“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about her.”
We talk about the various jobs her mom held throughout Marissa’s childhood, and she even confides in me about her mother’s emotionally Spartan ways.
“I don’t know what happened to her. From flower child to someone who had so little faith in humanity,” Marissa tells me, and I suspect that she’s at some point blamed herself for the change. “She always went on about how you can’t rely on anyone but yourself.”
Finally, through sobs, she reveals how, on the morning she found her mother, dead from an aneurysm at the age of 57, she was far from glad that her childhood was spent preparing her for the harshness of life.
“I was going to stay all alone either way,” she says after unsuccessfully trying to wipe her nose on her shoulder. “Wecould have enjoyed the time before that inevitably happened. It’s like she didn’t want me to get used to being happy or cared for.”
I sigh. “You know how some people buy gifts that they themselves would like to receive instead of what the other person might want? Your mom probably wished someone had told her those things when she was young.”
She blinks. “I never thought of it that way. What are you? Some sort of shrink?”
“No.” I smile. “But I’ve been sober for almost six and a half years, so I’ve picked up a few tricks in therapy and AA meetings.”
“Wha-,” Marissa starts saying something, but then, we hear the door unlock, and her eyes widen.
“I can’t wait to be rid of you two,” Beavis announces when they stroll into the room. “It’s probably going to be a slow death for you, princess. I heard the Preacher likes to tie people to his vehicle and drag them around the desert for fun.”
I’ve heard the same thing, but I manage to conceal my terror. Marissa, on the other hand, has no poker face. I wish I could say, or better yet, do something to save us.
Our captors rustle around the plastic bags they brought with them before they each pick a prisoner to feed. On today’s menu: a gas station hot dog and an energy drink.
I’ve never been fussy about food; working crazy shifts trains you to fuel your body with whatever you can find. Ignoring the humiliation of literally eating from my enemy’s hand, however, is a whole other thing.
“Yeah, swallow all of it,” that pervert Butthead tells Marissa while shoving the hot dog deeper into her mouth.
Beavis snorts. “Next time, I’m feeding the bitch.”
White-hot rage starts pulsing in my temples. My neck feels hot.
“Knock it off,” I instruct them in my cop voice.
Unfortunately, very little intimidation is possible when you’re the one who’s tied up.
Beavis shoves the energy drink at my mouth. “Shut up.”
I almost choke when Marissa starts whimpering.
“No, please, where are you taking me?”
Butthead is dragging her towards the corner. That’s where the bucket is. I know that. I do.
My body, however, is in fight mode and refuses to listen to reason. I finally understand how Hammer feels during one of his episodes.
“You leave her alone!” I yell out, straining against the rope.
Utterly impotent, I watch Butthead unbutton Marissa’s shorts. She’s shaking like a leaf. Her lips are ghostly white, and silent tears are streaming down her face.
I can’t let them hurt her, I can’t.
With all my remaining strength, I lurch towards Beavis, who’s watching the scene with great amusement, and headbutt him in the stomach.
His backhanding me across the face does nothing to quell the adrenaline turning me into the Incredible Hulk, but the metal pipe against my leg sobers me in no time.
