For Shits and Giggles [2024]

Chapter 27

Gracie wasn't sure how long it had been.

Her hands were tied behind her back, her body contorted into a fetal position. Gracie was stuffed into a wooden chest barely half her size. She had to breath slowly to give her ribs enough room to retract and expand. Camilo had dislocated both of her shoulders so that she would fit when he shut the padlock on the chest.

She could scream and cry and shout and still no one would find her, stuffed inside this small wooden chest, underneath a wooden bed, within a wooden cabin by the lake. Not that she would want to scream anyway; that would be a waste of valuable oxygen, and it was already hard to breath. Still, she was thankful for the foam lining on the bottom of the chest. She could lay her head almost comfortably and pretend she was back in her own bed. Until a sharp pain in her right shoulder broke through her body and suddenly she was back in a fetal position locked away.

It wasn't like this everyday. Camilo only locked her away when he had to leave the cabin. Sometimes it was to buy groceries or toilet paper, other times so no one back in town would get suspicious of him. He'd go for quick little visits, see some friends, and come right back to his beloved Gracie. In the beginning, he'd simply locked the doors and windows (from the outside) when he left on these errands. But after Gracie's second attempt to escape, he had to take more drastic measures to keep her locked away.

This time, however, it was different. He'd been gone for much longer than usual. After the second full day, she tried to kill herself. Just to test a theory. Would she by some magic wake up back in her bed? Without an inch to move, to even wiggle her toes, she could only think of one way to do it— bite her own tongue all the way through. She'd seen it in some movie once; a kid falling and accidentally biting off his own tongue, then bleeding out. The scene was comically bad, and she switched to another movie right after. She had completely forgotten about it until then.

Unlike the movie, her experience wasn't comical at all. It was excruciating, worse than her two dislocated shoulders. Gracie tried to shut her mouth, tried to let the blood pool so she could drown in it and speed up the process. But she couldn't, the pain was agonizing and she opened her mouth to scream. The blood exploded forward through her lips, painting the inside of the chest red. Eventually the pain, or maybe the bloodloss, finally knocked her unconscious. When she woke up again, she was still damned in the chest, with a sore tongue neatly reattached inside her mouth.

Gracie trembled at the thought of attempting this again, it was the worst pain she had ever felt. At least her shoulders were back in place. Her death had restored her entire body. It wasn't worth it, Gracie thought, her shoulders took up much more space inside the chest now.

After the fourth day, Gracie stopped trying to count. She died at least one more time during the next several days, of dehydration, she assumed. This was a good thing, she had finally stopped urinating on herself. The smell of her own piss, along with the sloppy, wet foam underneath her, provided their own unique torture. The days were hot, humid, and the smell of old piss singed her nose. She swallowed her throw up; puke and rancid piss was not a combination her psyche could handle. But it was a losing battle.

Each time she woke up, she wasn't sure if she'd fainted, died, or had simply drifted off into a dreamless sleep. All the same, she always regretted waking up. The possibility of forever dawned on her. If Camilo never came back, if she was never found, would she keep living and dying inside this small box for eternity? How long was eternity? The doubt creeped in, made her anxious. She suffered her first panic attack; she thrashed and she screamed and her heart pounded in her ears. She hyperventilated, negligently sucked in too much air with each breath. The more she tried to control her breathing, the worse it got, and this time she was sure she would die.

But Camilo did in fact return. Gracie was unconscious when he did. He threw open the top of the chest, immediately the stench hit his nose; piss, puke, blood, excrement. He fell back from the chest, turning to the side and emptying the contents of his stomach right onto the wooden floor. He wiped his mouth of his throw up, but another round came and he continued to puke until there was nothing left. Finally, he mustered the strength to approach the chest again.

With a grunt, Camilo pushed and toppled the chest onto it's side. Gracie spilled out, her skin warm and slimy, along with the rest of the human conction festering inside. He untied her hands quickly and lifted her, taking her into the bathroom and into the shower. There, he got inside with her still in his arms and let the cold water pour over them both fully clothed.

Gracie woke up to the fresh, clear water hitting her face. She couldn't open her eyes, but she lapped weakly with her tongue, desparetly trying to reach the water droplets rolling down her lips.

"I'm so sorry," Camilo was sobbing, undressing her underneath the shower stream. First he removed her shirt, then her bra, and dropped the soiled clothes outside of the bathtub. He held her naked chest against his own. "Please forgive me," he begged through tears, his fingers combing through her hair, "I didn't mean to leave you for so long... I didn't mean to."

He lathered her hair, her legs and entire body, held her in his arms until finally she could speak.

"H..Hungry," Gracie whispered, her voice raspy and dry. "I'm so... hungry."

After their shower, Camilo slipped her into a little, pink dress. He lay her down on the same bed she had just spent days underneath, locked in a tiny chest. He rested her head gently on the pillow, and excused himself to go make her clear soup—her stomach couldn't handle anything else.

As she ate, one shakly spoonful at a time, Camilo cleaned up the putrid mess still on the floor and filling the room.

"I tried to come back," he gripped the handle of the mop. "But Santiago... he was suspicious of me. That idiot. Followed me around everywhere I went. This is all his fault."

Gracie continued to lift the spoon to her mouth, her hand trembling violently. She licked her chapped lips before sipping on the warm broth again. They stung. She tried a chunk of chicken, but even chewing became exhausting after a few bites.

"Gracie, please," Camilo sat on the bed next to her, grabbing her wrists so that she would finally look at him. The spoon fell into the bowl, splashing them both. "Please, you have to believe me, I would have come back sooner... it was all his fault, please," he began to cry again. Camilo released her wrists and leaned forward to sob into her lap.

His words barely registered to her. All she could focus on was the spoon sitting inside her bowl. She grabbed it again and slowly, cautiously, lifted more soup to her lips. She ate like this, small sips at a time, Camilo sobbing in her lap, until finally, the bowl was empty.

"I want to go home..." she said, looking down at the empty bowl.

Camilo sat up, wiping snot and tears with the back of his forearm. "You are home sweetheart, this is where we live," he spoke gently.

"I miss Paola... and Fior," she was careful not to mention Santiago, even though he was who she wanted to see most. She knew Paloa wanted nothing to do with her anymore, let alone Fior. Paola had probably already told her.

"I know, darling, I know," he took her hands. "It must have been so lonely here, all by yourself. But I'm here now," he pulled her closer, hugged her. "I won't ever leave you again. I promise. I'll never leave."

Finally, she began to sob.