Rule number 3: A sniff test a day keeps the doctor away, as well as the mortician.
As a self-proclaimed introvert, I thrive when I’m indoors. I live to curl up in a blanket burrito watching TV or cracking open a good book. Now don’t get me wrong, people are nice. Some of them are good for hanging around with, for a while. I just can’t seem to keep up with all their energy for long. I need time to recharge, then I need ample time to prepare myself to socialise again. Back when I had the choice, of course, I had my own group of friends I would meet up with occasionally. Every rendezvous would eventually spawn disaster and the inevitable promise that we’d never do that again. Then we did it again the next time. Always with a twist though; even unbridled chaos tends to get a little boring without some reins. Sometimes I think their collective hangover is the only reason we didn’t meet up more often. I miss that. Anyway, I’ve never been one to complain about an excuse to stay inside. But being confined to a cement box not much larger than a closet is driving me up the flipping wall! And it’s given me such a crick in the neck. I am ninety percent sure that I’m going to go crazy in here before I see the light of day again. The other ten percent is still weighing up my options. At this point I think I’d much rather be with Bobby. At least he gave me some attention.
Vehement rapping against the door cuts through my thoughts. And not the cool kind either. A heavy clunk reverberates through the room as the locking mechanism within the door is manipulated. The door creaks open slowly moments later and the room breathes in more of that sickly pale, yellow light. Rather than leap to my feet at the thought of freedom, I remain in my corner protecting my eyes from the harsh light. I’m not stupid enough to think anyone is here to help me.
“Are ye coming out or wot, princess?”
The words, blended with a heavy Scottish twang, are thrown into my cell. More emphasis is added to that last word than is needed, or appreciated for that matter.
Absent a reply, he calls out again, “I’m not against dragging ye outta there by the scruff of yer neck. So don’t test me.”
I struggle to my feet and reluctantly step out of the room to come face to face (well face to chest) with a modern-day frost giant blocking my view. He’s easily two heads taller than I am and built like a mountain. A bleached mountain with almost translucent skin and tributary-like veins converging and diverging up his thick arms beneath various tattoos. A swamp-green t-shirt attempts to cover his barrel chest but only serves to accentuate it even more. I have to crane my neck slightly to view his face which is partially obscured by a straw-coloured, braided beard falling to his chest. Certainly a look for the Apocalypse. From behind the shadow of a prominent, cliff’s edge of a forehead, a pair of bright blue orbs gaze back unblinkingly.
“Fuck me, the smell coming off ye. Even a homeless fella’s sweaty balls smell better than ye.”
He pinches his flat nose with a large, scarred hand to drive the point home. His hand is one digit short of a full set.
“Agh, I can taste it in the back of my throat and you’re not even bothered by it.” he says, mock gagging.
There’s a very simple reason for that: I can’t smell it. To be precise, I can’t smell anything at all. Unfortunate byproduct of a little skiing accident in Norway three years ago. There’s nothing like the feeling of scaling a snow covered hill and standing atop it, marvelling at how far you’ve come. And there’s certainly nothing like the panic and pure, liquid fear coursing through your blood as you veer off the slope without a method of slowing your descent. The same slope enclosed by a rapidly approaching thicket of trees. By some measure of good luck, and possibly divine intervention, I landed in a ditch. Alas, my unfortunate landing point happened to be my nose, breaking it in two places as well as severing the connections to the olfactory bulbs in my brain. The doctor, infinitely wise but utterly useless at the time, said I’d never be able to smell again. Food hasn’t tasted the same since.
The large Scotsman composes himself and takes out a piece of red fabric from one of the many compartments in his black cargo pants. A blindfold… kinky.
“Did you bring candles too?” I find myself asking before I can stop myself.
His stoic expression doesn’t change, but he motions me to turn around with his free hand. I take one last look at his towering figure. Looks wise, he’s about as handsome as a C-list movie star. If he heard me say that, I’m sure his muscled arms would probably snap me like a twig. Albeit a particularly unwilling twig. My eyes are particularly drawn to a tattoo of a surly-faced cupid armed with an assault rifle located just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. Clearly, another hopeless romantic.
“What, not even a smile? Where’s the excitement?” I recognize that I should probably stop talking, but given that I have nothing better to do I’ve elected to continue running my mouth.
