Retribution

This useless vessel which was once my body, contains some semblance of what I used to be yet it hangs ineffective below my head, numb and lifeless, immobile perhaps due to cold or lack of movement; conceivably both. There's a change in the air, an icy nip not there a few short days ago. I know this because I can sense the goosebumps on my uncovered extremities, the change in the air that surrounds my motionless form. Days have gone by, days which travel into nights so very slowly; on dark wings of sooty cruelty. Nights with darkness so deep and inky black it smothers me, sitting on my face like a wet cloth, snug and clingy. Suffocating.

I stare at the door slightly to my right. It mocks me with its bright yellow, peeling paint. Staring hard at the doorknob willing it to turn and open, desperate to feel the glorious rays of sunshine on my rapidly chilling form. That door to the outside world teases me, not far from where I hang bound at the wrists; bound and immobile inside someone's old, garden shed. To my left is a small window, much too small to crawl out of were I even able to free myself, but through which I saw the transient glow of shining light; was it last night, the night before? My bewildered brain tries in vain to recall but time holds no meaning. Thought to be from a flashlight at first, but as my vision slowed its kaleidoscopic distortion I was able to make out what appeared to be flickering candlelight as if someone was holding a candle to the window to look inside. A someone who might have been my saviour if my addled brain had understood what my eyeballs had witnessed and informed my tongue to form words. Too late. The flickering disappeared, making me wonder if maybe I’d imagined it. Hoped for a moment someone might save me, but it was not to be, and still I hang despondent, dejected.

Despite it all, I try to be grateful. I try to remember what I have at this moment. My veins still buzz seemingly animated with the friction of pretend life, if nothing else. My eyes close and open, I am able to think, capable of reason, thought. Although only the creator knows how. My husband would have said sheer tenacity, and he might be right, I’m as stubborn as they come. At the thought of him, my last memories of freedom come rushing back. Playing across my puffy eyeballs like sunlight sparkles dancing on the surface of the lake; the lake I so long to still be sitting by, feeling that sparkling sun on my face. I close prickly eyelids in remembrance.

I had just left our lake cabin where I had been finishing up a draft of my latest book, stopped at the usual gas station before the highway for home, walked out of the washroom door, washroom key in hand, searching my purse for my car keys. A shadow blocked the sun and as I looked up, squinting I saw nothing but stars. Vague flashes of colour, the sound of a door sliding open, rough hands shoving, falling, more door noises, blinding pain in my head and then darkness until I woke up where I am now. Hanging, discarded like an old jacket.

A raspy chuckle bubbles up, falls out of my mouth as my distraught brain entertains the thought that I’m living something I myself could have written. I could be my very own main character. Continuing along this line of thought, it occurs to me that there must be a reason I ended up here. Wrong place, wrong time? Possibly. But were this my story, there would be signs leading up to the actual abduction. The villain would have made him or herself known long before, had there been any clues? Any indication that someone was plotting to cause me harm? Images of weekly fan letters, the odd one or two with the words cut out of magazines or newspapers popped up but were quickly forgotten. Nah. Too obvious. No one does that for real, too cliché. Right? Nothing else comes to mind, no clue, no red flags. Nothing does no matter how many times I reflect. No matter how many times I rehash, rethink. Try in vain to figure out what I could have done. Unless it wasn’t me. Unless I wasn’t the target. Maybe there wasn’t even a target and it was just a random act. A senseless random act of irrationality resulting in my being nabbed by a confused individual. Maybe it was just a case of my being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again, my brain comes full circle trying in vain to make sense of a senseless situation; around and around, on and on it goes. Until I think I may go insane. Unless I already have?

A sudden loud thud against the door scares me back to the present and I go rigid, sucking in my breath.

"Hey," booms a voice, "can you open the door?"

I’m struck mute; caught between the want to scream for help, or the need to be silent out of fear and self-preservation. So instead I stare at the yellow of the door which I now know to be locked; silence my insentient choice. The movement of shadow and light, the play of the two together captivates me as the being beyond moves at irregular, jerky intervals, staccato'ing the light. No longer inflexible, the voice pulls me toward it, toward the distorted slip of light, the hope of possible salvation.

"Come on, you can do it. I know you’re in there. Open the fuckin’ door!" His fists hammer the door, his heart hammers in his chest—the thud of life reverberates in my head. "Shit, they've heard me," he cries. Bang, bang, go his fists. "Can you hear me in there?" Thud, thud, goes his heart. "Open the fucking door!" Bang, bang. Thud, thud. His voice rises a bit with the gravity of his situation, and he kicks the door with a massive thud.

