each knee, back straight, my belly soaring out like a plump, stuffed teddy bear.
Creak.
Creak, crack, closer.
Creak, crack, loud now.
Metal inserted, turning, seal broken, door opened.
No food.
“Stand.”
I stood.
“Come here.”
I went to my jailer. He put a paper grocery store bag over my head.
“Keep a hand on my shoulder, one on the railing. I didn’t tie the bag so you can watch your feet down the stairs. Now come on. And don’t ask any stupid, fucking questions.”
What the hell? You make me walk down stairs with my vision mostly obscured? What am I going to see at this point that would matter? Rephrase, what do you think I would see at this point that would matter? I know I would find an incalculable number of assets, perhaps a path to escape, but you don’t know I know that. Ape
.
“Yes, sir.”
So, as it was, I garnered no information about the world below the landing outside my jail cell, except that the stairs were wood with a faded middle from a missing runner. The floors on the lowest level were thin oak planks, and certainly scuffed, the varnish all but scraped off, from years of what looked like heavy use. We turned a few corners and entered a bright room. The light surged through the bag. He removed the bag.
“Here she is,” said my captor to my captor.
What is going on? What the hell? Am I losing my mind? There’s two of them. What?
“Well, brother, she looks perfectly healthy to me. She’ll fetch us a pretty penny,” said the duplicate of my captor to my captor.
Identical twins. This is a family business. Well dip me in molten metal and bronze me in this spot, my mouth agape
.
“Come, sit here, pleasant panther,” my twin captor said to me, gesturing with a femininely extended hand to a chair at an ornate dining room table. His nails were longer than a man’s nails should be. I noted his purple paisley scarf.
An odd sound eked through when the tinkling piano of Tchaikovsky met my ear, coming from a warbling record playeron a lace-doily-covered service hutch capping the end of the table. Mauve and green floral wallpaper busied the space into an outdated Victorian, the décor antiqued further with a dark and shiny dining set. This room’s veneer, almost black and densely waxed, with creepy roses on the wall. Twelve high-backed chairs with pink-flowered cushions surrounded the table. Casserole dishes steamed in the middle. The heat was cranked to hell.
“Pretty panther, pretty, pretty panther, come here, sit next to me. My name is Brad,” said Brad, said the twin. There was a nasal, high pitch to his sing-song voice. His long, tasseled scarf fluttered with his exaggerated movement.
So, this is Brad. Why is he calling me a panther? Brad must be the source of the scarf I gathered when I had the ultrasound
.
Brad and my captor were an exact match: same face, same hair, nose, eyes, mouth, same height, even same potbelly. The only difference: Brad was clean and crisp; my captor, soft and mangled.
I sat in the chair next to Brad. He placed his featherweight hand lightly on my elbow; it felt clammy even through the cloth.
I’m sure Brad limp wrists a loose handshake. Mother would hate him. “Never trust anyone who doesn’t have a firm grip on your hand,” she’d say. “And people who finger your fingers as a greeting have no spine, no substance, and no soul. You may, you must, dismiss them.”
He laid a large cell phone on the table, out of my reach.
“Brother, you didn’t say our precious panther was such a cool diva,” Brad said, as he placed a dinner roll on my plate, another in the toile.
I will obliterate these plates someday
.
“Brad, let’s just eat and get the girl back upstairs. I don’t understand why you insist on eating with these things. They’re as good as dead anyway,” says my so very uncouth captor.
“Tsk. Tsk. Brother, so gruff all the time,” Brad said and then looked at me. “So sorry, growling panther, he has no manners. Don’t mind
Creak.
Creak, crack, closer.
Creak, crack, loud now.
Metal inserted, turning, seal broken, door opened.
No food.
“Stand.”
I stood.
“Come here.”
I went to my jailer. He put a paper grocery store bag over my head.
“Keep a hand on my shoulder, one on the railing. I didn’t tie the bag so you can watch your feet down the stairs. Now come on. And don’t ask any stupid, fucking questions.”
What the hell? You make me walk down stairs with my vision mostly obscured? What am I going to see at this point that would matter? Rephrase, what do you think I would see at this point that would matter? I know I would find an incalculable number of assets, perhaps a path to escape, but you don’t know I know that. Ape
.
“Yes, sir.”
So, as it was, I garnered no information about the world below the landing outside my jail cell, except that the stairs were wood with a faded middle from a missing runner. The floors on the lowest level were thin oak planks, and certainly scuffed, the varnish all but scraped off, from years of what looked like heavy use. We turned a few corners and entered a bright room. The light surged through the bag. He removed the bag.
“Here she is,” said my captor to my captor.
What is going on? What the hell? Am I losing my mind? There’s two of them. What?
“Well, brother, she looks perfectly healthy to me. She’ll fetch us a pretty penny,” said the duplicate of my captor to my captor.
Identical twins. This is a family business. Well dip me in molten metal and bronze me in this spot, my mouth agape
.
“Come, sit here, pleasant panther,” my twin captor said to me, gesturing with a femininely extended hand to a chair at an ornate dining room table. His nails were longer than a man’s nails should be. I noted his purple paisley scarf.
An odd sound eked through when the tinkling piano of Tchaikovsky met my ear, coming from a warbling record playeron a lace-doily-covered service hutch capping the end of the table. Mauve and green floral wallpaper busied the space into an outdated Victorian, the décor antiqued further with a dark and shiny dining set. This room’s veneer, almost black and densely waxed, with creepy roses on the wall. Twelve high-backed chairs with pink-flowered cushions surrounded the table. Casserole dishes steamed in the middle. The heat was cranked to hell.
“Pretty panther, pretty, pretty panther, come here, sit next to me. My name is Brad,” said Brad, said the twin. There was a nasal, high pitch to his sing-song voice. His long, tasseled scarf fluttered with his exaggerated movement.
So, this is Brad. Why is he calling me a panther? Brad must be the source of the scarf I gathered when I had the ultrasound
.
Brad and my captor were an exact match: same face, same hair, nose, eyes, mouth, same height, even same potbelly. The only difference: Brad was clean and crisp; my captor, soft and mangled.
I sat in the chair next to Brad. He placed his featherweight hand lightly on my elbow; it felt clammy even through the cloth.
I’m sure Brad limp wrists a loose handshake. Mother would hate him. “Never trust anyone who doesn’t have a firm grip on your hand,” she’d say. “And people who finger your fingers as a greeting have no spine, no substance, and no soul. You may, you must, dismiss them.”
He laid a large cell phone on the table, out of my reach.
“Brother, you didn’t say our precious panther was such a cool diva,” Brad said, as he placed a dinner roll on my plate, another in the toile.
I will obliterate these plates someday
.
“Brad, let’s just eat and get the girl back upstairs. I don’t understand why you insist on eating with these things. They’re as good as dead anyway,” says my so very uncouth captor.
“Tsk. Tsk. Brother, so gruff all the time,” Brad said and then looked at me. “So sorry, growling panther, he has no manners. Don’t mind
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