“Mercs are like hookers, kid. Excitement costs extra.”
“You know what they say; do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” I remark as he slips the blindfold over my eyes and wraps it rather tight I have to say.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, a firm hand is placed on my right shoulder; four fingers in all. It clamps deep into my shoulder, enough to feel his short nails through my hoodie.
“Ease up on the handlebars there, chief.” He doesn’t. “Walk”, he commands. I do, begrudgingly. What choice do I have?
He’s quite good at giving directions. His conversational skills could use some polishing though. According to my internal clock, we’ve been walking for twenty minutes and taken three lefts and a right in that time. His grip never lessens in that time, much to my chagrin. Even worse is when we finally stop he chooses to tighten his grip rather than use his words like a rational adult. I yelp in pain, instantly reaching up with my left hand to soothe it only to be met with his own. His grip only marginally decreases. Without warning, he pushes me down calling for me to sit with a grunt. My knees buckle under the sudden pressure and before I know it I’m shoved into a seat. Shifting my butt around, I can conclude that I am seated in a leather chair. Strong, rough hands grab me by the arms and legs and proceed to strap me down to the chair’s armrests and legs, respectively. At the same time his presence on my shoulder eases and disappears. My shoulder continues to ache.
“First, a blindfold. Now, straps. Someone is really exploring new kinks.” I say through gritted teeth. I’m met with silence and the immense urge to scratch my nose. To be expected, of course.
Captain’s log, stardate…I think it might be a Tuesday? It’s been almost two hours since I was forcefully placed in this chair. Staving off boredom has been my biggest challenge during this time. For the first fifteen minutes I was trying to touch my nose with my tongue. No such luck just yet. The itch persists. Following that, I employed my own powers of musicality in singing my own renditions of the songs in my ApocalistTM. I spent quite some time expertly picking and choosing the songs that would be part of my perfect apocalypse playlist. The blindfold is ripped off my face right as I’m belting out the chorus of Duffy’s ‘Mercy’. The lyrics die down momentarily as my eyes focus on this room’s other inhabitant.
The boss stands across from me in a poorly lit room, examining me coolly. The only light in this room appears to be streaming from a flickering ceiling lamp directly above me. As such, I can only see about three meters in front of me. He’s wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw him. I guess the washing machines are still in working order. You may be wondering whether I continued with my song at this point. You bet your crooked ass I did: Mama didn’t raise no quitter. I finished it with a flourish.
“I really think you need to reevaluate how you treat your guests here, Vic. A glass of water would be nice right now, I’m quite parched.”
He approaches me with that same cocky swagger, flicking a switch-knife in his hand. I flinch noticeably with every click it makes as it extends to it’s full, sharpened length. He stops just in front of my feet and grins down at me. It’s a toothy grin with no malice in it, but no joy either. His teeth are an almost too perfect porcelain.
“You think you’re funny, don’tcha?” he asks, bringing the stainless steel blade to my face.
Well, not anymore I don’t. My eyes strain to follow its path as he allows it to flow across my clammy skin. He traces a path from my chin, to my cheek and finally below my eye without breaking skin and holds it there.
I swallow before I answer, “Humour is part of my defense mechanism, tried and tested. I was serious about the water though, if you don’t mind.”
He pulls back his hand and cackles. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. But you smell like a three day old skid mark.” He turns to an area that looks to me to only house shadows and roars, “Boys, our guest would like some water!” Moments later I am doused in cold, frigid water by two men whose features I can’t quite make out. I can’t be sure, but I presume this is what water-boarding feels like. Is there a rating less than one star?
Soaked to the skin and beginning to shiver in my seat, Victor continues talking. “Did you find our mutual friend?”
I shake my head dejectedly.
“I figured not. I’ve got something better for you. I thought it was a red herring at first but I think you’ll find that it’ll lead you where you need to go.”
He smiles. “Now your punishment,” he says, pointing down with the knife at my feet, where two metal clamps are attached to the mild steel legs of the chair. There’s a cable connecting them both to some apparatus behind me. My face blanches and my eyes widen. Here comes the real torture.
“You’ll get a kick out of this.” he promises.
Comments are closed