But wait…. how I can hear his heart hammering? Before I can discern anything, I’m propelled by a greater power, driven to pulling against the restraints with greater determination. A primal ache, a thirst greater than self-preservation, greater than anything explainable giving untenable strength to muscles where before only lifelessness resided, this time when I yank hard; this time, I can feel myself tear free from the wall. But my legs don't push me up and with my arms still tied together, the floor rushes to meet my face and I hit. No sound escapes my dry, parched lips as my face slams into the discarded screws and bits of broken wood and glass on the floor, puncturing the flesh of my right cheek and ear. I am solely focused on one thing only and don’t even notice.

I open my eyes, my vision clears I focus, my stare fixing on the door. The only way to get there is by crawling over the debris scattered over the dirt but without my hands and arms to help…still, I have to try. He could be the only living creature left in a world gone senseless. Low moans escaping my throat, I crawl toward the light, toward rescue, the paper-thin, dehydrated flesh being shredded from my torso and legs by the rubble yet I clamber still closer wanting to scream the whole time, but my vocal cords remain as fettered as my arms.

"Fuck sake! Enough already, I need in now!" shrieks the stranger. "Stand back."

Boom!

The sound of the gunshots thunder in my ears, two of them and then a thud as the stranger gives a final kick against the door. It flies open, missing my face by inches as the huge lock he shot off hits the wall behind me. The need in me to reach out, lift my arm and hand in the universal sign of help is virtually overwhelming as the sunlight from behind him reveals his outline to me. I keep going, trying to pull myself toward freedom using my shoulders and chin, trying to save myself. I pause to look behind me, see how I’m bound, how tight the knot is at my wrists and my eye catches a surreal sight on the wall which distracts me, puzzles me and I falter. I stop moving toward the stranger and the hope of freedom to concentrate on what exactly I’m seeing. My muddled brain resisting the sight. Not able to compute what it’s perceiving I drag my eyeballs back to the stranger’s face to see his reaction, but I must search through the red hue surrounding him. His eyes are wide and staring, an obscene grimace contorting his expression when he sees what my brain rejected---my arms still fastened to the wall. He comes closer, looming over me gripping the gun at his side with a shaking hand. Slowly raising it. "Fuck no, this ain't right. This just ain’t right."

From the back of my throat comes another rattling growl which this time grows into an inhuman yowl. Thin but rising in cadence. Urgency pushes away all other thoughts as I struggle to get closer, closer to the aroma emanating from his form. Nothing else matters.

The stranger continues speaking, shaking his head. "You tragic bitch, no wonder you ain’t openin’ the door." The barrel of his gun now aims at my face. He grimaces, "Judging by that dent in your skull someone musta beat you up but good before hanging you up in here. I’m gonna do you a favour and put one in your head. Send you straight to your maker."

My dry eyeballs slither from his face looking up and over his shoulder, noticing movement just outside the open doorway, my parched lips peel back in a sneer. Behind him, my rivals slowly meander toward and fill the doorway. The stranger hears and spins, shooting blindly, too widely, shouting obscenities, but there are far too many and his bullets far too few. He is knocked backward landing with a thud close to my waiting, drooling mouth, his flailing weak, his wailing screams ineffectual. Those from outside pile on tearing at his flesh, the melody of his shrieks makes our veins thrum harmoniously. The wet chomping noises of tearing tissue, the coppery smell of oozing blood, all goads me on and I inch closer. His glorious juices gushing, the fierce pulling and ripping of pulpy meat drives me into a frenzy as finally I get close enough to take my first bite. A fleeting memory stalls me, an impression of… could it possibly have been this stranger’s mouth smothering mine, stifling my screams? As if from a dream I recall my arms being wrenched over my head and my wrists catching on a low hook, a hand reaching up my shirt, the day he left me here to die. Him or someone like him, of this I feel overwhelmingly certain.

But it matters not now. Bloodlust overtakes me, I lower my face to his, teeth bared. I take my first bite from his cheek, tasting the saltiness of his sweaty skin mixed with the metallic taste of his blood. Insatiable mania driving me, I pull myself closer, his screams drowned out by the smacking and slurping of numerous mouths gorging. I set my sights on his neck, fastening my teeth onto his flesh, sinking them in as deep as I can. Readying to feel the hot, gushing stream of his lifeblood I yank and tear at his flesh. The spurt of warm, pumping body fluid greets my tongue, flows down my parched throat. His screams now a low, throaty gurgle as his life slowly drains away with every gulp and slurp of our hungry mouths. It tastes like so much retribution.