(Charliegh: unedited)
The glass shattered first.
She was ascending the basements steps, arms free for the first time all morning. The church kitchen was located upstairs, and she had been carrying tray after tray of dirty teacups, crumbled biscuits, and stale Danishes back and forth.
It was quiet as she entered the sanctuary. Peaceful, and slightly sober. Chatter floated towards her, pulling back as it reached the base of the steps. The kitchen door was half-propped open, room conspicuously empty. Careworn velvet carpet cushioned her footfalls, making her a silent intruder upon a sleeping room.
She had paused, as usual, to cast a fleeting glance at the windows of the sanctuary. They were a presence so large and beautiful that they commanded attention, magnetized it by the sheer tenacity of the history captured within their frames.
The air was still. Almost too still, as if everything in life had been holding its breath for that one, small, finite moment. It happened as she was tilting her head, catching the yellow light upon her cheekbones. Suddenly and violently, a large black object came hurtling straight through the face of Jesus, sending shards of 18th century stained glass flying across the bowed pulpit.
There was laughter. Laughter, and jeering, and frantic shouting. Shocked, Charliegh moved across the room, avoiding the largest chunks of glass. In the gap between an eye and a jawbone, she saw the hurried silhouettes of a few teenagers mounting their bicycles.
It wasn't until the tallest one - a boy in a camouflage cap - gestured towards the window that she realized he was sending something else through.
A lighter. An open lighter, warm white flame catching the breeze and catching upon the ancient velvet curtains. There were more lighters, all at once, clanging metallic and smoking upon the floor. Amidst the laughter, the acrid smell of smoke pervaded her senses.
Dizzy, she could only stand among the metal and stare at the curtains. The hem of one was more orange the yellow, now, flames licking up the sides. There were so many lighters, a multitude that crunched beneath her feet and tugged at the soles of her sneakers as she turned to flee.
She should have stamped them out. Taken off her shoes and flattened the corruption of every single one of them, until only shattered glass and singed velvet remained.
Instead, she turned and fled.
It was Nolan. Nolan was coming for her, and this time - this time, this time, this time - he would finish what he had started.
***
It was ridiculous, and unfathomable, and so incredibly stupid, what she was doing, that the audacity of it rushed all the way to her toes, propelling her forward.
Yet no matter how fast she ran, legs burning and chest heaving, leaving her responsibilities behind, she couldn't shake the daunting sensation that fate was something she could not escape. She could evade Nolan, but she could not evade the inevitable; whatever that may be.
That alone made the adrenaline swirl through her bloodstream, making her light-headed and deliriously empowered at once.
The latticework of abandoned train tracks stretched out before her, weaving through the woods behind the church. She wasn't quite sure where the path ended and the farms on the outskirts of town began, but anywhere was better than going back to the church. Facing a crowd of scared, crying children, all of whom were probably trapped inside that basement. Screaming.
Her chest tightened. Her ribs were cracking, closing in on her panic, her desperation. Sweat felt cold on her skin as it seeped from her pores, drying upon her shirt and elbows.
Nowhere to go. Maybe that meant there was nothing to fear.
"Charliegh! Charliegh McCowan!" Bicycle treads swished along the long grass. Someone was screaming, so close that it made her hair stand on end. "Charliegh McCowan!"
Nolan. And others - she could hear the other bikes, bumping and jostling along the uneven ground. One was laughing, low and loud and mocking, and another was swearing, a symphony to the rapid pounding of her heart.
"Hey, whore!" He leaned over the handlebars, smile vicious against the clarity of the January sky. "You can't run, Charliegh! You can't run!"
The ground flashed beneath her feet. Everything was short snatches - watery light, jagged edges of the treetops, branches clawing at the clouds. Above the roaring of her pulse in her ears, fear settled thick in her throat, turning her stomach inside-out.
They would find her. They would catch her. There was no escaping destiny.
If she turned, she would face her enemies. Her greatest fear. But after they had been vanquished - if they could be vanquished - she would still face the fire, the ruins of the church, disparity licking at her heels like an unfurnished flame.
"Too slow!" A hand grasped for the back of her jacket and shoved, hard enough to twist her ankles beneath her. Pain streaked up her leg, drumming along the length of her bruises, and she cut through the flesh of her lip with her teeth, trying to keep her terrified howl inside.
