The Voice From Car Fourteen

“Wake up,” the muffled voice said.

The low hum in her ears slowly began to fade, revealing a familiar clunking noise. Heavily her eyes began to open, blinking slowly. The light was nauseating. The rocking motion, though gentle and steady, only added to the headache. Forcing her eyes open she tried lifting her head but to no avail. The grey of the ceiling and the recessed light above her slowly began to separate, bringing back her vision. Again she tried to sit up, lifting her head a few inches from the clothing stuffed under.

Softly the voice spoke again, “That’s right, up.”

“I…” licking her lips and swallowing hard she said, “I can’t move.” Her voice was weak and had slight gravel to it.

“You will, in time.”

“Please, where am I? Why can’t I…”

“You’re asking questions” the voice interrupted, “But, you’re not asking the right question”.

“Who are you?” she asked after a brief pause.

“Does it matter?” questioned the voice. “If we weren't in this room together would you care?”

Closing her eyes she put all of her energy into turning her head. Inching her way to the left, and then back to the right. After a few moments she managed to get her head sideways on the seat she was lying on. The collar of the shirt that was being used as a pillow covered her left eye, casting a dark shadow over the room.

“Where are you? I can’t see you,” she said scanning frantically with one eye.

“Again, not the right question.”

“WHERE AM I? she screamed, spittle dripping on her cheek. The shape of her mouth turned from that of concern to terror.

“Shh shhh shhh” the voice consoled.

A hand appeared above her, softly pressing on her forehead. The palm was warm and smooth, contrasting the chill of the fingers. The thumb slid down, lightly brushing back and forth across her brown eyebrow. After a moment the hand squeezed her cheeks tightly, forcing out a wince, slowly turning her head back to an upright position.

“Please” she whispered, crying through her tightly closed eyes, “Don’t hurt me?”

Pushing her head the vexed voice said “Well it’s apparent my presence is upsetting you.”

A figure stood up, towering over her modest frame. She tried to focus her eyes, but it was moving too fast to properly see. She knew the voice was male, but anything else about him was at best a guess. He walked over to the carriage door and slid it open, closing it three-quarters of the way behind. His footsteps quietly disappeared as he walked down the train’s carpeted hallway. Again she tried to sit up and again moved her head only a few inches. She performed a check of all her limbs. She had feeling over her body and could even wiggle her toes, but there was an eerie weight like she had never felt, binding her to the seat.

Tilting her head up, she saw an overcast sky out the rectangular window. Maybe, she thought, if she could lift her head a bit more she could at least see where she was. She made out just the top of a tree when she heard a woman scream, followed by a loud bang… followed by an unsettling silence. Living in the city she’s heard sounds like that at night, but never this close, and never when paralyzed.

Taking a deep breath in she tried to calm her nerves, exhaling slowly through her nose. The trembling in her chest caused an audible fluttering noise throughout the small room. Finding the courage to open her eyes she said, “Our Father… in Heaven, hallowed be…”

“Father?” spoke the voice, causing her to jerk.

Finally some movement from her body, but not what she expected. The man slid the door closed and walked towards the bench sitting opposite of her. He bent over in her direction, placing one hand behind his back.

“I was a father,” he said, standing slowly, then taking his seat in one fluid movement.

“I was a father…” he said to himself, emphasizing as he repeated.

“Are you a parent Dr. Dotson?” he asked, pointing his wet, crimson hand towards her.

“No,” he answered before she could speak, wiping the red substance on his thigh.

“No, you chose a career. Instead of having children, you decided to talk to them. Tell me, Dr. Dotson, how do you expect to give advice to a child when you yourself have no children?”

Turning her head sideways she was able for the first time to gaze upon her conversationist. His head, cocked to the right, was covered by a dark hood from his jacket. The outline of his eyes was visible, but no clear definition or color could be seen; the rest of his face was shrouded in shadow.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, teeth clenched. “Why can’t I move?”

“You can move Ellie,” he said smiling. “I saw you looking out the window a few moments ...”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!” she yelled.

“Now Dr. Dotson, I’m no professional, but I don’t think your outbursts are very appropriate.” the man said, standing to his feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously, eyes widening.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cylindrical object. It was the size of a cigar and made of glass. The plunger’s tip was silver and polished to a mirror’s finish. There was a dirty yellow liquid inside, filled one-quarter of the way.

