The Road to Burden: Chapter 2

We’re on a street called Heather Lane at the edge of the town when the dark clouds part and the moon materializes, a strange blue-white settling over what’s left of the derelict structures ahead. Krista looks particularly gaunt in this light, her angular cheekbones forming a natural contour, only it isn’t — natural, that is.

Before Ray, we were known for our dimpled smiles, nestled deep in the fullness of our cheeks. Now our faces are drawn like old curtains, as though we aged 15 years in the span of one.

One year. It’s only been four seasons since our nightmare began.

I grit my teeth at the thought, reminded of the day we were sent to live with our foster father.

“He’s known for his contributions to the community,” Susan had told us, reading from her clipboard. “He built a garden near the local library, and oh, wow — he hosts a 5K every summer for a hospital in Boise. It says here he’s donated a substantial amount toward Parkinson’s research.”

Krista had rolled her eyes at this. “Just because he’s a hot shot doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy, Susan. You know that.”

“Well, his references only had great things to say about him,” Susan had said, taking off her reading glasses and looking pointedly at Krista. “Try to have a positive attitude, Krista. Some people are good.”

Some people are good, some people are good, some people are good, I think, and the voice in my head laughs bitterly.

“Lex, look,” Krista says, and I’m jolted from my thoughts. “An old movie theater. And oh, my god, they were playing The Shining!”

It’s my and Krista’s favorite horror movie. Our mom would watch it with us on Halloween every year, sitting cross-legged on the rug with our candy spread out, making trades while Danny writes “redrum” on the bathroom door.

It’s funny to remember how scared I was back then. Back when I didn’t know anything about the world’s real horrors.

“Obviously, we’re going inside,” Krista says, and again, I’m powerless to say no. And maybe I don’t really want to, anyway. Maybe I want to pretend I’m just another 17-year-old, breaking into an abandoned building and getting into a little mischief, which my parents would bust me for later.

Krista leads us to the ticket booth, talking to the invisible ticket master. “Two tickets for The Shining at 7:30, please,” she says, pretending to take them from the counter. “Thank you very much!”

How ironic that Susan ever believed Krista wasn’t a positive person. Krista is the one who still jokes and laughs and plays, despite everything we’ve been through. Despite the year from hell — a year that would give even the most practiced trauma therapist pause.

The front doors are thickly boarded up, spray paint marking them with curse words, but there’s a sizable gap at the bottom, and Krista ducks to peer in. “There’s nothing behind this,” she says, and before I can remark, she’s squeezing herself in. “We can definitely fit through here. I guess that’s one good takeaway from Ray — we’re small enough to fit through the tiniest crevices.”

She’s joking again, but I feel my face wince like I’ve been slapped. A slap would be nice right now, actually. As Krista slips into the building, I raise my hand and hit myself as hard as I can, biting down so I don’t shriek aloud as I make contact. I taste blood in my mouth, and my face is on fire and I can’t think straight until the relief floods in like a tidal wave, washing away the sting.

I don’t make the best of it. I may never make the best of it. But Krista doesn’t have to know.

As we wander the empty halls, Krista shines her flashlight over the walls, where posters of classic movies hang behind cracked, dusty frames — Taxi Driver, Scarface, The Thing, Labyrinth. We pass an old concession stand, and Krista hops over the counter, opening the glass display case and pulling out a box of Milk Duds. “Jack pot,” she says, grinning. “Remember how much Mom loved these?”

She holds the box out to me, and I gingerly accept, but make no move to retrieve one. Instead, I just stare at it, relishing the memory of Mom’s kitchen candy bowl, always full of the sweetest confections. Milk Duds and Hershey’s Kisses and York Peppermint Patties and sometimes Reese’s Pieces, which weren’t always in stock at the grocery store.

“You’re not fat, Lex,” Krista says, her voice so soft it’s almost imperceptible. “And if you’re fat, then I’m fat. Are you calling me fat?”

I know what she’s doing, but I can’t laugh this time. I can’t even crack a smile.

“Let’s eat one together. At the same time.”

I nod, and she pours one into my hand, and then her own.

“On three. One, two, three.”

We pop them into our mouths, and Krista flashes a wide smile, holding the Dud between her top and bottom teeth. This time I do laugh, spitting melted chocolate out in the process, and Krista screams, “Clean up on aisle four,” and then we’re both dissolving in a fit of giggles, propping each other up to keep us from falling, and suddenly Krista’s not laughing anymore, but weeping instead, her frail body shaking violently with each sob, and I’m holding her close, swaying gently as tears stream down my own face, and I find myself humming our mother’s lullaby. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, little baby.

***

Slumped against the concession counter, I survey the damage: two empty boxes of Milk Duds, three Sour Patch Kids, and four Kit-Kat wrappers are strewn around us on the dirty carpet. Krista’s clutching her abdomen.

“A stomachache never felt so good,” she says, and a sharp pang strikes my gut, right where the candy is digesting, and as it churns, suddenly I’m back in Ray’s house, in the small guest bedroom he called Kitten’s Delight.

“Dinnertime,” Ray says, a shadow in the doorway, his face hidden, but I can smell the plate he’s holding: steamed vegetables, roasted chicken, maybe, and mashed potatoes with — oh god, that’s gravy. Lots of gravy.

He walks slowly over, and the smell grows stronger and I can feel my mouth salivating.

He bends down to where I’m huddled, in the corner of the room next to the cat castle. His two fluffy white cats are at the top, flicking their tails and blinking slowly. They like the smell, too.

I eye the plate of food in his hands greedily, and I see that my nose was right on the money. Plus fresh bread rolls slathered in butter. How did I miss that? I think, in a hunger-fueled haze.

I close my eyes now, fighting the urge to snatch the plate out of Ray’s hands and shove the food in my mouth with my hands, as fast as I can.

“You know the deal,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, taunting me. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him. His face isn’t ugly, the way a monster’s face should be; no, it’s ordinary, and vaguely handsome, even, and I’m amazed again that ordinary flesh could house such corruption.

“If you touch that food, Krista doesn’t eat.”

Krista doesn’t eat, Krista doesn’t eat, Krista doesn’t eat.

I knew Krista, who was holed up somewhere in a room at the opposite end of the huge hall, was likely being offered the same deal.

Forced into isolation without a way to communicate, neither of us touched our plates until Ray would force us.

Except once.

Remember when you ate dinner, and Krista starved? my mind whispers in a voice that sounds like his. She was so hungry that night. She hadn’t eaten in days.

My stomach turns again, and the guilt rises as bile in my throat.

“Come on,” I say to my sister, who’s sprawled out on the floor in a sugar high. “Let’s go catch a movie.”