When she rubbed the dirt out of her eyes, flakes digging into the sensitive skin, they were all around her. She could imagine their jeers through the blur of her tears, wicked as cannibals. Her feet were twisted up beneath her. She was fairly certain that her ankle was broken, yet she gathered the looseness of her limbs and hauled herself to her feet.
Nolan was standing directly across from her, a smile curved like the edge of a dagger upon his lips. "I told you I would finish." He said. "Didn't I, Charliegh McGowan?"
She couldn't glare at him. She couldn't even try. Her courage had always been weak, and now, facing a crowd of teenagers who wanted nothing more than her humiliation, she couldn't even find the strength to pull a straight face.
"You raped me." She swallowed. The acknowledgement struck her like a visceral force. "What more do you want, Nolan?"
He threw his bicycle onto the ground. It raised a cloud of dust, handlebars wrenched and wheels partially deflated. "I want you. Your pain. Your humiliation. Your life. I want from you what Randall refused to give me."
She couldn't breathe. "Randall killed himself. Can't you even leave his suicide as sacred?"
"There's an ocean behind us. A few dozen trees. There's a lot of ways to die," he said, "so why'd you think he picked my lake? Behind my farm?"
When someone grabbed her arms, she didn't protest. She couldn't run. Couldn't move. What had they done to Randall? What did he mean: my lake, behind my farm? He had killed himself. She read the note. She had felt his goodbye upon her lips, burned onto her mouth like a terminal cancer. Love had been his undoing, and suicide had been his untimely end.
"After all Nolan did to you, you still have lovely hips?" It had to be Dom, musky and snakelike as he slid one wiry arm around her waist. "Too bad about that, slut. Vickie was getting boring."
"Shut up, Dom." Vickie leveled a glare at Charliegh. "Feel like walking, sweetie?"
Nolan grabbed her wrist, yanking her body forward. She feel into an embrace of bones, rough and menacing. "She doesn't have to be walking. Just breathing."
From behind, Dom grabbed her arms back. Something slithered across her wrists, rough as sandpaper, itchy on her skin. "I didn't think breathing was a requirement," he said, voice catching upon the edges of her hair. He tugged the rope tighter, forcing her wrists together, and completed the knot.
She was so certain of death. Or something equally horrendous. So fixated upon that terrible happenstance that her legs moved of their own accord, following Nolan back to the mangled heap of his bike.
He picked it up and rocked it towards her. "One final ride?"
She swung one leg over the seat wordlessly. It felt so wrong, so far removed from the first time she had sat in front of him, pedaling down the streets of Downtown Redemption. Then, she had had a future. She had purpose - unfulfilled purpose, but purpose nonetheless.
Now, all that remained, it seemed, was destined to be stripped from her. She craned her head towards the wind as he got on behind her and began pedaling. The breeze caressed her face, rolling her memories back to the ocean.
Free. She had been free. At this - fate - was her caging.
***
They were going to the Endell farm. Charliegh could see the top of the silo, rusted and grey, poking through the top of the branches. A rundown set of barns came into focus as they biked closer, window glass flashing in the weak grey sunlight. Beyond was the lake, surface flat and murky.
So this was where Randall died, she thought. Her hair tangled in her eyes, obscuring her vision, but she could see the bare bones of the last sight of his short existence. Tangled bushes, broken trees. Swollen clouds and overturned logs, cigarette butts littering the ground like burnt candy wrappers.
When they reached the middle of the property, the barns curving in a semicircle around them, Nolan slammed his feet into the ground. He grabbed Charliegh's waist and hauled her from the bicycle. "Welcome to hell."
Her heart was lodged in her throat, turning her breathing to gasping. "Where are we going?"
He leveled her a wicked look. "Where do you think?"
Dom started laughing. It sounded like howling in the stillness. He bounded up to the nearest barn and pulled the door open. "Don't scare her, Nolan." He said. "At least, not yet."
Inside, the air was damp. Cobwebs and bird excrement were littered across the floor and in the corners. An abandoned plow and a few broken lawn chairs took up residence in the space across from the door. Charliegh squinted, trying to see in the darkness. Nothing unusual awaited. There were no bloodstains across the floor, or hedge clippers hanging from the ceiling.
But there were a few pillows, stuffing splayed beside them, scattered across the floor. Those were enough to make her pulse pound frantically. Was this why he had brought her here?
Nolan was prodding her, fingers digging into her spine. "Take a seat," he said.
