I am MeA Story by Rick It's dark in here. I AM ME By Rick Leach I am me... but I wasn't always me. Before I was brought here, I was someone, or maybe something, different. Before I was taken here, I was important. Before this, I took as I needed. I used without repercussion. I consumed. Before this, I was a different me. There's no clock here and I cannot see the sun or sky. Having lost the distinction between day and night long ago, I struggle to measure time, often failing to comprehend its passage. Time not only flies, it also crawls and, at times, comes to a standstill. We've all experienced this phenomenon... weekends that end in a flash or painful moments that last all too long. In many cases, I can no longer distinguish between them. I understand the amount of time it takes to cross the floor, to drink water or eat food but most of my time is spent in thought and sometimes I can’t tell the difference between minutes and hours. Lost in my mind, the transition from alertness to sleep before awakening again is so subtle, that I believe I've missed it many times " it's impossible to tell. There is no time anymore. There is just me... and the man. The world outside is no longer a part of my reality. I know it's still out there, somewhere beyond, or more likely above, these walls. I spend time with my memories, re-experiencing them, frequently embellishing them - they’ve become my books, my entertainment, my link to humanity and some are likely more fiction than reality, but perception is truth. Nostalgia is powerful, and often our most nostalgic and cherished memories are grossly exaggerated, glossed over and edited. It happens slowly, the slight changes going unnoticed until we’re left with a fabrication of the original truth, but it’s still our truth. I believe my memories to be mostly accurate, but memory is a tricky thing. The greatest deceiver of all, it is a fantastic creator of tales, self serving to a fault. There is no one here to contradict my memories, but I've learned not to fully trust them. There are conflicts and gaps everywhere. The air here is dank, weighed down with the darkness that it carries. It doesn't move, it just... exists. I sense its pressure on me, urging me to go so that it might take back the space that I occupy. Its space. Because I am here, it no longer fully fits and it’s ever so slightly pushing back. I can feel it. I can always feel it. I remember the air outside. This isn't air, this is something else. This is a foul, almost liquid mist crawling into my lungs and spilling from my mouth. It poisons me. It belongs in this hole. It is my unwilling salvation and patient executioner. It waits. I stopped waiting a long time ago. I just am. I continue. I was taken without warning. I was convicted without accusation or trial. I was sentenced to this. This nothingness. This purgatory. I have been here years. I don't know how many. There is no light and there is no way out. There is a shovel and there is a note. There are chains and there are two buckets… and, occasionally, there is the man. I am Thomas Upton, and this is my story... ***** My memory of the first few days (hours? weeks?) is hazy, to say the least. I had left my home in Windsor Groves, as I did every morning, at 6:30. I don’t recall the weather being anything notable, just a September day in west central Florida. It was a weekday, but I’m not certain of the particular day. I am, or was, a real estate developer, which just means that I owned a very big construction company. I built apartment complexes - the large ones, some with hundreds of units sprawling over acres of freshly cleared land, swimming pools, activity centers, playgrounds, fitness centers, tennis courts - higher end apartment homes with garages, high ceilings and fireplaces. I also built some commercial properties (retail and business locations). I was wealthy and getting wealthier. I was 39 years old, divorced with two children, Brittany (or Britt, she felt Brittany was too “girly” a name for her tomboyish ways) and Tommy. Brittany, was 14 and Tommy, 12. I’m no longer certain of their ages. It’s hard to remember the finer details of their faces. It frustrates and saddens me daily - it’ll only get worse. Their mother and I divorced when they were young - shortly after my company started to take off. We shared custody of the children. I was (am?), at times, a decent father, not great… probably not even good. Over the years, I became more and more obsessed with the business and I worked very hard, very often. Time was a commodity and I spent it frugally. I would often see them as I left in the mornings only to return home long after their days had ended. I was convinced that it was all for their well being, but I know better now. I was driven by a lifestyle. I enjoyed the notoriety that I thought came with expensive cars, fine watches, fancy homes and anything else that alerted the masses that I was wealthy. I was rich and I loved it. I played the part. My company employed several thousand people and contracted work out to many more. Things were rolling and I could easily have stepped away and entrusted the business end of things to the well qualified personnel that I had surrounded myself with - people that