“No no no,” she said, trying her hardest to sit up.

“I think you need to relax a bit.”

Forcing her head towards the back of the seat, he moved her brown hair to the side, exposing her neck. The skin was tight and had a red tint to it, caused by the strain of struggling. Lifting his knee he placed it on her shoulder, using his weight to minimize her moving about. He pushed the needle’s tip-in, penetrating to the hub.

“No, please… don’t.” she cried.

Pressing his thumb on the plunger, a burst of the mystery fluid rushed in, burning as it entered.

“Why are you... doing this? she wept, giving in to the power of the mixture.

He removed the needle, revealing a hole identical in appearance to the one adjacent to it. Placing the syringe back in his pocket he walked to the window, grabbing the cord to the blinds.

“I think a little peace and quiet will help,” he said, darkening the room.

“Please.” she cried, slurring her request.

Stopping at the doorway he turned his head over his right shoulder.

“It’s way too early to be pleading, Dr. Dotson.”

The sound of the door closing repeated in her ears. Every echo matched a trail from her lagging eyes. At any moment she would be gone. Was it poison? A sedative? All she knew was he was in control. Her eyes closed, too weighted to fight back. What would happen while she was out? More unanswered questions, but for now, sleep.

Her slumber brought no peace, as the hooded figure plagued every scene of her dreams; a faceless monster, hellbent on terrorizing the innocent. Throughout her marathon of nightmares, she heard the plea for help. At first, it was distant, like a voice carrying over a valley, but as the dream advanced it became boisterous, close.

“Please God, somebody help me!”

Opening her eyes it was apparent the cries were coming from the same room. After seeing the door was closed, she turned her head and looked at the floor. There, lying face down was a man. Folded and covering his legs was a black wheelchair. On his ribs, under each armpit was a smeared red handprint.

“Hello?” she said, urgency in her voice.

“You’re alive? Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead too.” the man said. “Can you help me get up?” he asked.

“I… I can’t move my…” she said, looking at her lifted hand.

The effects of the serum had worn off while she was asleep. Slowly she sat up, bracing herself with both arms. She slid her feet off of the bench onto the floor, stepping on the man’s foot.

“Sorry.” she apologized.

“For what?” he asked, trying to look behind to see.

“I stepped on your foot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I can’t feel my legs,” he said. “Could, could you help me?” he asked again.

She grabbed the back of the seat and tried to stand, shaking at the knees. Pushing off with her hand she was able to come to a fully upright position, steadying her footing. After standing upright she reached to her head, grabbing both sides and moaning from pain.

“Are you alright?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, releasing her head and bending down.

She lifted the chair, standing it on its wheels. Stepping over his torso she bent down and grabbed him under the arms. Quickly she pulled her hands back after seeing the red prints lined up perfectly with her own.

“Is everything ok?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” she said, slowly grabbing him again.

Strength was still lacking and she wasn’t able to get him fully turned to his back. After multiple attempts, she finally asked,

“I don’t know what to do.” looking for some kind of instruction.

“It’s ok. You need to turn my legs at the same time, otherwise, my upper body will keep turning back,” he said.

Reaching down she grabbed his right knee, her left hand still under his arm. In a jerking motion, she pulled hard toward herself, rolling him to his back. Sitting him up, she wrapped both arms around his chest, locking her fingers. Leaning back and taking short steps she pulled him against the bench.

“I don’t think I can get you in the chair, not right now,” she said through labored breathing, sitting next to him.

“It’s fine,” he said, straightening his legs with his hands, “I’m good here for a bit.”

“Patrick,” he said, looking in her direction.

“El…” she said, pausing, “I’m Brenda.”

Both of them rested their heads on the seat behind them, almost in unison. For a moment, the only sound was that of the steel wheels on the track below.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked.

Captive by emotions she put both hands to her eyes, sobbing uncontrollably. The man just sat there, saying nothing and letting her have a moment. After a minute or two she finally started to calm herself, wiping away her tears.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how I got on this train,” she said, wiping another stray tear. “I was at the station but hadn’t decided where to go. The next thing I know I wake up in this room with some sick bastard stabbing needles in my neck.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t call him names,” he whispered. “He could be listening. You don’t want to make him mad.”