She stood above the cushions, surrounded by his friends, arms wrenched behind her, thoughts tangled. Escape was useless. There was a scraping as someone pulled the door shut, and they were left standing in near-darkness. A broken window spilled some light across the floor, but only enough to illuminate faces.
She couldn't run. But she wasn't about to sit, and willingly subject herself to his gleeful revenge. "What does this accomplish, Nolan?"
He walked around her, arms swinging casually by his sides. He looked cavalier, as if they were standing among the throngs at town days, swapping cruel remarks over coffee. "What does what accomplish?"
"Bringing me here."
"Oh, Charliegh." He paused in front of her, still smiling. "Still thinking about Randall?"
She licked her lips. "I don't think about Randall. Of course, I have less of a reason to - no guilt on my conscience about it."
"That hurts. Really." He snaked forward and shoved her shoulder. Her knees buckled, gravity sending her backwards. She hit the cushions painfully, splinters digging into her skin. "I'm surprised to hear that Randall doesn't just prey upon your conscience. Considering."
Her backside was throbbing, and her wrists were twisted. Her shoulders felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets, muscles strung along in protest. "I have nothing to consider." She said quietly.
Nolan shook his head. He fumbled around in his pockets, pulling out a slim metal case, covered in sharpie. As he stepped closer, she realized that the jagged black lettering was expletives. He flicked the top, exposing a weak orange flame that wavered in the dry air. "Smoke?"
She pulled her legs as close as she could to her body, trying to curl in a ball. Anything to protect herself from that flame, drawing closer and closer. "I don't smoke."
"No. Of course not." He narrowed his eyes, assessing the crowd behind her shoulder. "Eli. Cigarette."
It came hurtling past her ear, reeking of nicotine. She clenched her shoulders, curled her fists, trying not to flinch. Nolan squashed the cigarette between both palms. Carefully, gaze fixed on her, he pulled it through his fingers and dipped one end into the lighter.
"You've missed out on a lot of things. Am I right?" He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and inhaled. Breathing out, he squatted in front of her.
Smoke rushed into her nostrils. Tears sprung into the corners of her eyes, and she gasped, struggling to pull clean air into her lungs. Nicotine scratched along her throat. The closer Nolan leaned, the stronger it became, wreathing around her in a dangerous grey cloud.
"Stop." She wheezed. "I saw you at the church. Tossing lighters through the window."
"Yeah." Nolan smiled thoughtfully. "I thought that was you. Short, green-haired, and scowling?"
It hurt to retort. She bent forward, still coughing, unaccustomed to the smoke that was crawling over her lungs.
Nolan, still watching her, dragged the cigarette over his lips. "Need some nicotine, Charliegh McGowan?" At her silence, he leaned forward. "Thought so."
The unlit end of the cigarette burned against her bottom lip as he shoved it forward, ash grinding into the crevices of her teeth. The pain was instant and vengeful, needling the nerves in her mouth and setting them alight.
"Go ahead," he said, "breathe."
Her bottom lip cracked as she opening her mouth, the beginnings of blood dribbling into her mouth. She sucked the smoke in, coughing. Her throat stung.
Nolan shoved the rest of the cigarette into her mouth, fingertips brushing her teeth. "Didn't anyone teach you how to smoke? Not even dear, dead Randall?"
She couldn't breathe. Her throat was rubbed raw and her nose was pinched shut. The cigarette lodged in her mouth, ash scorching her tongue and gums. It was excruciating. And as she choked, color rising to her cheeks, the tears finally began to run down her cheeks.
I want to humiliate you. Her mouth was burning, burning, burning, and nothing could quench it. His friends were laughing. He was inching closer and closer, hands sweeping along the floor. It was town days, it was today, and it was terrifying.
Nolan stuck his fingers in her mouth and pulled the cigarette out, soggy and drooping. He threw it on the floor and ground the remnants out beneath his heel. "I've heard the first is the worst."
As he began to stand, a booted heel caught Charliegh square in the base of her spine. The skin, still tender from an earlier shove, sent pain jolting up her back. She bit back another scream. What were they trying to prove? What was all this for - trusting the wrong person? Using the wrong boy as a distraction?
"Hey, you said we'd get the girl."
Nolan shoved his hands into his pockets. "You still want her?"
"Yeah. Five minutes, maybe."
He considered this. "After me. And I need something first."
The boy kicked her again, catching her right above the backside. She winced, still trying to swallow the residue of ash lingering in her mouth.
