Charade

Benji

Whiskey tickled the tips of nostrils. The smell of it so thick; I thought somebody was holding the bottle to my nose. Rough, prickly blankets covered my body. My fingers twitched, feeling the fabric. My eyes snapped open to darkness.

I sucked in a breath as fear stabbed my belly. I shot up, looking around the dark room. A small beam of light came from an open door, lighting the room enough to make out silhouettes. There was a window to my left that somebody had cracked open, letting the cold night air seep into the bedroom. I focused on the silhouettes, making out a dressing table at the end of the bed and a wardrobe sitting in one corner of the room. Beside me was a small set of drawers with a small touch lamp, switched off, and a blinking alarm clock that read 0023.

I gulped, breathing in whiskey-laced air. Slowly, the memories returned.

Ashley's scream piercing my ears.

A black figure dragging Ashley across the floor.

Her flailing arms and tears and shrieks.

The look in her eyes.

My last thought before he bashed my head in.

I rummaged around the room, looking for some kind of weapon. In the darkness, it was hard to see, but anything sharp would do the trick. Unfortunately, there were only folded pants in the dressing table and hanging shirts in the wardrobe.

"Fuck," I whispered, frustration filling my centre.

I slumped on the bed, head low, and did something I never usually did: thought about what to do next. I had to get out. I looked to the window, but the jump would kill me. I could try and fist-fight my way out, but I didn't know how many people I'd have to get through or where the exits were. I needed a weapon.

I looked behind me at the touch-lamp. I could hold it in one hand. It was quiet and low-maintenance. Most importantly: it was better than nothing.

In the darkness and the quiet, I unplugged the lamp, wrapped the cord around the handle, and devised the next step. A pair of heavy footsteps echoed from outside. I peered through the crack in the door, waiting for them to pass. A dirty man in his sixties passed by. I didn't hesitate.

I slipped out from the bedroom, following silently behind him. He approached a flight of stairs. I was gaining on him, almost within arm's reach. He was almost at the bottom step. I pulled the lamp back, aimed it at his head, ready to bash his head in like he'd bashed in mine. He took his first step on the ground floor. I swung.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed the lamp and yanked it out of my grasp. Fear and shock vibrated throughout my body. My head jerked around to see who it was, muscles tense and ready to fight.

"Stop!" He yelled.

I looked up into Vic's big brown eyes. My breaths came short and sharp, almost panting, and my eyes were bulging in their sockets.

"It's alright, Benjamin. Calm down. You're safe."

I looked to the old man. He stared at me in shock with the same big brown eyes. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. Carefully, Vic touched my arm, a small smile on his face.

"It's okay," he said softly. "This is Artie. He's my father."

I paused, trying to process what was happening.

"Where's Ashley?" I whispered.

His smile disappeared.

"How about you come sit down first, then we'll talk."

Too stunned to refuse, I let Vic put his arm around my shoulders and begin to lead me into an open-planned kitchen, dining room, and living room. From behind me, I heard the old man grumble something like, "I'll leave you to it, then," and disappear upstairs.