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For All The Wrong Reasons	By : darqstar Category: G through L > House of 1000 Corpses Views: 4942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House of 1000 Corpses, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
CHAPTER WARNING: No sex, but some heavy implied violence. And a disgusting scupture.

Chapter Six

Risky Business

Some might think I was fortunate that Otis fell asleep that night. As for me, I'll always wonder if I was or not. It seemed that Otis' normal modus operandi was to tie his victims up until he got around to killing him, or they had the nerve to expire of injuries inflicted while Otis was having said fun. Yet, he hadn't tied me up. Maybe he was drunk? I had smelled alcohol on his breath. Perhaps he had been up late the night before, raping and killing the girl that I'd bounced off the bed, and was more tired than he thought? Maybe it was something in the air? No matter the reasons, the facts were that had fallen asleep on top of me and hadn't done anything to confine me.

I felt him shrink and fall out of me. I thought that might wake him up, but it didn't. His head was resting near my ear, and I could hear him wheezing slightly, his breath making my inner-ear itch. Even though he was really skinny, he seemed to get heavier with every passing moment. My knee was not in a comfortable position and I couldn't do anything to adjust it. The crying and talking I'd done tonight hadn't helped my thirst and it suddenly seemed like a million years ago that Tiny had delivered water to myself and my cage-mates. The way my head was turned, I could see the soda can on the desk. It was painfully reminding me that some things I'd been experiencing these last few days � headaches, muscle cramps and so on � were signs of moderate to severe dehydration.

I didn't dare move, for fear I'd wake him up and he'd be furious, but I did hope something else would wake him up. I remembered that Baby had been called from the bedroom to help with dinner and I hoped that maybe he'd be called for the evening meal . It seemed to be a pretty slim chance. Unless the family had been starting with a frozen turkey, dinner would have been ready awhile ago.

Just as I became convinced that he was going to stay on top of me all night, he made this sighing noise, and rolled off me. I exhaled slowly in relief. Before I could shift myself and get a bit more comfortable, he rolled onto his side, facing me, and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close.

I tried not to stiffen, tried not to whimper, as my knee was forced to move. I made myself act like a rag-doll, so he wouldn't wake up and be angry with me. I did roll to my side so my back was to him. He snuggled up to me, still sleeping.

Of all the things that had happened that night, as strange as it sounds, that was the weirdest. He'd smashed me in the face; he'd messed up my knee. He'd yelled at me, raped me, and humiliated me in ways I never could have dreamed up. Yet, in his sleep, he cuddled up to me like we were long-time lovers. I wanted to scream. I thought I would scream. I forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly, certain that a scream would escape at any moment.

Instead, I fell asleep.

**********

I don't think I slept very long, but I really have no way of knowing. It was still night when I woke up. Otis had rolled away from me and was facing the wall. I concentrated on not moving so that I wouldn't disturb him.

I was exhausted. Not just physically tired, but emotionally too. Too much had happened to me since the night my car ran out of gas. Human-beings reduced to cannibalistic savages; dead bodies treated with casual contempt, violence, insanity, and rape. If someone here were to offer me a handful of pills and a glass of water, I'd take them all and hope to die. But right after I had the thought, I regretted it. It reminded me of how very thirsty I was.

I thought about the can of soda on the desk and I believed that I might be able to get to it without Otis knowing about it. His breathing sounded deep and even, telling me he was deeply asleep.

I inched my way to the edge of the bed slowly. Every movement of my left leg sent pain shooting through it. Slowly, terrified I would make some type of noise, I sat up

The bed creaked.

I instantly froze, terrified Otis would wake up and ask me what the hell I was doing. I tried to listen, but, for a few seconds, my heart was racing so fast, it was all I could hear, its beating drowning out everything else.

Otis didn't wake up.

I forced myself to take some shallow breaths before swimming aroumd so that my legs were dangling off the bed. No problem for the right leg, of course. The left knee continued to let me know how pissed off it was by sending shooting pains through it. You know that feeling you get when you've had a limb fall asleep and it begins to wake up? The �pins and needles� feeling? Well, instead of �pins and needles�, imagine that it's knives and fishhooks, and that's close to what my knee was feeling like.

Using my hands and my right leg, I inched my way to the head of the bed, where I could use the headboard to help me rise to my feet. I dangled my left foot in the air to help reduce the pain and pressure to my knee, however, my left leg didn't seem to find much comfort in this effort to spare it.

Again, using the headboard, I lowered myself to the ground on my right knee, avoiding the corpse of the girl from earlier. Once I got to the floor, a little of my fear subsided. If Otis woke up right at that moment, I could claim that I'd fallen out of bed.

I hesitated - both to see if Otis would wake up, and to give my knee a rest. Otis's breathing didn't change, and my injured knee calmed down enough to risk moving ahead with my plan.

I figured out a way to half-crawl, half-drag myself around, using both my hands and my right leg. I wasn't going to win a race, but I figured I could get to the soda can. I made my way over to the desk. Pulling myself up as much as I could, I reached up and wrapped my fingers around the Coke can, bringing it to my mouth.

Even before it reached my lips, I knew it was empty. I still tried to drink from it, maybe there was a drop or two of liquid, but the can was very empty. I put it back on the desk, wanting to cry. Couldn't something � anything - go right for me? This crazy family wasn't likely to let me live another twenty-four hours, and would probably come up with a brutally painful way for me to die. Wasn't that enough? Did I also have to be so thirsty that it felt like someone had packed my throat with sand?

I wanted to sink into a deep pool of self-pity, and mourn my fate. I wondered if I laid down on the floor, if I could just will myself to die. Maybe there was a knife or a gun in the room; if I found it, could I kill myself?