“I don’t really care,” she whispered back, squinting slightly.

“You say that now,” he said, turning his head and looking into her eyes. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

Filled with an unease she straightened her back and fearfully gazed at the door. Pulling her legs to her chest she wrapped her arms around them, placing her cheek on her knees.

“What is out there?” she asked.

“Death,” he said with a heavy breath, staring off in front of him.

“Well why aren't you dead?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he said, looking at his wheelchair. “When he started firing my tire got stuck on the seat in front of me. I tried leaning over to get out of sight, but it didn’t help.”

Looking up at the ceiling he took a deep breath.

“He walked right by me,” he said, turning back in her direction.

“After he was done he moved on to the front car. I only heard one shot. I figured he killed the conductor when we started blowin’ through the stops. By the time I got my tire free he was standing right beside me.”

“Then what?” she asked. Now, her head had raised off of her lap and she was leaning in towards him.

“Nothing,” he said. “He just sat down and put his head against the window… Why are you still alive?” he asked “What did you do to get stabbed with needles?”

“Me?! I don’t even know that psycho. He’s probably some, pervert stalker.”

“You think he’s a stalker?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in doubt.

“He knew my name,” she said standing up, concern in her voice.

“Ok, so why you? Why now? Why not at your home?”

“I don’t have a home here, I live in the states,” she answered.

“Me too. Austin.”

“Jersey. What brought you to Italy?” she asked.

He reached into the front of his shirt and pulled out a golden crucifix, showing her.

“I’m Catholic. I thought, maybe if I went to Rome… I don’t know.”

He squeezed the necklace tight and gently placed it back in his shirt.

“How long have you been in it?” she asked.

“Nineteen years this Thursday,” he said, closing his eyes. “What about you? Why Italy?”

“Journey of self-discovery,” she said sitting down. “I’m a psychologist, I was a psychologist.” She crossed both legs under her and folded her hands in her lap.

“I found out I wasn’t very helpful.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“I hurt someone. Not directly, but… I guess that doesn’t matter.”

Looking down at his feet she asked, “What happened?”

Taking in a deep breath he said, “State champ senior year. I had lungs like Michael Phelps. No one could touch my breaststroke. I got a full-ride scholarship. Halfway through my freshman year, me and my best friend snuck into the pool with girls. Didn’t see the buoy line… jumped head first. I actually drowned. One of the girls was a lifeguard and she kept me going until the ambulance got there. The doctors said the compressions kept me alive but destroyed my vertebrae.”

“Oh my god,” she said, face filled with concern.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh… I’m sorry. No, that’s tragic. It's just… forget it.” she said, turning away from him.

“No, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I umm… I had a patient that I treated… he uhh… the same thing happened to him,” she said, tilting her head in disbelief.

“Really?”

“That’s the whole reason I’m here,” she said, standing up.

Walking over to the window she pushed her thumb and first finger into her eyes, blinking hard. She turned around and took a step forward.

“After his mother passed he started struggling in school. His dad was worried and talked him into seeing a therapist. I was the one he called.”

She walked over and sat down on the corner of the seat, rubbing her arms with her hands.

“I had just opened my own practice and he was my first client. He said he was angry about losing his mom and that she was the reason he swam. After she died he lost his passion for swimming and wanted to quit the team and try something else. He said he wanted to do drama club like his dad did. I told him that was foolish. I mean he had a full ride. I was still in debt from student loans” she said shrugging her shoulders, “And that was me talking, not me listening.”

Again she put her hands on her head and breathed in deep through her nose, exhaling through her mouth.

“Tell me what happened next.” the man said, looking intently at her.

“He took my advice. Instead of going to talk to his coach he had a late night practice with his teammates. He jumped in and hit the rope.”

“I bet that was hard on him.” the man said.

“Too hard,” she replied. “A month after he got out of the hospital he killed himself. The note by him said ‘You were wrong Dr. Dotson’.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, landing on the floor. She moved her foot over and wiped it away with her shoe.

“That poor boy is dead because of me. I failed him. So I closed my brand new practice, moved back in with my mom, and took a month's vacation to get away from it.”

“And here you are. What are the odds of that?” the man said letting out a single chuckle. He turned to look at her and said, “Sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “The odds are zero. The man doing this, he… he called me by name. He knew that I was a therapist and that I treated a young man.” she said bending down and grabbing his arm.