"More rope?"
Nolan laughed. "A needle, idiot. I don't care about what happens to her."
"Right. So shut up, Dom. I'm the one with...everything." Vickie walked over to Charliegh, sparing her another kick. She shuffled with the zipper of her jacket, before dropping it off her shoulders and onto the floor. She was all skin and bones and a tight tank top underneath. But what caught Nolan's attention were the pockets, clanking sharply against the barn floor.
He bent down and grabbed the jacket. "Careful! God, Vic."
Charliegh held her breath. She'd seen what happened when he and his friends were high, or hallucinating - they were sloppy, wildly emotional and reckless. Please, God. Let there not be needles. If there were needles, everything would be worse. So much worse. And as the ash burned a hole through her stomach, she realized that much worse was synonymous with out of control.
Nolan was still fishing around the jackets when she looked up, yanking the pockets inside-out. Giving up, he threw it back down. "How hard is it? One bag. I asked for one bag -"
"I put the bag in there, man. Right after you told me." Vic said, turning up her nose. "Unless Dom dipped into it."
"I didn't touch it!" Dom grabbed her arm and pulled her into him, grin teasing. "I was too busy to feel you up for drugs today."
Nolan glared at Charliegh. "This is your fault."
Heart pounding, she tried to rock backwards on her heels. Anything to put a little distance between his angry, rough hands. "How? I didn't even know -"
He grabbed her face, fingers steepled on her cheekbones. "Shut. Up." He said, pressing hard enough to leave bruises. "Stop talking."
Her temples began to ache as his fingernails dug into her skin. He smelled like pot, and the closer he leaned the more his smile seemed too wide, too dark, for his thin face. Struggling to keep the dizziness in her head at bay, she tried to open her mouth to speak. But Nolan pressed his palm over her mouth, eyes gleaming. "Shut up," he whispered. "Just stop trying, Charliegh. There won't be a great escape, this time."
He knocked her shoulder backwards. She fell onto the cushions, head bouncing painfully against the hard wood floor. There were three heads in her line of vision, but only one set of blackened eyes, advancing slowly. She thrashed, trying to pull him away, but he pressed his body against hers and held her down.
As he slid his fingers along her neckline, a numbness stole across her body. This was her inevitable, her bleakest nightmare, and it was coming to life. She could hear the crackle of fabric as he ripped her cheap cotton top; his friends, jeering; footsteps, pounding across the ground. But she couldn't feel his hands, his callouses, as he contaminated her body for the sake of his revenge.
"Stop! You -- stop!" The barn door scraped open, and light flooded the small space. Someone, still screaming obscenities, was running towards them. And suddenly the weight on her hips, her arms, her legs, was pulled away.
The sound of scuffling was enough to vanquish her swimming thoughts. She pulled herself up, hands tugging at her shirt, trying to cover her breasts. Her mouth was dry and the tears were beginning again, but all she could focus on was Nolan and Price.
Price Olsen, fighting for her once again. He was winding his arm back, trying to get a good punch in, but Dom and Eli grabbed him from behind. They were a mass of limbs and words and dripping blood. Yet as Price ducked under the swing of arms, poised for another attack, Nolan stepped quietly out of the fray.
His lip was split down the middle, blood running black down his chin. An eye for an eye, Charliegh thought absently, touching her own cracked mouth.
He stood for a moment, watching the fight. And then, painstakingly slow, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a square silver object. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but large enough to make a clicking noise that reverberated around the barn.
Charliegh bolted clumsily to her feet. Stumbling, she lurched forward. "Price! He has a gun!"
"See? You are still intact." Nolan swung the pistol towards her. "Didn't think that was going to happen, did you?"
While he was talking, Price darted out from between Dom and Eli. He looked furious. But his face went pale when Nolan turned the gun from Charliegh, to him. "You move," he said, "And I'll shoot you. Right in the head."
The air was silent. Charliegh wanted to weep. He had come to save her, and now his efforts had been thwarted. Judging from the malicious grin on Nolan's face, it would all be coming to an end much sooner - and much less neatly - than he had thought.
Worse than the realization that it was ending was the knowledge that this had happened to Randall. Her sweet, misguided Randall. His torment may have been self-inflicted, but his death was not.
Nolan gestured towards his friends with his free hand. "Get the rope," he said, gun still aimed at Price. "We're going to the lake."
***