Don’t scream until they have run you over!
>> This story contains themes of gore and physical violence.
Dad parks the car at the side of Harrow country road and turns the headlights off. I’m in my mum’s old Guns N Roses white tee. It is kind of poetic in a way since I am named after the band’s lead vocalist. The t-shirt is dirty, torn and weirdly moist, not my first choice for my birthday outfit. But, I can’t do much about it, every villager has to do this ritual, the “bait-ening” (I came up with that name myself), on the night they turn eighteen.
Mom turns back; reaches out over her seat, and places her hand on my shoulder. “Axl darling, remember what we talked about,” she says with the utmost compassion she can express in that awkward position, “Don’t scream until they have run you over!”
Nodding next to her in the driver’s seat, Dad chimes in too, “Yes sweetie, making a sound beforehand might ruin the surprise for them, might even result in more of them showing up along with a lot more unwanted attention on us, on you, which will probably lead to them taking you away. We don’t want that now, do we?”
I shake off the compassionate yet captive grip on my shoulder and get out of the car; my arm is tingling. I cannot define if it’s the anticipation, the cold, or the fear causing this, but nevertheless, I exhale all of it out into the dark midnight air.
While we dwell in the final moments of stillness, the villagers are busy working. They drag a wrecked car to one side of the road and set it askew. Someone scrapes a rusty Rolls Royce, encouraging a series of shushes from the others. They have to be very careful and light-fingered right now as this is the tricky and precarious part of the preparation.
My gut feels deeply uneasy as I glance past them down the deserted road. The bushes on either side loom over, tickled by the wind. It is as if they are shivering as well, fearing for their lives. If it wasn’t my bait-ening I might have actually found it breathtaking.
Dad notices my trembling and there comes the compassionate but captive shoulder grip again, “I recall my first time, I was frightened too, you will be alright. Anyways, you don’t have to worry darling, you will have your cousin Saxon guiding you through this, he will be here any minute now.”
For your first time in this experience, a sibling or cousin does your bloodying; talks, walks and helps you through the ritual. I think he is coming, I see a tiny cherry glow in the dark pale moonlight, moving right towards me.
“It’s written right there on the box you know, smoking’s injurious to your health,” I said to the sleek silhouette.
“That’s the least of my problems, Rocket Queen,” he replies. He limps his way closer to us. Ruffling my hair he says, “You ready to get Knockin’ on Heaven’s door? You certainly look the part.”
“I think so,” I mumbled under my breath. I would usually be annoyed by his Guns N’ Roses song references while talking to me but it appears the fear of death supersedes the annoyance of familial name-based teasing.
“You will be fine, kid. There is no need for any worrying, let’s get you all bloodied up.”
I give my parents, who are holding hands and waving at me, one last glance. I then follow Saxon as he directs me in the direction of the damaged vehicles. I’m always surprised by how quickly he moves despite having a damaged leg. I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye as we walk. Above the knee, it’s normal, but his foot is sideways, and his shin is horribly twisted. It appears agonising.
“Sympathy For The Devil? It doesn’t hurt if that’s what you’re thinking, it isn’t all convenient but you know what I think? I don’t think that was intentional, they did not mean anything by it. It was just my flat luck and an accident, probably just bad driving. Can you imagine, they might even be feeling guilty about it?” he chuckled in his misty breath and raspy voice.
According to tradition, he has to become the bait tonight with me, but he doesn’t appear scared. Instead, he is a bouncing ball of eagerness, with excitement coming from his skin like steam from a kettle.
There is a metal pail next to one of the vans.
“Stoop down. It’ll be simpler,” he asserts unexpectedly and in utter seriousness.
The road scrapes roughly against my knees as I quietly comply. I’m wearing tattered and torn jeans so skin-tight that my leg can barely breathe, to the point it is almost numb. Saxon dips his hand into the metal pail, and it comes out dripping. He softly works it into my hair. My neck is splashed with cold drips, and I jump, stifling a shriek.
“Breathe,” he mutters. “Close your eyes and hold your breath.”
My throat tightens as he smears blood across the side of my face. It drips in small amounts down my neck and down my arms. He picks up the pail when he gets to my shirt and dumps it all over me, leaving me shivering and uneasy as if dozens of icicle-like insects are crawling across my skin. Even though I’m positive there isn’t any on my tongue, I can still taste the bitter, metallic flavour.