I trusted. The truth is, I enjoyed being on site, traveling to other projects around the country, being the visible and intimidating boss man. Like I said, I played the part. A forty thousand dollar Rolex is impressive, but not as impressive as wearing one while you’re swinging a hammer and not giving one damn about damaging it. Vanity was my vice. Sadly, it was not my only one. I considered the seven deadly sins a checklist. I lacked patience and was quick to anger. Over the years, I had let many quality employees go over minor mistakes or petty disagreements. Completing a project under budget was great, unless I felt like it wasn’t under budget enough. Goals weren’t meant to be met. They were to be exceeded. I wanted excellence and I had no empathy. The only thing more important than the quality of my work was profit. I wasn’t a bad boss, many of my employees lived very comfortable lives, but the comfort ended when the work day began. Those who understood this, and didn’t screw up, did well. Those who didn’t understand this, those that screwed up, and those that I just didn’t like found their way to unemployment. Quickly. My competitors didn’t fare much better. ***** Pangs of hunger wake me. I don’t know how long I was out. I haven't eaten in what feels like an unusually long time. Though I’m given enough to survive, it’s certainly not enough to feel satisfied. The feedings are inconsistent, never regular. My lower back protests as I crawl along the floor toward the buckets, the stone floor no match for my calloused knees. I can’t see them, so I feel for them. Sharp pains, like deep pinches, shoot through my weakened shoulders as I search for them. One is aluminum with a rounded handle that swings over top - a typical pail. The other is plastic and square, I believe it’s pink. It is for waste. I’m relieved to find it empty. This bucket is only emptied when food is brought in. I reach around feeling for the aluminum bucket. My left hand sweeps through it and it nearly tips. I steady it and pull it toward me. The pain in my stomach intensifies in anticipation of food. Carefully reaching my hand into the bucket, I feel for the sandwich. It’ll likely be a peanut butter sandwich, but every so often I’ll find deli meats. A plastic bottle of water, a small cafeteria size container of whole milk, and a bag with raw carrots and broccoli accompany the sandwich. I eat more quickly than I should and am rewarded with cramping in my gut. It will subside, it always does. I’ve learned that I can handle hunger far better than thirst. Thirst is more than a sensation. It’s a state of being, it is consuming and debilitating. Most people (myself included prior to this) who think they’re thirsty have no idea.The mouth, tongue and throat can become so dry they are sticky. It is a helpless feeling to be stuck between the beginning of a swallow and its end. It leaves you trying to will the reflex to happen, while your brain sits teetering on the edge of panic. Our throats need saliva to help complete the swallowing reflex. I have felt my body drying up. I have spent countless hours (maybe not?) imagining cold water running down my throat soaking into imaginary cracks in my dry and dust caked esophagus. I have stifled sobs for fear that crying might end this wretched existence. I have felt thirst and I’d rather starve. I never gulp the water and I never finish it. Small sips and save. It could be some time (or maybe not) before the next one arrives. The food tends to have a chalky texture to it. I think that pills, perhaps multi-vitamins, have been crushed and added to it. The taste changes somewhat when an illness leads to fever or cough… maybe antibiotics and a fever reducer. The man seems intent on keeping me alive, at least for now. I’ve long since stopped contemplating his motives as he has never chosen to express them. I’ve never heard his voice. I have only the note and its instructions are clear. Number 1. Welcome. This is your space. Keep it clean. I eat what I can before replacing the cap on the water bottle and twisting it tight. Typically, I will not save much food - more often none at all. The darkness makes locating the saved food difficult and missed scraps lead to insects, rot and illness. I make sure that the bucket is upright and that no pieces of food were left inside before placing it back in the area where I originally found it. Again, insects. I attempt to stand, sense a lack of cooperation from both knees and decide to crawl back to my corner. I feel safer in the corner, although I know this sense of security is false. I cannot see a thing. The darkness is nearly absolute. I will attempt some movement again later, as I cannot allow my body to completely break down. For now, I will close my eyes, think and let the food settle. Thought is now my only interaction, although it wasn’t always an escape for me. For a very long time, my mind was my first hell, this place was second. My mind’s voice was loud, chaotic and angry. It fired questions at me, concocted theories and devised plans. It screamed. It pleaded. It searched for answers knowing full well that, while answers may exist somewhere, they were not here. I’ve heard that there are several stages to grief. I’ve