Sandy Morrison and the Pack of Pussies

Chapter 7

Trisha sat on the couch, her gaze wandering from the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the living room to the front door, and then back again. She believed Kyle when he said he would kill her if she tried to escape, but this did not mean she didn’t think about it. She thought about sneaking out and using the payphone to call the police every day.

But in the week she’d been living in his duplex apartment, her memory often returned to the way Kyle had flickered an instant before she was knocked out. When he attacked her by gripping her throat only hours later, she couldn’t recall seeing his arm moving. One instant, it was by his side, and the next, it was under her chin, his hand already snapped tight over her windpipe.

Scattered among the clothing pile was her clothes, because Kyle had slipped into her house to take her things. Which had probably freaked her parents out; her clothing disappearing 48 hours after she had. She wondered if Kyle had moved quickly to take her things, or just quietly. Was it possible for him to do both?

As well as providing Trisha with clothes, Kyle brought home prepared foods that were decent, if a bit cheap. There was some whole foods in the kitchen, and he could cook, which was a relief, since Trisha didn’t have the first clue of what to do with a stove. She could operate a microwave, of course, but Kyle didn’t own one. Nor did he own a television or a radio. His place was like hell, but with decent food.

She thought again of the police, and then imagined Kyle flickering to appear in the interrogation room. (She had no idea why she would be in the interrogation room, but this was “cop world” according to television, so that’s where she ended up in her imagination.)

She imagined Kyle killing the cops first, and then Trisha. Her imagination of being strangled to death now had real life experience to make the dreadful daydream more vivid, so much that she almost felt the pain again.

Her hand rose to her throat, and she rubbed at her bruises, now yellow and fading, as her gaze returned to the laundry.

She was out of clean panties, and would either need to wash some things in the bathroom sink or go to a laundromat. Kyle might not go for that...unless she suggested wearing Sandy’s keffiyeh around her throat.

Craning her head around, Trisha frowned at the bedroom door. Sandy wouldn’t come out of the room except to use the bathroom or get something to drink. She didn’t eat unless Kyle was home and he made her eat.

Trisha still thought of her as a freak, but now the word had taken on a new meaning. Despite her new powers, Sandy acted as if she was afraid of Trisha. She hid from Trisha, and when she was forced to be in the same room, she seemed to look everywhere else instead.

Part of Trisha felt awful now that she’d been forced to see how shallow she was by Kyle. He was right, and even Sandy’s suicide attempt hadn’t reached her. Now she could admit that she was shallow, that she had been for a long time.

When had she started to believe her own hype about how cool she was, or the gladhanding of her inner circle of friends? Maybe she didn’t really believe it, but she was afraid of being dropped from the inner circle of cool kids if she admitted the truth.

So what was the truth? That she was shallow and cowardly? If so, then Sandy had always been stronger and braver. She’d faced the abuse and mistrust of her classmates week in and out, and she had never given up believing in herself.

Of the two of them, the freak was the better person. That kind of truth stung, which is why Trisha remained rooted to the couch for so long. She’d thought all week of going to Sandy and saying something. But everything she thought to say wasn’t meant to do something nice for Sandy. It was to relieve her guilt for being a lousy person.