Coming Home to the Mountain: Complete Edition

2. Prairie

CHAPTER 2

Prairie

I t's been four years. Four years waking up in this bed that is not my own.

Sometimes when I close my eyes at night, I dream of a big, hulking hero, a man with a beard and axe. A hungry look in his eyes as he enters this cabin, crashing through the door, breaking off these chains, throwing me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere safe, warm.

His arms maybe. His bed, please.

I like those dreams.

Because when I close my eyes and float away and drift into that fantasy, I can forget the truth.

And the truth is this: the last four years I have been locked in this cabin with this couple who have convinced themselves I am their dead daughter.

When I was eighteen, I hitchhiked and thought they were giving me a ride one town over, but they weren't. Instead, they drove me to their house and locked me up in their home, binding me with chains so I was incapable of going anywhere.

I've been living like this for four years. Growing angrier as I’ve waited for the moment when I can escape.

This morning feels like every other day. Outside the bedroom window, I’m happy to see the snow has melted from the ground; the skies are blue.

Of course, I can't reach the windowpanes. If I could, I would put my fist through them. I would break the glass even if it meant my skin sliced open. I would crawl through that window, and I would let my feet touch the cold earth, and I would run free.

But the chains on my wrists only let me walk five feet in any direction, which means I am stuck in the middle of this room.

I put on the clothing that Marjorie set out for me. It's not like I have a choice in what I wear. They want me to be the daughter that they lost, Alice.

I am in her bedroom. In her bed. Reading her books and sleeping next to her dolls. In her time capsule.

And it is terrifying. What if I am here for the rest of my life? This room my only home?

I can't let myself get hung up on these details. When I do, I spin out of control and lose my grip on reality. The reality is this: eventually I will figure out a way to get out of here. Eventually I will find a way out. And then I will meet that man who's waiting for me.

I always was a dreamer.

When I was a little girl and my mom was still alive, she would tell me, “Prairie, you are the light I'm always looking for.”

My mom was depressed but she always told me that I was the sunshine she needed. I hung on to that. I still do.

I remember those words—to be the sunshine, be the light, even when everything seems so dark. That’s what I try to be right now.

I’m waiting, hoping, because eventually there will be a crack and the light will come in and I will be free.

I’m dressed for the day and I’m wondering why Marjorie hasn’t come in and told me it’s time for breakfast. Usually about now she carries in a tray with oats and juice and sets it down on my desk, telling me I should eat like a good little girl.

But the clock on the side of the bed says it’s 9:30 in the morning, which is already an hour later than normal.

One thing about Marjorie and Horace is they are regular. And while I know they’ve lost their minds, one thing they can keep track of is their routine.

I am their routine.

Something is off. I sit there, focusing, trying to listen, remembering that for the last few weeks Marjorie has looked more pale, weaker. Horace has been doing most of her chores.

I hear something.

There are the sounds of muffled sobs. Crying. I listen more closely, straining to hear. It's not Marjorie; it's Horace.

“Wake up,” he moans. “You can’t be gone. You can’t leave us. Alice and I need you.” He's weeping, his voice traveling through this drafty cabin. “This wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan. Marjorie. My love. You need to wake up, just wake up!”

Marjorie is dead.

I press my lips together. Think, Prairie, think.

“Daddy,” I call out. “Can I help you? Maybe I can wake up Mommy. I can sing a favorite lullaby to her.”

This is a ridiculous thought. But I know he is as delusional as his wife was.

I hear the movement of the big man. His steps coming closer, down the hall, and then the bedroom door opens.

“Alice,” he says, “you're awake. I need your help. Can you help your father?”

“Of course I can,” I tell him. “What do you need? I heard you crying, Daddy. What's wrong?”

“Your mother is sleeping, and I think she needs you to help wake her up.”

“Of course, Daddy.”

His hands are shaking, his eyes bloodshot as he unlocks the chain that is tethered to a bolt in the center of the room.

He's the one whom always leads me from this room.

I go out once or twice a day, usually outside for a walk or to work in the garden.

He always tells me it's for my own good when he holds a gun close to my back or

has me chained up at my ankles, while I plant seeds or dig up carrots, so I can't run away.

But now he is distraught, confused, agitated. All these things will work in my favor.

He leads me with the chain like a leash. He guides me down the hall to his bedroom.

Of course, I want to leap at him right now. But he's not that stupid.

He's pulled a small revolver from his pocket.

“You're scaring me with the gun,” I tell him, pretending to be his child.

“I know,” he says, “I don't want to scare you. I just want you to be safe. In case an intruder comes. That's why I have the gun out.”

“Thank you for protecting me, Daddy,” I say, pretending to agree with him.

But we both know the truth. We can only lie to ourselves for so long.

In the bedroom, I cover my face. The shock of the situation stuns me. Marjorie has died. In this bed… and Horace doesn’t know how to continue without her.

I look over at Horace. He is shaking again. Weak, tears in his eyes. He loved this woman. Their depravity made them perfect for one another.

But I'm not weak right now. I'm not shaking. I'm not crying.

In fact, I'm stronger than ever.

And that fantasy of mine, the one that I've been clinging to for the last four years since they took me hostage? Well, it's no longer such a daydream.

I'm done living in their fantasy.

Horace must notice the look in my eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, child,” he says, lunging at me with the gun in his hand. He points it at me, as if to shoot.

“She’s breathing,” I say, lying to him to catch him off guard.

I barrel toward Horace and knock the gun out of his hand.

He doesn't even realize what's happening until it's too late.

He dives for me, but I have the gun now. He wrestles on top of me, his hands surprisingly strong as he attempts to choke me, to stop me. Tears fill my eyes, my kidnapper now my murderer.

I won’t let this be how my story ends.

I swallow, for a moment scared to shoot him.

I’m sunshine. I want to be light.

But more than that, I want to live.

Marjorie is dead. This man has been my captor.

He never once asked me if I wanted to stay. He simply locked me up and threw away the key.

“Don't do this to your father,” he growls, as delusional as he was the day we met.

I'll never forgive myself for getting in his car. I was broke, alone, needing a ride to get away from a bad situation. Horace and Marjorie gave me one.

Of course, I never realized they were going to take me to their house. Keep me. Now I get to leave.

“Don't do something you'll regret,” he hisses. My breath is ragged, and I have the gun in my hand.

But I'm still imagining that man with the axe, the beard. My hero, my fantasy.

I'm not going to die in this house.

No. I'm going to end up somewhere that feels like home.

I pull the trigger.