The Babysitter

There was only one rule.

“Don’t open the door,” she said, “While he’s asleep.”

You didn’t listen. Of course you didn’t. You never listen.

Now:

You want desperately to wipe the sweat droplet off your forehead, but as you raise your arm, you find it blocked by the leather strap.

It compresses your chest, abdomen, and ankles. You could kick and squirm and maybe loosen the binds, but you tried that two days ago. You barely have any strength left.

At least she wheeled you out of that little, dark room this morning. You thought you might suffocate in there. The duct tape is still plastered on quite well. Moving your lips around provides some relief, but you can still only breathe through your nostrils.

You hear her in there— sharpening something. Metal sings against metal.

You never listen. And that’s how you ended up here.

You found her ad online. You were suspicious, but you never listen. Not even to yourself.

“Babysitter needed ASAP! Will be out of town 10/14 - 10/28. Please respond if interested.”

You called her.

“Business trip in the mountains,” she said. “No reception,” she said. Awfully trusting for a mother, “And one more thing, don’t open the door while he’s asleep.”

You arrived at 9 PM, as instructed. He was already asleep.

You opened the door. You know why you did. There was no reason for you to lurk into his room and stand over him like that. No reason for that twisted look on your face.

She was gone with no reception, you thought.

Or, maybe you knew she was there watching you. Maybe you wanted to be caught. Maybe you deserve this.

And you wait in her trap. And you listen.

And metal keeps singing.