experienced them all in deafening silence. It’s difficult to describe the confusion that I initially felt… while it has subsided - it was never satisfied. I often hoped that I would experience some form of psychotic break, perhaps develop a second personality that I could talk to and be unaware of what “his” responses would be. Sadly, this did not happen. My body has certainly broken down and my will… well, that was defeated long ago, but I’m still fully in control of my mental faculties. Many would consider this a good thing - I am not one of them. I slowly drift into thoughts, captivated like a child in front of a television. ***** The driver’s door on my German made car closed not with a bang, but with a sound that was more like the connecting of two perfectly matched parts. A sound of quality. I rested my hands on the mahogany steering wheel, before turning the car on. I backed out of my garage, turning the car ninety degrees to the left so that I could continue forward down the long driveway, toward the gate at the entrance to the property. My home rests centered on fourteen acres of land, meticulously landscaped with not one square foot left unattended. It’s a three story monstrosity, with a large wrap around porch. You could host parties on this porch… but then you’d miss out on the good stuff. I’d remained a bachelor after my divorce and took enjoyment in building and furnishing this twelve thousand square foot palace. The main residence was obscene. The front doors, a masterpiece of cherry and glass, weighed in at an impressive 400 pounds and led to a foyer which offered four options. To the left was a massive room with several seating arrangements and two ridiculously large stone fireplaces, one at each end of the rectangular space. There were no rooms above this. The ceiling, half wood and half glass, soared 28 feet above the Macassar ebony floors. It was a hall. A string quartet nestled in one of the corners would not be intrusive to conversation. This was a large room. To the right of the foyer, a more intimate dining area, tastefully furnished with dark woods and seating for eight. The walls hosted original works by Italian artists that I had never heard of, but that’s not saying much. There was a third fireplace, this one smaller than the two inferno caves in the large room, centered on the east wall. Speakers, built into the walls, barely noticeable to the eye of anyone that didn’t know they were there, piped in soft music. The lighting was subtle. The room had the ambiance of a pricey restaurant. A door in the far left corner led to the kitchen. I didn’t spend much time here, but I certainly spared no expense. Stainless steel appliances sat within sprawling sections of granite countertops. A center island was home to an eight burner glass top induction range with three ovens beneath, one of them brick. A large stainless steel hood loomed over the range just waiting for a purpose. I didn’t cook often. The kitchen was equipped with a large double door refrigerator, a separate freezer, enough cookware to occupy all the burners and ovens, a walk in pantry, thirty cabinets, twenty four drawers, two sinks, a dishwasher, a closet for the stoneware and bone china sets and serving pieces, and even a two hundred square foot wine cellar. I don’t drink wine… but I’ve got plenty. I’m told I have a nice collection, something about particular years, and maybe the word vintage - I just nod and sign the checks. A door at the rear of the kitchen led to a small parking area, allowing easy access for caterers. The only thing lacking in this kitchen, was typically food. In the center of the foyer, a large staircase leads to the second and third floors which contained an eleven hundred square foot home theater with custom leather theater seating and cutting edge audio and video technology, the master bedroom and bath and Tommy and Britt’s bedrooms. There were also 4 guest rooms each with private baths, a library, my office, a game room with pool table, a separate TV room and a gym. Behind the staircase, a hallway led to an atrium (yeah, an atrium) with ten foot glass doors that opened to the patio and stone lined swimming pool and spa. Everything was top of the line. There was a small grilling area on one side of the patio with a stainless steel grill, refrigerator, sink and prep table. A console on the wall controlled the outdoor sound system and LED pool lighting system. Beyond the pool, to the left of the main residence stood a two story, four car garage. The garage housed an American made truck, two Italian sportscars and my German made sedan. Large red tool chests lined the walls. The second story contained a one thousand square foot hobby shop, which I have yet to use. Should a hobby present itself, I’m prepared. The far east corner of the property was occupied by a modestly sized guest residence. This was built specifically for guests that I simply couldn’t tolerate for more than a few minutes at a time. Brown nosers, name droppers, smokers and those with questionable hygiene often found themselves fortunate to get their own place. Still, it was well appointed and they didn’t know any better. A second gate allowed access to a private driveway for the guest house. The