“I know who this guy is,” she said, turning to the window. “It’s that dead boy’s dad.”

“OWEN! HIS NAME IS OWEN!” the voice screamed, pushing her into the window and knocking her to the ground.

As she fell she hit the metal ledge of the window sill, cutting open her forehead. For a moment everything in the room was white again. Grabbing her head she pressed hard, trying to stop the blood from getting into her eyes. Looking up she saw Patrick's blurry figure standing over her.

"No..." she said, defeat in her voice.

Crawling away on her hands and knees, he walked towards her, kicking her in the side.

Her entire body came off the floor as he kicked. Every bit of breath was knocked out of her as she struggled to take one. She had never had a broken bone, but she was sure at least one rib was. Reaching down to hold her side she let go of her forehead, causing the cut to bleed down her face.

He grabbed a hold of her hair and pulled her across the room. It was only a few feet but it felt like miles. It was also at that moment reality stood still. Looking through her blood-soaked eyes she saw the man she had been a prisoner with lifting her up and throwing her into his wheelchair.

Lightheaded and writhing from her ribs, she started to fall forward. The man reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder.

“Oh no, you’re staying right there. I have something special planned for you.”

The man reached into the bag that was hanging on the back of the wheelchair and pulled out a handful of zip ties; one by one binding her feet to the chair's metal frame.

“There,” he said throwing the rest of the ties aside, “Now we can play.”

“Please… don’t… kill me” she begged, crying weakly.

“Me, kill you? No no. I’m not going to kill you.” he said, pulling a gun out of his pocket. “You are.”

Opening the chamber the man pulled out all but one bullet. After he closed it he placed his hand alongside it and gave it a hard spin. The sound of the chamber spinning sent chills down her spine, and caused her stomach to ache. After the weapon was primed and ready he placed it on the seat next to him.

“You’re sitting in Owen's chair, Dr. Dotson. I had to go out and buy this for him the day they sent him home. Every morning I had to pick up his lifeless body and put him in this. Feel it” he said, grabbing her hand and pressing it to the cold metal armrest.

“FEEL IT!” he screamed as she whimpered and looked away.

After taking a few deep breaths he began to regain his composure. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a cloth rag. Raising it to her head he wiped away some of the blood that had run down her chin.

“Every. Day. Every day my crippled son would ask me ‘Why?’, and every day I had to find the courage to tell him everything would be ok, knowing it was a lie. You turned me into a LIAR!” he shouted.

Throwing the rag to the ground he reached down and grabbed the gun in his left hand.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, tears running down both cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

"Yes, you are sorry," the man said, sliding the gun into her hand. Letting out a small sigh of releif as he slowly pulled the hammer back.

“All you had to do was tell him, everything would be ok,” he said, lifting her hand and gun to her head, “and my boy”

“No” she begged one last time, closing her eyes.

“Would still be here.”

Click. Flinching, the dry fire of the metal hammer caused a ringing sensation in her ear. Opening her eyes she saw a look of disappointment that quickly turned to a haunting grin.

“Well, Ellie… I mean Brenda, looks like you get another chance.”

Spinning the chamber again he put the gun back to her forehead.

“My Owen didn’t get another chance,” he said, pulling the hammer again.

“God… please,” she prayed, closing her eyes once more.

CHOO CHOO the train whistle blew, pulling into the station.

The man opened his eyes, seeing Ellie standing in front of the ticket counter; frustrated his thoughts were interupted.

“Dove stai andando?” the attendant asked.

“Umm… I don’t know what that means” said Ellie, giving an apologizing smile.

“He wants to know where to?” an old Italian man said, standing a few feet away.

“I don’t know,” she said looking at the screen behind the counter, “I can’t decide.”

Looking around she leaned in toward the glass and asked “Can I leave my bags here? I need to use the little girls room.”

“Che cosa?” the attendant asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“Ummm… bagno?” she said, pointing to the restrooms.

Following behind her, the man made his way through the crowd, staying at least ten feet back. Slowly he reached behind his head, pulling up a black hood. As she entered the bathroom he reached into his coat pocket, placing his hand on the syringe. She may not have a clue where she wanted to go he thought, but he knew a train ride she’d be dying to take.