Mafia Games by Vi Carter
CHAPTER TEN
CLAIRE
My back and head complain intensely as I sit up in the tub. It’s like a bad dream roaring to life as I glance around my cage. Gripping the side of the tub, I climb out. My heart jumps for too many reasons, but the number one is him. He’s standing like some avenging God outside the box. The navy suit fits his large frame flawlessly.
It’s another reminder of how insignificant I am compared to him. My palms grow clammy, and I don’t blink. He moves forward, and my heart leaps.
“I can’t imagine you slept well.”
It’s only now I notice the tray in his hands that holds my breakfast: a bowl, a mug, and a plate with toast laid out on it.
“Go to the back of the box.” His command has my stomach quivering. I don’t hesitate but turn quickly, wanting nothing more than to look over my shoulder. At the sound of the click that I associate with the door opening, my shoulders draw together as I walk faster. I reach the end and spin. He has placed the tray on the table and is leaving.
My body settles when the door closes, that is until his dark gaze pins me to the spot. If Lucifer was to take human form and wear an Armani suit, I’m sure this man would fit the profile perfectly. He’s harshly beautiful.
“Claire, I want all your food eaten.”
His voice drags across my flesh. I don’t move from the back of the box. The distance makes me slightly braver. “What do you want with me?” My voice is weak, but it still carries to him.
His gaze zeros in, and I don’t need his words; it’s in his eyes. It’s true that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and from meeting his gaze, I know he doesn’t have one.
Blood roars in my ears, and my core tightens. I straighten at the sensation, not expecting to feel this way at all. Confusion at my body’s reaction to him overwhelms me.
“I’ll be back later.” The devil turns on his expensive heels and leaves me reeling for air. What is wrong with me? I can’t find him attractive. I do. I shouldn’t, but I do.
My feet feel as though they are cemented to the ground, and it takes me some time to move. I pass where Eamon’s lifeless body lay. None of this feels real. It’s like a bad dream, one I’m yet to wake up from. I pause and step closer to the wall of glass, looking down at the concrete ground. The area is free of any blood. It’s like Eamon never existed.
The chairs I smashed have been replaced. I drag one out and sit down, staring at my breakfast. My stomach rumbles loudly, but I don’t eat. I examine the tray. The silverware holds my attention. I swallow saliva as I pick up the knife. Running my finger along the blade, I pull away and hiss, not expecting the tip to be so sharp. A metallic taste fills my mouth as I suck my damaged finger between my lips. The bleeding stops after a moment, and I get up with the knife and walk back to my bed. Lifting up a pillow, I place the knife there for safekeeping.
I walk back quickly to the table. My heart pitter-patters in my chest. The sensation grows and accelerates as I think of him discovering the knife. What would he do?
I’m ready to race back and remove the knife from under my pillow, but I manage to stop myself. Having a weapon gives me a better chance at getting out of here. I had to take it.
I eat the dry toast quickly, not bothering with the selection of jams or the butter. I wash the food down with hot coffee. I barely taste the cereal as I eat in record time. My stomach appreciates the food, and I’m still alive, so he hadn’t poisoned the breakfast.
Once I have everything eaten, I mess up the tray a bit more. Opening two of the small pots of jam, I scoop out some of the contents. I do the same with the butter. I’m hoping he won’t check the tray, just hand it to his housekeeper. A man who dresses like he does is bound to have a housekeeper or two.
When I feel as satisfied as I think I will be, I leave the table and make my way back to the bed. I bring the blankets back from the tub and remake the bed. I keep checking to make sure the knife is still there. It is.
Relieving myself is another thing I have to do, but each time I step closer to the toilet, I step away until my bladder demands to be emptied. I finally use the toilet and quickly wash my hands and face after. Sitting back on the bed, I wring my hands. I have no idea what I’m meant to do.
I check the entire box again for something to use to get out of here. But there are no weapons. Only the sharp butter knife that I stole. My mind sings. A sob presses against my throat, pushing my palm against my chest doesn’t stop the onslaught of panic that tries to devour me.
It’s the click that has me swinging towards the door. He’s here again. He doesn’t have to say a word. I instinctively dart to the back of the box. I need to appear obedient, so he can relax and hopefully give me an opportunity to use the knife. I want to look at the pillow where the knife lies but keep my focus trained on him as he enters the box. He’s carrying something that he places on the table before picking up the tray. Without a word, he leaves. The door closes. He climbs the steps and disappears out of sight.
I count to one hundred waiting for him to reappear and demand the knife back, or worse, use it on me. My throat grows dry as I wait, but he doesn’t come. My steps are slower as I approach the table where a box sits. It’s the size of a shoebox. I keep checking the stairway, but each time it’s empty. Picking up the box, I flip open the lid, and small puzzle pieces fall out onto the floor. Quickly I kneel down and scoop them up, placing them back in the box.
A puzzle?
Most of the small pieces are gray. The material in the image looks like stone. As I shift the pieces, I see the greenery of fields and trees and the blue of a river. I glance at the stairway again, making sure he isn’t there, and when I’m satisfied, I look back to the puzzle. My fingers itch to make it up. Why give me a puzzle? Is this some weird way of telling me why I am here?
With that thought, I spill the puzzle out across the table. Flashes of my family doing this have me stumbling from the table. Emotions surface hard and fast, and I cover my face like I can keep them down.