property also featured a tennis court, basketball court and indoor racquetball court. Much of the far west portion of the land was covered by a pond which I kept stocked with bass and trout. Turns out fishing in a stocked pond is something like hunting a deer that’s been duct taped to a tree… and drugged for good measure. Heading north up the winding street away from my home, I pass by my closest neighbor - nearly a quarter mile away. I’ve never met them and I have no idea who they are. Their property isn’t bad, but it’s not up to my standards. I frown at the subpar landscaping as I continue toward civilization. There are no other cars on the road, but that isn’t out of the ordinary. Typically, the only traffic is residents and service vehicles. Ahead, the road banks sharply to the right and continues another mile before reaching the highway ramp. My tires grip the road tightly as I head into the curve, accelerating at the halfway point to sixty miles per hour so that I could power through the second half. I didn’t have much time to brake when I saw the car stopped just ahead of me. The intrusion took me by surprise and I quickly pressed the brake with force and adjusted my path so that I crossed the double yellow line in an attempt to avoid the vehicle. Fortunately, no other cars were headed my way. I missed the motorist by a wide margin and came to a stop about fifty feet beyond him. I glanced into my rearview mirror. The car sat half in the dirt and half in the street, its hood up. It was an old car and it appeared to be in poor repair. I could make out the shape of a driver sitting inside, but I could not pick up any telling features to lend clues to age, size, etc. I paused. Instinct (or just poor manners) removed my right foot from the brake and sent it toward the accelerator before I paused again. My car crept forward another few feet before I applied the brake a second time. Simon & Garfunkel played softly on my radio and, for the moment, produced the only sounds that I could hear. “...and the people bowed and prayed, to the neon god they made. And the sign flashed out its warning… and the words that it was forming. And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls.” A quick glance at my watch ended with a smirk as I reminded myself that I don’t have to be anywhere at any time and that I was free to assist. With that, I pressed the accelerator hard, drove away and did not look back. “...and whispered in the sound of silence.” ***** The crystalline ringing of a bell brought reality crashing back and my heart immediately began pounding. I sprang from my corner, every muscle, tendon, joint and bone wailing in protest, but fortunately none failed. This place forms a misshapen “L” with the larger section being roughly 9 paces long and 5 paces wide. At one end a small nook extends about 3 paces beyond the wall. It’s less than one pace wide. Most of this place has a stone floor, the exception being the nook and the last two paces of the length before reaching the nook. The floor here was dirt… cold and damp. I have performed this procedure many times, too many to count, but it still haunts me. I hate the nook. I hate it with all my being. It’s not even the chains that bother me. It’s the feeling of certainty that this is where I die. The bell signals me that he is entering. He doesn’t always use the bell and I’ve never quite figured out how he enters while I’m asleep. He has never woken me. When I hear the bell, I am to immediately go to the nook, put the chains on my wrists and ankles and wait. I am not to speak. I am not to move. I follow these rules without fail. At least I do now. More often than not, these visits last only a few minutes. I feel for the chains, grab one and start with the ankles. Within seconds, I have them on each ankle and each wrist. The chains are heavy with iron loops that clamp over my limbs and lock into place. They’re tight. They’re roughly four feet long and attach to a metal plate bolted to the wall. It’s solid. I’ve heard no other sounds since the bell, but I know it’s just a matter of seconds. I position myself in the dirt as comfortably as possible so as not to move when he is here. I don’t want to create any rattling of the chains. Comfort is relative and my perception of comfort sits somewhere around mildly painful. I haven’t sat on a sofa in years, I have not touched a mattress, nor a chair. No blanket to warm me, no pillow for my head. Like an animal, the ground is my chair, my bed, my world. Stone or dirt. Those are my choices. There was a period, seemingly months, that I thought I would go mad from discomfort. No position offered relief. Standing, sitting, stretched or curled in a fetal position. Nothing brought relief. Eventually, my body adjusted enough that my thoughts no longer dwelled on it. Several seconds (minutes?) passed after I settled before I hear the familiar scuffling sounds, followed by footsteps. My eyes are closed, not that it matters, and I listen. More footsteps, pauses and the sound of a throat clearing. The man does not speak to me, ever. After all this time, I haven’t a single clue to his identity nor his relationship to me, if any, prior to my incarceration. I have no idea if I am a random