Instead of pity, anger surged through me. There had to be something in this madman's room I could use to end my life, and I was determined to find it. I would not take any more of this � nor would I let that bastard, Otis, or that little bitch, Baby, or any of the other lunatics in this house, determine my fate. They might have doomed me to the hands of the grim reaper, but I would pick my time; I would deny them the satisfaction of taking my life. I would only let them discover my body. If they wanted to eat, fuck, or play �pin the tail on the Chunky Monkey� with my remains, I wouldn't care; I'd already be free.

I looked around the room, wondering where I should start my search. The desk I was in front of seemed the best place. I reached for the lower drawer, and then stopped.

My thirst was unbearable. My resolve began to waver; not because I strongly wanted to live, but because all I could focus on was getting something to drink.

I think it was my resignation to kill myself that caused me to become stupidly bold. The house seemed very quiet and it was dark outside, so I was certain that the occupants of the house were sleeping. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I could move enough to get out of this room and find something to drink. I wasn't sure if I could get down any stairs with my bad knee, but there could very well be a bathroom on this floor - and if I could find it, I could get some water. I would slake this terrible thirst, and return to this room able to think - able to find something I could use to take my life. As it was, I felt so weak that I wasn't sure I even had the strength to use a gun or a knife on myself.

Since I was planning on killing myself, I must have figured that it wouldn't matter if I got caught sneaking out of the room. I might die more painfully if caught, but I might also piss off whoever caught me so much so that they'd kill me in anger before they realized what they had done, and my death would be quick.

This was one of those situations that, regardless of the outcome, in my mind, victory was mine. A grim, gruesome victory to be certain, but a victory nonetheless. I started crawling across the room.

I was getting close to the door, when I noticed the curtain that Otis had been behind when Baby had brought me into this room. I remember him telling Baby that he was putting the final touches on something called �Katmandu�. I didn't figure that there was a bathroom behind that curtain, but, there might be another can of soda behind there, one that Otis hadn't finished. Or, maybe it would lead to a bathroom. It was worth a shot.

I crawled over to the curtain, pushed it aside, looked into the room, and gasped in shock.

The curtain separated Otis's �art studio� from his bedroom. Otis fancied himself an artist � a sculptor, actually. I was getting my first glimpse of his work, and discovering exactly what Katmandu was � I don't think Bob Seger had this in mind when he sang a song about �goin' to Katmandu�.

Otis's Katmandu was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen, who had been killed and turned into a grisly sculpture. From the neck down, his body had been carved and twisted to resemble a cat. What the carved body could not mimic in a cat's body had been supplemented with some type of sculpting material; it might have been papier-m�ch�, or clay, or even wood. I was not going to touch it to find out. Both the body and the sculpting material were painted white and orange, to resemble the markings on a tabby-cat. But the face was the worst; one eye had been removed, and, judging by the horrified look on the corpse, I was certain that it had been removed while he was still alive. It had been replaced by a large marble; the type that kids call a �shooter�. The marble had a pattern I recognized instantly; �cat's eye�. The mouth was open in an expression of pain and terror, and, resting on the tongue, was the missing eyeball.

I caught myself before I screamed and quickly jammed my hand in my mouth to keep me quiet. I inhaled several deep breaths through my nose to try and steady myself. There's nothing you can do for him, he's already dead. There's nothing you can do for him, he's already dead, I kept chanting to myself in an effort to calm myself down.

I looked around the studio and saw nothing that would sate my thirst. Not another can of soda, or even a bottle of beer. What I did see was a table that held an assortment of knives, an axe, a few hatchets, a hacksaw, and a couple of hammers. If Otis was an artist, I figured his first gallery show would be in the Ninth Circle of Hell. I debated whether or not I should try to grab a weapon from the table, but decided against it. There was no way I'd be able to fight off anyone, not in the condition I was in, and I had no way to hide a weapon for later, either. If those tools were to serve any purpose for me, it would be in killing myself � after I'd gotten something to drink.

I inched my way out of the studio, and let the curtain fall. I looked over to the bed to see if I'd done anything to wake up Otis. He was sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over his eyes as if he were trying to block the light from the lamp. 'Did you forget to turn off the light?' I thought. 'Or is the big, bad, Otis afraid of the dark?' My lips curled in a slight grin, causing them to crack. I knew, deep down inside, that Otis wasn't afraid of the dark, but thinking of him being afraid of anything helped strengthen my resolve.

His breathing was still steady and even. If he wasn't asleep, he was really good at faking it. I decided to take my chances and inched my way over to the door.

As I reached up for the handle, a vision of the door being locked flashed so vividly in my mind that I hesitated. I could almost see Otis waking up before me, sneaking over to the door and locking it with a key and then hiding the key, thinking this would be a fun game to play with me. �Let's see if she tries to leave and finds out she can't!�

My hand wavered, almost at the doorknob. The vision in my head seemed so real that I was convinced the door would be locked. I forced myself to reach out, grasp the knob, and slowly twist it.

Just because I was able to think it did not mean it would be so. Thoughts are just thoughts after all, even when they're bad ones. The knob twisted under my fingers, and I opened the door.

End of Chapter Six
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Author's Notes Uhm... Chapter Six is up. Again, now it's up to my beta readers before you get anymore. Thank you to the few people who took the time to let me know what they thought of this story. It means an awful lot to me.

If you've gotten this far, you must have formed an opinion about the story one way or another, why don't you let me know what it is?
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For All The Wrong Reasons

Chapter Six

Risky Business