Would my family be searching for me if they were alive? I know they would. My parents would have been distraught. I wonder what life I could have led if they had lived. Would they have noticed how cruel Leonard was? Would they have gotten him help before it went too far? Before, it cost us everything.
I bite my lip until the pain has me refocusing. Make up the puzzle, Claire.
This is what I spent weekends off doing. With that thought, I tell myself it’s just a normal weekend as I sit down and get lost doing the puzzle. It’s something that has always numbed me, and all that matters is completing the puzzle. The image takes shape as I fill in the edges and continue this pattern, watching the landscape develop. A river is running alongside fields. With each piece I add, I see more of the picture, and my heart races. Why give me this? The castle starts to take form, and my stomach squirms as recognition takes shape. I know the castle. I know where this is.
Cabra Castle.
Not far from where I live. Why show me this? Is this puzzle one he had upstairs and just gave to me to pass the time? Or could he know doing puzzles is how I spent dwindling away my spare time. My hands start to shake as questions assault me.
Three questions dominate all the rest, and I’m looking at the stairway again. Why am I here? Why me? And what would he finally do with me?
I’m not getting out of this place. The chair hits the ground hard as I stand abruptly. My fists smash down on the stupid puzzle, and I tear into the image like it's a living thing that I can pour all my anger out on. Flinging the contents across the floor, I join the puzzle pieces on the ground. Tears burn my eyes, and I let them flow as I scream out my fear and frustration towards the glass ceiling. I stay on the floor for a while until my body is all out of tears and hope.
I crawl across the floor, picking up the gray box, and start putting the pieces back in. It’s like my life, really. When I fall apart and spiral into the darkness, I often wait for someone to pull me out, someone to hold me and tell me it will be okay. That never happens. I resurface even for a small amount of time and have to pick myself up off the ground. I have to convince myself it will be okay. That life will get better.
The lies, I tell myself. My fingers wrap around the small pieces, and I anchor myself to gathering up the pieces and placing them in the box. Once I’ve gathered them all up, I put the box back on the table and pick up the fallen chair.
The silence is driving me mad. At home in my apartment, I kept a radio going or the TV on. I never allowed the silence to fill the space; with silence came my pain.
I hum off-key as I move to the back of the box and sit down on the ground. I have a clear path to the door, but I’m the furthest away if he comes back.
He does. He’s changed out of his suit and has swapped it for a t-shirt and jeans. He looks more deadly, and my heart thump thumps in my chest as he places a tray on the table. No warning is given, and once he leaves, I muster the strength up and go to the table. A steak dinner steams from the tray. Silverware and a napkin are placed to the left. A tall glass of liquid is what I pick up first and drink it down in one go.
The food doesn’t go down so easily. My stomach rebels through the large meal. I hold up the steak knife, tempted to take it, but I got away with one; a second knife going unnoticed isn’t likely. The steak parts like butter under the steak knife. Once all the content is cut up, I take the plate to the toilet and scrape all the food into the bowl. I have to flush several times, and sweat starts to gather on the back of my neck. Flushing the toilet seems so noisy in the surrounding space. I hum to try to calm myself, and it works as I walk back to the table and return the plate to the tray. I reluctantly leave the steak knife behind. Grabbing the puzzle box, I take it with me to the back of the room, where I sit down and start to make the puzzle again while continuing to hum. I’ve made up the puzzle five times when he arrives again. He removes the tray and, just like the last time, leaves something on the table for me. He pauses this time and doesn’t leave immediately. I hold my breath, not moving a muscle until he finally leaves.
I hate the small swell of excitement that pushes my feet faster across the flooring. I reach the table, and it’s another box—this one black. Opening the box, the pieces are smaller and the quantity larger. Taking one final peek at the stairway, I take my puzzle with me and hug the box to my chest as I return to the back of the space. Sitting down on the ground, I finish off the first puzzle before starting the second one. These are just random fields with cows and some far-off mountains in the background. Once again, I recognize the landscape, or maybe it’s like all the back roads in our area that are overlooked by the Loch Leigh mountains.
The pattern happens again. He brings me tea. This time the tray holds a sandwich and a mug of coffee. I eat the food this time, and when he collects the tray, another package is left. I nearly smile as I race across the cube and pick up the package; it’s not a puzzle but a brown bag. Opening it, I take out several adult coloring books and a set of coloring pencils. Fear tightens its hands around my throat. This is another thing I do to pass the time. Has he been watching me? How did he know these things about me?
The coloring book makes me feel unsettled. I leave the book and the pencils on the table, not wanting to give him any more of myself. I do keep remaking my puzzles until I can nearly do them with my eyes closed.
***
Days grow repetitive. The one thing that changes is that he stops bringing my food. The bald man named Davy brings the trays instead. No one has to tell me to stay at the back of the box. I spent most of my day there, biding my time to use my knife. Food comes and goes, and more puzzles and coloring books are left behind.
My fingers itch to color, and I give in to another thing I did with my mother. Coloring calms me, and I give in to the call and start to fill the pages with vibrant colors. I want to fill the washout space with colors too, not just the pages. Everywhere in the box is white. Why white? Everything is white, even the clothes on my back.
The violet coloring pencil I slide across the white flooring and smile at the line it creates. My smile wobbles and my hand tightens around the pencil. It snaps. The sound of the cracking wood causes me to startle. Closing my eyes, I take a calming breath and start to hum. It settles me again, and I pick up a blue coloring pencil and start to paint my freedom on the floor.