victim or if this is somehow retribution for some wrong perpetrated on him by me. I’ve made many enemies along the way - mostly business related, but I can’t imagine what could possibly be deserving of this punishment, this torture, this time. I open my eyes and stare into the darkness. They say that if you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back. It doesn’t stare back. It consumes you. You are taken in by it and become part of it.The void swirls in front of me, all around me. It’s palpable. Though I know that there are walls and a floor (and a man) in front of me or near me, I cannot see them. Just blackness. It extends far deeper than I know this place can physically contain. It’s eternal and it’s all around me. It is my universe in a nutshell. I am but a consciousness in chains. I hear nothing from the man. Sometimes, I’m certain that I can feel his breath on me. I can feel him inches from me. I want to reach out, to grab, just to confirm the suspicion but the note is clear and I’ve learned that he means business. Number 3. Do not try to touch me. The keys rattle as they fly briefly through the air. I am prepared. It no longer startles me when they hit my chest and fall into my lap. I can feel the tension start to dissipate from my body, as I listen for the sound of him leaving. Scuff, scuff, pause… he’s still on the dirt. Scuff, step, step, step, pause… now the stone. There’s a thud and a creaking noise that I’ve become familiar with. A rope tied to a beam? Maybe, but there aren’t any visible beams. The ceiling is too high (at least nine feet) to reach with my hands, but I’ve seen it before. No beams, just stone. Silence. He’s gone. There are two keys on the ring, one for the wrists and one for the ankles. I fumble around in the darkness until I’m able to unlatch first my wrists and then my feet. Free again. I crawl out from the nook and around the corner until I reach stone. I attempt to stand again, think better of it and crawl slowly to my corner. After five crawling steps, I reach out with my hand to feel for the wall. Experience has taught me that my hand is a far better wall locator than my head. My anticipation grows as I begin searching my corner. His reasons for visiting are often unknown to me, but every so often he leaves a fla... The familiar feeling of a cold metal cylinder touches my hand, the flashlight. If I had to guess, I’d say that every few months he leaves this flashlight in my corner. I’m not sure if it’s to keep my eyesight in check or just to remind me what this pit looks like. I turn the flashlight on and sweep the beam through the room. The dim light is still painful to my eyes and the adjustment period is lengthy. Blurry objects start to take shape as I glance around. A third bucket, it’s my lucky day. This bucket sometimes accompanies the flashlight. It’ll be filled with soapy water and a rag. There will likely be a pair of scissors, a disposable razor and a mirror as well. Personal grooming comes less frequently than the flashlight. I’m a filthy, rotting mess. The beam dims slightly and I slide the switch toward me, cutting the power. I can do much of this in the dark. He always uses near dead batteries in the flashlight, so that I get maybe an hour of lighting before it’s done. There were no instructions regarding the flashlight and grooming supplies in the note, but a process has taken form and I stick to it. The man will be back in a few hours. I will leave the flashlight, scissors, razor and mirror next to the wash bucket, filled with what will be filthy water and the rag. I’ve often considered the possibility of using the scissors against him, but I have no idea of his age, strength or even size. I would imagine that he is armed. Perhaps a gun, maybe a knife… he wouldn’t need much. I have no idea. I do know that I am weak, stiff and undernourished. It would most certainly be a losing battle. The bucket sits in the corner opposite “my” corner, but on this end of the room (opposite the dirt and nook area). It’s only a few crawl steps away, but I attempt to stand again. My body creaks as I raise myself upright, but it holds. My legs are wobbly and unsure, a strong spell of dizziness hits and I reach for the wall to steady myself. It passes. Holding the flashlight in my right hand, I push the switch away from me illuminating the floor. Blurriness again, I try to focus my vision and I can feel my eyes straining to comply. This will be a headache later. Once my vision is somewhat usable, I turn the flashlight on myself and inspect my hands, arms, legs and torso. I have scrapes and cuts everywhere, but nothing appears infected. I’m absolutely filthy. I’m clothed in nothing but tattered shorts. I have a shirt, but I prefer to keep it off and use it as a blanket when I try to sleep. There is a thin layer of dirt everywhere, I’ll have to scrub hard. I recoil slightly at the sight of my now thin and flabby body. I was not a large man prior to being here, but I was muscular and in very good shape. Carefully, I crouch down and reach for the mirror. My face… dear god, my face. I have to look away. I do not recognize the man in the mirror. That isn’t a man in the mirror. That isn’t my face. My grip on the flashlight