He asks me to stand up and hands me the pail with the slippery handle after he is finished. He then kneels down and gestures at himself.
“Me now,” he says monotonously.
I do as he says, covering him in blood till he appears to have been in a terrible accident. I can only feel the heat from Saxon’s torn-up leather jacket, and my cold hand as the night fades away. I suddenly realise that, among the wrecked automobiles, the forest bushes and the moon, we are alone. My parents and the other villagers have fled. But I can still feel their presence.
Saxon peeks up at the sky and says, “I think we should begin. Come with me.”
He leads me in the direction of the downward turn from the highway, and points to an area on the road. There is a broken car there, almost blocking half the road a couple of feet before it.
“Here.”
I lie down, placing my un-bloodied cheek on the uneven dambar. Saxon moves my arms and legs individually to get me to a position where I look and feel like a squashed bug.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he says, lying down somewhere near me. I can’t see him but Iam aware of his closeness to me.
Wishing me luck one last time, he recites “Don’t scream until they have run you over!”
And here begins the most dreadful part of being a bait, at least from what I’ve heard. The wait. It doesn’t last long as the bushes and the forest tremble again with anticipation. It feels like they are close. Mom said this was the best part, the part that changes you, the best birthday gift, the defining experience of your life.
There is a speck of light floating off in the distance. As it gets closer, it gets bigger before splitting in half. That is them. I hear the revving. I get chills to the bone. There is a voice in my head, screaming at me, telling me to get up and run away into dad’s arms. But I cannot move.
Instead, I loosen my limbs. Saxon told me it hurts less if you loosen your limbs while being run over. The approaching light shines brighter now, the moon has disappeared and so has my vision. It doesn’t matter if my eyes are open or closed, I can’t see anything. I can hear some tunes and hums coming from within the vehicle. I gulp as I shiver to the bone. I quickly close my mouth after noticing that my breath is misting. The car growls loudly, not appearing to change the speed whatsoever.
It isn’t slowing down!
They aren’t slowing down!
I start mentally chanting,
“Don’t scream until they have run you over!
Don’t scream until they have run you over!
Don’t scream until they have run you over!
Don’t scream until they-”
I Scream!
I let out a heart-wrenching wail, but I cut it short.
I’m not in any physical pain, but I am completely blinded by the headlights charging right through my retina. The car comes to a sudden halt, and I can feel the scorching hot engine assaulting my nose. Before my vision could recover, I hear from within the car a muffled voice — windows rolling down — a click — the car door opens — and a large thump of footsteps get closer but somehow stealthier. Through the blinding lights, I see a tall silhouette, rectangular broad shoulders and a top hat like a detective from the 90s. I get a whisk of sweat and stale cologne. He stoops lower, closer.
“Christ! Is that a kid? Did I hit you?” He looks more scared than I am. “Are you okay, child?”
The man starts to sit down to check up on me. I lay still as a stone, just like they taught me, shallow breaths, eyelids firmly shut. The light shines and burns through my eyelids, painting the insides orange. My skin is cold, colder than when I was bloodied. The terror, the numbness, the racing heart and a drying throat. Have I just ruined everything?
Saxon yells, “SHE BLEW IT! SHE SCREAMED! BAITS UN-HIT! FALL BACK! FALL BACK!”
On either side of the road, bushes and trees ruffle and sigh; footsteps emerge from all directions. I hear the grunting and gushing of several men. The man starts shouting, his hat falls on my foot. I can hear the car being hit, a glass breaking somewhere, the car door thuds, the man struggles, screams and wails into the cold, dark night. This mixes with wet muddy thumps, tearing of clothes and metal bendings to create enough noise to give me a headache.
A strong pair of hands grasp me from under my armpits, lifting me to my feet, “You can open your eyes now!”
Saxon turns me away, as I open my eyes, towards the village, at a calm, empty road but the noises and smells gushing from behind me suggest otherwise.
I struggle to get the words out of my arid throat, “Sorry, I just could not control the scream.”
“They might forgive you this time because it was your first and you cut it off before drawing any attention, but I will forever be disappointed. I took you to be stronger than this!”
“I want to know what they are doing”
“You’ll see, Axl’’ He gets closer and tightens his grip. He leans next to my ear and whispers, “But just don’t scream.”
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Writer: Sameep Shah
Editor: Tia Arora
