vegetables for dinner and it set me off schedule. I haven't even split the logs for tonight.”
“Relax, I got it,” I assure her, picking up the wood basket and making my way out the back door. I place the basket on the floor and look for the ax, but it's not in its usual place and after a good search around the yard, I realize it’s nowhere to be seen. I turn my head toward Father's shed when a thought comes into my head. He forbids anyone from going in there, and it's been at least a week since he’s had an excuse to reprimand Mama. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put it in there on purpose. So he can punish Mama for either not having the fire ready or for invading his ‘privacy’.
I rush over to the shed, I’ll take the consequences if I have to. He’ll have to beat me for breaking the rules and, as much as Mama will hurt, at least she won’t be the one who gets pounded. I feel around under the plant pot for the key that I know he keeps hidden there, and when I locate it, I open the door and let myself inside.
I set to work looking for the ax but get distracted when my eyes catch the red toolbox on the floor, tucked under his workbench. It’s shiny and immaculate, and considering all Father’s tools are hung in size order, I wonder what he has inside it. Checking over my shoulder for any sign of his car coming up the lane, I quickly pull it out, lift the lid and peek inside. There are dozens of polaroid photographs, I didn't even know we had a polaroid camera, and as I flick through them my fingers shake when I realize what these photographs are of. They all contain women. Some clothed, some not. Some are bound and gagged while others have their arms free. But they all share one very crucial thing in common.
They are all lifeless.
My breath feels trapped in my chest as I continue to stare at the photographs, and when I come to a face I recognize, the suspicion that I’ve carried around for almost a year is confirmed.
Two days after I caught my dad screwing Mrs. Hopewell into her kitchen worktop, our town held a vigil for her. When Mr. Hopewell, Kaleb, and his sons returned from their fishing trip that day, she had vanished without a trace.
Of course in a small town, there were many rumors. The most popular being that she ran out on them to be with another man. Nobody talks much about her now. But I’ve always wondered if my father had something to do with her disappearance.
I look at the photo in my hand and as her wide, soul-empty eyes stare back at me, I realize I’d been right. I drop it back into the box, slam the lid shut, and kick it back under the workbench.
There can be only one reason why my father has these photographs. He did this to these women. He hurt them and this is the evidence of it. This could put him away. This could save Mama and me from his evil hands.
“What are ya doing in here, boy?” My body freezes when I hear his voice and when I slowly turn my body around to face him, he’s looking furious.
“I was… I need the ax to chop the wood.” I quickly pull myself together.
He reaches his hand down beside the door where the ax is propped and picks it up. Staring at me coldly as he passes it to me.
“Did you like what you saw?” he asks casually. I can’t remember a time when he’s ever sounded so interested in me.
“I don’t know what you're talking about, sir.” I keep my eyes rooted to the floor.
“The women in the box, the photographs you were looking at. Did you like them?”
I shake my head in response, feeling the tears in my eyes building when I think about Todd and Kaleb. Their mama didn't deserve what happened to her. I could have stopped it. I was there that day.
“We all have our reason for being here, Richie. God has a purpose for all of us. This is mine.” I remain still as he moves toward me, bracing myself to take the repercussions of being caught. But instead, he reaches down beside me and pulls out the box, placing it on his workstation and carefully opening the lid.
“This one,” he picks up one of the photos, the woman in it is scrawny and covered in bruises. “She worked the streets, solicited herself. She had no respect for herself or her body.” He places it down and pulls up another one. “Henrietta, she used her beauty to manipulate men into giving her what she wanted. A grade-A student, who couldn’t even file a document in the correct drawer.” He laughs to himself as he reaches for another photograph, the one of Mrs. Hopewell. “Ahhh, Julia Hopewell. You remember her. She was a temptress who used her eyes to lure good, honest men like me into temptation.”
I don’t say a word. I couldn't if I wanted to. Why is he doing this, why is he taunting me with these photographs like I should be impressed by them?
“God placed a little evil into all of us, it’s there to tempt and test our restraint… But for some of us, it’s there to do his work.” He snaps the box shut and clears his throat. The ax is slipping through my sweaty palm, and I swallow down the urge to swing it at his head.
“Go chop the wood, boy, then clean up for supper. It’s pot roast night.” He smiles at me, he actually smiles, and I clutch the ax handle in my hand and quickly make my way back to the log pile. The air in the shed was so stuffy I could feel myself choking on it and when I get out into the fresh air, I try to fill my lungs with fresh, clean oxygen.