strengthens as a wave of fear sweeps through me. I’ve become all too familiar with this feeling, terror mixed with adrenaline as the full reality of my situation breaks through the mental walls that I’ve built slowly over my time here. Please pass. Dread sets in… I take a deep breath, the ribs on my left side aching from an unseen injury. Please pass. Still dread. I want to die. My eyes catch the shovel leaning against the wall as this thought crosses my mind. I shut off the flashlight and collapse against the wall. I’m not ready to die. I’m ok. I’m ok. Deep breath. Another. Another. Another. Another. It’s passing. My shoulders relax, my heartbeat starts to slow. Flashlight on. My face is harrowed. My eyes set impossibly deep in their sockets. My cheeks sunken in. My lips cracked and thin, my teeth yellowed, several missing. There’s a scraggly, patchy beard covering most of my face. What skin I saw was caked with streaks of dirt. A trail of dried blood stretched from my nose across the right side of my face and upward toward my eye. I must have had a nosebleed in my sleep. My hair was long. It hung in thick clumps framing my gaunt features. I am pale. I look like death. I took a quick look at my body again, making mental notes as to the places that needed the most attention. Basically, all of it. I stood again, this time more confidently, and walked to the other end of the room and picked up the plastic waste bucket, then returned. I reached for the scissors first, turned off the flashlight and began cutting the hair from my head. The thick hard clumps actually cracked as the blade cut through them, as though I was cutting twigs. The sound disgusted me and I had to fight back a wave of nausea. I was careful to try and get all of the clippings into the waste bucket. I would do a cleanup once I’ve finished to get anything that I missed. Once my hair felt sufficiently short, I put my hand into the water bucket. The feeling was amazing and I imagined how it would feel to submerge my entire body into a bath. I have to stop thinking like this, it serves no good purpose. I feel for the rag and remove it from the soapy water. I remove my shorts, and start scrubbing. I do this standing, starting with my head and face and continuing downward. I stop at the ankles, lean against the wall and wait to dry. The cool, thick air felt exhilarating on my skin but I worried that it’s stench would stick to me. Once dry enough, I sat back down with my legs crossed and washed the foot that was resting on top of its opposite thigh, keeping it in this position until it dried, then the other. I decide to forego the shave as razor burn, itchiness and the potential for cuts outweigh the benefits of a smooth face. The thought of shaving with what is now certainly muddied water was not appealing. I felt around and located the flashlight, turned it on and found the mirror. Again, I waited for my eyes to adjust before looking into it. There was a marked improvement, but still a sorry sight. Subpar landscaping… oh, the irony. I ran the beam of light over my body and took a small amount of pride in having done a decent job of removing all the dirt and blood from my limbs, chest and midsection. I imagine my back isn’t as good, but I’ll live with it. The hair in the waste bucket resembled a rat’s nest. I stood and relieved myself in the bucket, enjoying the ease with which one can urinate when one can see. It’s the little things. I placed the razor, scissors and mirror next to the bucket of filthy water and then returned the waste bucket to its appropriate place. It didn’t catch my eye until I had turned back toward my corner and swept the flashlight across the room. It leaned, rolled up, against the wall just behind the shovel.. It was easy to miss. I directed the light to it and paused while my eyes adjusted. I froze. My neck instinctively pushed my head forward as though the extra two inches would confirm what my brain was telling me. There, perched up against the wall, was a newspaper. I haven’t uttered a vocal word in what was likely years. Some grunts, sighs, coughs, the rare chuckle when I thought of something amusing… but not one single word. When you only have yourself to converse with, it’s much easier to think. I had no use for words. When he was here, it was strictly forbidden, per the note. There was a time when I spoke often. I would sing to myself, talk to myself, but then I stopped. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened. What came out were two syllables that resembled “oh, s**t”. I stood frozen, my mind trying to come to terms with what it was seeing. A newspaper. Was it a gift? Why is it here? What do I do? Why aren’t my legs moving? I snapped out of my daze and unnecessarily lunged toward the paper. Every part of me jerked forward with the exception of my feet. The fall was quick and the pain sharp. I landed on my left arm and elbow, at the exact spot where the dirt and stone met. The flashlight skitted across the floor, bouncing and throwing light throughout the room, creating a sense of chaos where none existed, before going out. I could feel warmth as blood trickled down my forearm. “Chhshit!” I cried again, this time slightly closer to the actual word. My vocal