CHAPTER FOUR-FIGHT AND FUCK
After eating our fill we drifted off to sleep, he on a threadbare sofa in the main room and me sitting on the floor, my back against the wall. Seeing that the sun was low in the west, I deduced that it was mid afternoon when I awoke to the sound of Garth retching.
My head throbbed and I felt like pulling my eyes out of their sockets. A victim of the hangover I predicted would result from drinking too much whiskey too fast in too short of a time; I was overcome by a wave of nausea.
I stood up and instinctively placed my hand over my mouth to keep from having to wallow in my own filth in the squalid abode that was now my prison. I ran through the door, bypassing the pistol my captor had carelessly left on the table, and took my place next to Garth, who was kneeling on the ground next to the cabin, emptying the contents of his stomach onto a patch of grass.
I leaned over and puked on the grass, the bits of my tuna fish sandwich dwarfed by the amorphous puddle of partially digested food that my kidnapper had deposited a few inches away. The nausea and headache subsided momentarily and I was drenched with sweat as I righted my torso and took a few deep breaths.
Garth, startled by my presence, jumped up and felt around his waist before surveying me. Totally nude with my arms at my side, I had nothing to hide. With a sense of relief written on his countenance, he strode past me and went back into the cabin, soon emerging with the pistol in his right hand.
"Bitch, you probably just blew the best chance you'll ever get to kill me. You ain't ever gonna see me fuck up like this again," he snarled.
The reprieve from my hangover was over. The misery was back with a vengeance. And I was in no mood to be called a bitch. The prospect of death as a source of relief from my bi-yearly or so hangovers had in the past seemed an attractive option after a night of booze filled merriment, and was even more enticing that day.
I staggered over the rough ground to my enemy, unconcerned about the mode of my imminent demise. Looking him in the eye, I screamed, "Don't call me a bitch, you stupid motherfucker!"
I pounded on his muscular chest with my fists, the blows I landed ineffectual. It was as if I was striking a stone wall, but it felt good to be fighting back.
My captor didn't flinch. Instead, as I pounded on his chest, he broke out into evil laughter.
Tears streamed down my face. I could use all my strength and would accomplish nothing. He was right. I had blown perhaps the only chance I would ever have to end the nightmare I was living.
The futility of my attack now obvious, I stopped pummeling him and reached to the ground and grabbed a rock that was about the size of a baseball. Intending to use the stone to crush my tormentor's calvarium, with all my might I drove my right arm forward.
Before the rock got within a foot of his skull, Garth seized my right wrist. My hand involuntarily opened and the stone fell harmlessly to the ground as the flesh and tendons and bones of my wrist were crushed together in the vise that was his meaty hand. I then looked him in the eye again, managed a smile, and then expectorated a mixture of spittle and vomitus that splattered on his right cheek.
The right side of my face exploded in pain after the handle of the pistol landed on my cheek. He released my wrist and I stood motionless for an instant before falling in a heap to the ground.
I tried to muster the strength to get on my feet and run away, hoping I could conceal myself in the brush and avoid whatever awaited me at the hands of the beast who had imprisoned me here. But when I attempted to stand up, my legs would not support me and I again sank to the ground, striking the side of my head on a rock. Helpless, I let out a sob as another stream of tears ran down my cheeks. I pounded on the ground with my fists, my anger not only directed at the sadist who had brought me here but also at the One who had given me life.
Garth seized my right wrist and dragged me across the ground as my shrieks and sobs continued. The pebbles tore my skin and the rocks bruised my flesh.
When we stopped and he let go of my wrist, I sank my teeth in his leg. For this I was rewarded with a kick in the rib cage that muted my sobs for a moment. But as he dragged me to my feet I began screaming at the top of my voice.
He wrapped his right hand around my throat, stifling me. When he let go, he picked up a rusted tin can as I caught my breath. He placed the can on the top of my head and strode about ten paces back.
I felt like a bird mesmerized by the gaze of a snake as I watched him raise his pistol. It did not occur to me to run for my life as he squeezed the trigger.
The woods echoed with the blast from his gun and the can fell from my crown. I looked to the ground and saw the can had been pierced by the bullet.
Garth trod toward me, the pistol still raised and pointed at my forehead. I was frozen in fear, the bravado with which I had been overcome as I had pummeled him with my fists and spat in his face now a distant memory. The possibility that he would finish me off an instant after he had put an end to my acts of defiance had not occurred to me.
"Please, no, I'm sorry! Let me live!" I pleaded.
I watched his index finger flex as he pulled the trigger, the barrel of the gun inches away from my forehead. I did not duck or close my eyes. My illusion that I had a chance to survive now gone, I was ready for my life to end.
The roar from the pistol deafened me as the bullet whizzed above my head. I collapsed into my captors arms and barely heard him mutter, "The next round from this gun is going into your skull. You can call me a son of a bitch, a bastard, or even a cocksucker but don't ever fucking call me stupid again."
I sank to my knees, sobbing, still entrapped in my living hell but grateful to be alive. I heard Garth trudge away and hoped he would leave me alone to wallow in my misery, to cry in solitude. But after fading away, the sound of steps crushing the leaves and snapping the twigs on the ground resumed and grew louder. My tormentor was returning. I was too timid even to lift my head and regard his countenance.
Startled by crash of an object landing on the ground next to me, I turned my head to regard a spade lying next to me. I looked up at Garth. His face was lit up by a shit-eating grin.
"Find a spot where you'd like to be buried. It's time for you to dig your grave!"
"Dig the fucking hole yourself," I muttered, my eyes again downcast.
