Dumping Grounds (Joshua Stokes Mysteries Book 1) by Lila Beckham Page B
Authors: Lila Beckham
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of the songs were either extremely edgy or very much laid back. All the songs they listened to were about politics, drugs and alcohol, or death; a few were about sex. She had never heard any twangy country or bluesy Negro type music floating down to where she was.
The warm soapy water felt good on her sore aching body, but she was so sick and ashamed she could not fully enjoy it.
One of the men sat on the toilet watching her as she bathed. He was the nicer one it seemed, but the emptiness in his eyes worried Emma.
The eyes are the mirror to the soul . She had heard that her whole life and if it were so, then his soul was hallow, dark, and empty.
His eyes were blank. They held no light, no tenderness, no color to speak of, at least not that she could make out. There were no twinkles in them, no crow’s feet around the edges, no luster… Emma wondered if they had ever held any life at all. His eyes were expressionless, like those of a dead fish.
Emma soaped her exposed body parts and then slipped down beneath the water, running her fingers back and forth through her hair.
That was when she felt the sore spot on her head. It had a scab covering it, as if it was healing. This caused her to try to add up how long it takes a cut to form a scab. If she could do that, maybe she would know how long they had held her there. It was probably days, not weeks or months as she had first thought, but the pink mimosas she smelt and saw returned to her thoughts.
If it were still March, they would not yet be in bloom, unless the milder than usual winter had something to do with them blooming early.
Then, she remembered that the window with pink blossoms might not even be real. If it were not real then what was it she smelt, if it was not mimosa?
Was it a trick of the mind? The subconscious mind that sees something and then associates it with something that one has experienced; she was unsure, but the more she thought about it the more she was convinced that it was just an imitation of a window, a painted scene.
The mimosas probably did not exist at all, except painted on the window as if it were a canvas.
“You need to hurry up” he said, his voice causing her to jump at the unexpected verbal command. He had not uttered a word since the other one had told him to sit in there and watch her.
“Why?” Emma asked, setting upright with one arm across her bosom. She was curious as to why he was suddenly in a hurry for her to get out of the tub.
Once she sat up, she noticed the blackened bath water. Emma figured it was probably from the dye they used on her hair.
“He will be ready for you,” the man replied monotonically, his tone level, showing no emotion at all.
His words sent chills down her spine as she remembered the sounds coming from above her earlier, but since he was willing to talk, she asked, “Ready for me for what?” she wanted to know what he would say, but at the same time, she dreaded what he might say.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he replied, his tone the same. Everything about him scared her now.
As Emma talked with him, she was giving him a good going-over and as she did, he looked over toward her.
Suddenly, she remembered him from the campground. He was the man that was wielding the axe!
Emma wanted to run as fast as she could away from him, but there was no escape. There was nowhere for her to go; he was between her and the door.
“I’m ready. Bring the jezebel to me!” a voice commanded loudly from the other room.
Emma tried to resist as the one who was in the bathroom with her grabbed her arm and then jerked her upright in the tub and began moving toward the door.
Resisting him was futile; he was just too strong. Emma stepped out of the tub.
Another song began to play loudly from the other room. It was a song called War Pigs, by the group Black Sabbath. Emma remembered it from the frat party she and Rhonda attended the past September.
Axe man jerked her arm again forcing her to stop
The warm soapy water felt good on her sore aching body, but she was so sick and ashamed she could not fully enjoy it.
One of the men sat on the toilet watching her as she bathed. He was the nicer one it seemed, but the emptiness in his eyes worried Emma.
The eyes are the mirror to the soul . She had heard that her whole life and if it were so, then his soul was hallow, dark, and empty.
His eyes were blank. They held no light, no tenderness, no color to speak of, at least not that she could make out. There were no twinkles in them, no crow’s feet around the edges, no luster… Emma wondered if they had ever held any life at all. His eyes were expressionless, like those of a dead fish.
Emma soaped her exposed body parts and then slipped down beneath the water, running her fingers back and forth through her hair.
That was when she felt the sore spot on her head. It had a scab covering it, as if it was healing. This caused her to try to add up how long it takes a cut to form a scab. If she could do that, maybe she would know how long they had held her there. It was probably days, not weeks or months as she had first thought, but the pink mimosas she smelt and saw returned to her thoughts.
If it were still March, they would not yet be in bloom, unless the milder than usual winter had something to do with them blooming early.
Then, she remembered that the window with pink blossoms might not even be real. If it were not real then what was it she smelt, if it was not mimosa?
Was it a trick of the mind? The subconscious mind that sees something and then associates it with something that one has experienced; she was unsure, but the more she thought about it the more she was convinced that it was just an imitation of a window, a painted scene.
The mimosas probably did not exist at all, except painted on the window as if it were a canvas.
“You need to hurry up” he said, his voice causing her to jump at the unexpected verbal command. He had not uttered a word since the other one had told him to sit in there and watch her.
“Why?” Emma asked, setting upright with one arm across her bosom. She was curious as to why he was suddenly in a hurry for her to get out of the tub.
Once she sat up, she noticed the blackened bath water. Emma figured it was probably from the dye they used on her hair.
“He will be ready for you,” the man replied monotonically, his tone level, showing no emotion at all.
His words sent chills down her spine as she remembered the sounds coming from above her earlier, but since he was willing to talk, she asked, “Ready for me for what?” she wanted to know what he would say, but at the same time, she dreaded what he might say.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he replied, his tone the same. Everything about him scared her now.
As Emma talked with him, she was giving him a good going-over and as she did, he looked over toward her.
Suddenly, she remembered him from the campground. He was the man that was wielding the axe!
Emma wanted to run as fast as she could away from him, but there was no escape. There was nowhere for her to go; he was between her and the door.
“I’m ready. Bring the jezebel to me!” a voice commanded loudly from the other room.
Emma tried to resist as the one who was in the bathroom with her grabbed her arm and then jerked her upright in the tub and began moving toward the door.
Resisting him was futile; he was just too strong. Emma stepped out of the tub.
Another song began to play loudly from the other room. It was a song called War Pigs, by the group Black Sabbath. Emma remembered it from the frat party she and Rhonda attended the past September.
Axe man jerked her arm again forcing her to stop
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