reel.
"You don't move," the voice tells you. "We tape you. For your safety."
You speak as softly as you can. You fall back on long practice, times trying to say two calming words to Gwen when just the sound of your voice lit her into frenzy.
"I am a schoolteacher. My student ... misunderstood a joke of mine. I came to this city because —"
"Yes. We understand. Don't worry. We don't hurt you. We tape you. For safety. Short drive. Then you go home."
They wrap you like a mummy. They wind around and around you for half an hour. They tape right over your clothes, your hair, your ratty cotton blindfold. They leave just the crown of your head and a too-small sliver for your nose. With chops and shoves, they force you to kneel. But bound so tightly in this tape tourniquet, your knees can't bend.
They pummel you into a crate. The constriction bursts your arteries. You try to make some noise —the sound of refusal, of impossibility—through the tape. Nothing comes out but a muffled whimper. You can't fit in the box. You can't even tell them that you don't fit. Nothing but free fall into panic.
They put you in the crate and cover you. Your annihilation, your live burial. Several men try to lift the crate. The weight of a typical American in a box dismays them. You wish now that you had eaten the food, just to add injury to insult.
They trundle you down a flight of steps. Your skull caroms against the sides of the box. The foot of the crate crashes to the ground, splintering your ankles and knees. You hear the sounds of the street, snarling mopeds, vendors hawking and haggling. If you called out? A voice seeping out of a sealed coffin, gagged, muffled, a single smeared phoneme: the stunt would only seal your fate.
A little patience, and you'll walk past this spot again, tomorrow, seeing, free.
From the sound and the smashing and what little light comes in through the cracks, you sense what is happening. They place you into a recessed well in the floor of a van. You must be hanging down in the undercarriage, given the sound of the engine.
The road is a single pothole from here to Kuala Lumpur. Every pit hammers your bound body. They've taped your face too tightly. Between the exhaust fumes, the closed crate, and the triangle of opening they leave your nose, you asphyxiate. First nausea and lightheaded-ness, your head and eyes, pressed through a grater. Then a black throb pushes forward against the inside of your face. Blind animal frenzy scrabbles at the base of your brain, a creature trapped under a sheet of resealing ice. If you pass out now, you'll never wake up.
You kick against the sides of your coffin, to make them pull over. But tape turns your kicks into a wad of socks tossed into a hamper. Every agitation now sends your lungs deeper into deficit. You try to slow your racing heart by force of will. Drop your pulse into a hibernation that will outlast this endless ride.
The crate heats up, from the engine, the sun, the dry sand whipped up from the road. You fight for air, for a slice of sanity. The engine slows. Covered voices trade a few words. You sense a barricade, a checkpoint. You shout. Death by gunfire would be a blessing. But the engine roars back to life before more than a dull moan can escape your mouth. You force your taped knees against the lid of the box. With what strength remains, you manage to crack the seam. A gush of fresh air knifes into you. You shove your nose into the stream. It tastes like God in your nostrils.
The holy sliver of air keeps you alive until the van stops. A chorused confusion hauls you from the well. They tip you on end, and the shift crushes your legs under you. They hoist you to horizontal and pop the lid. Rough hands pull at your packaging. The tape tears your skin and hair as it rips off.
You fall to the ground, gasping. You lie still, sucking salvation into your lungs.
"You ... animal-fucking bastards ..."
"Not talk! No make noise!" Someone smashes you across the face.
"You don't move," the voice tells you. "We tape you. For your safety."
You speak as softly as you can. You fall back on long practice, times trying to say two calming words to Gwen when just the sound of your voice lit her into frenzy.
"I am a schoolteacher. My student ... misunderstood a joke of mine. I came to this city because —"
"Yes. We understand. Don't worry. We don't hurt you. We tape you. For safety. Short drive. Then you go home."
They wrap you like a mummy. They wind around and around you for half an hour. They tape right over your clothes, your hair, your ratty cotton blindfold. They leave just the crown of your head and a too-small sliver for your nose. With chops and shoves, they force you to kneel. But bound so tightly in this tape tourniquet, your knees can't bend.
They pummel you into a crate. The constriction bursts your arteries. You try to make some noise —the sound of refusal, of impossibility—through the tape. Nothing comes out but a muffled whimper. You can't fit in the box. You can't even tell them that you don't fit. Nothing but free fall into panic.
They put you in the crate and cover you. Your annihilation, your live burial. Several men try to lift the crate. The weight of a typical American in a box dismays them. You wish now that you had eaten the food, just to add injury to insult.
They trundle you down a flight of steps. Your skull caroms against the sides of the box. The foot of the crate crashes to the ground, splintering your ankles and knees. You hear the sounds of the street, snarling mopeds, vendors hawking and haggling. If you called out? A voice seeping out of a sealed coffin, gagged, muffled, a single smeared phoneme: the stunt would only seal your fate.
A little patience, and you'll walk past this spot again, tomorrow, seeing, free.
From the sound and the smashing and what little light comes in through the cracks, you sense what is happening. They place you into a recessed well in the floor of a van. You must be hanging down in the undercarriage, given the sound of the engine.
The road is a single pothole from here to Kuala Lumpur. Every pit hammers your bound body. They've taped your face too tightly. Between the exhaust fumes, the closed crate, and the triangle of opening they leave your nose, you asphyxiate. First nausea and lightheaded-ness, your head and eyes, pressed through a grater. Then a black throb pushes forward against the inside of your face. Blind animal frenzy scrabbles at the base of your brain, a creature trapped under a sheet of resealing ice. If you pass out now, you'll never wake up.
You kick against the sides of your coffin, to make them pull over. But tape turns your kicks into a wad of socks tossed into a hamper. Every agitation now sends your lungs deeper into deficit. You try to slow your racing heart by force of will. Drop your pulse into a hibernation that will outlast this endless ride.
The crate heats up, from the engine, the sun, the dry sand whipped up from the road. You fight for air, for a slice of sanity. The engine slows. Covered voices trade a few words. You sense a barricade, a checkpoint. You shout. Death by gunfire would be a blessing. But the engine roars back to life before more than a dull moan can escape your mouth. You force your taped knees against the lid of the box. With what strength remains, you manage to crack the seam. A gush of fresh air knifes into you. You shove your nose into the stream. It tastes like God in your nostrils.
The holy sliver of air keeps you alive until the van stops. A chorused confusion hauls you from the well. They tip you on end, and the shift crushes your legs under you. They hoist you to horizontal and pop the lid. Rough hands pull at your packaging. The tape tears your skin and hair as it rips off.
You fall to the ground, gasping. You lie still, sucking salvation into your lungs.
"You ... animal-fucking bastards ..."
"Not talk! No make noise!" Someone smashes you across the face.
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