chords expressed their displeasure at the lack of notice. The pain in my previously sore ribs and arm was intense, but I put all of my weight onto my left knee and launched myself after the flashlight. It was not where I landed. I could feel more blood dripping, this time from my knee. Time was not the issue. I would find it... but the newspaper! I had to get the light back on it. I did not want the paper out of my sight until I could get to it. I was torn between the flashlight and the paper. I paused and tried to calm myself. My body ached, my elbow screamed. The darkness began it’s swirling motion. Deep breath. Find the flashlight. What if the batteries fell out… what if it is broken? More panic. Deep breath. I crawled on hands and knees feeling everywhere in my path. Nothing. It bounced in the direction of my corner, but it could’ve rolled off after the light went out. I started to work toward the other corner when my hand brushed against something. I snatched at it as though it might try to elude capture. It was the flashlight. Please work. I sat momentarily and considered the ramifications of a broken flashlight. Would the man give me another? Would he leave the newspaper? My thumb found the switch and slowly pushed it forward. It didn’t move. Chhshit, I thought and let out an exasperated half laugh and half groan. The switch was still in the on position. I quickly slid it back to the off position and immediately back to on. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Holding the flashlight in my right hand, I slapped it into my left and a beam of light shot out of it just as I sent it flying toward the wall. I knocked it right out of my own hand. “S**t!!” I spit out the curse and dove toward it. I hadn’t even left my feet when it hit the wall and shut off again. My arms instinctively went to my face as I landed hard on the stone floor, directly on top of the flashlight. I wrestled with myself for control of it, like a linebacker trying to secure a fumble. Rolling onto my back, I pointed the flashlight straight up while pushing the switch forward. The ceiling. I can see the ceiling. Holding the flashlight with both hands, I rolled onto my side and managed to get onto my knees without the use of either hand. I scanned the wall for the shovel, found it and found the newspaper. Walking slowly on my knees, I moved toward it. I actually felt a small amount of surprise when my hand closed over the paper, as though it being a figment of my imagination was just as likely as it being real. I held it close to my chest and half limped, half collapsed into my corner. The paper was rolled and bound with a rubber band. Instinctively, my mind searched for a purpose for the rubber band that could add some form of ease or comfort to my situation. I found none. I removed it and placed it on the floor to my left, taking note of where I left it. Carefully, I unrolled the newspaper. It was a copy of the St. Petersburg Times, the daily newspaper from the gulf city just a short drive from my home. There was a circle drawn in pen around the date. Above the circle, the word “yesterday” was neatly written in block style letters. It was underlined twice. I put the paper down and fought back tears. They were unexpected and I’m not entirely certain as to the emotion that caused them. Learning the day and date was emotional. Realizing that I had been here six years was something else entirely. “Tuesday”, I said aloud and so it was. It was Tuesday. To my own surprise, I shut off the flashlight to conserve power and let that sink in. It’s Tuesday. I still have no idea whether it’s day or night, but d****t, it’s Tuesday. A smile crept onto my face, opening a crack on my lip that stung a bit. My ribs, elbow and knee took this opportunity to remind that they, too were still aching, stinging and bleeding. I sighed and turned the flashlight back on and did a quick inspection of the damage. There was blood all over one arm and one leg. A soft push on my side told me that I might have cracked a rib - hopefully it’s just a bruise, although even a bruised rib would make sleeping and moving extremely difficult for the next few weeks. I returned my attention to my new prized possession, deciding that I would ponder the man’s reasons for leaving it later, when the flashlight no longer worked. I wanted every opportunity to scour this trove of information. The headline meant little to me. We’ve got a new president, never heard of him. He’s in China. Good for him. Returning home tomorrow… fantastic. Another article beneath the fold discussed the approval of East Lake Road being widened, a project that is expected to take two years. It’s about time. Long overdue. That road was a rush hour mess six years ago. A quick wave of sadness ripped through me as my brain had yet to fully consider that amount of time. Six years. Well over two thousand days. In my reality, it was (is) one long individual span of time, not two thousand days neatly broken up into nights and days, weeks and months, sleep and rise, workdays and weekends, holidays and seasons, over and over. I forced the thoughts away, I would have plenty of time to consider this. I flipped through to the second page. Some political stuff, some crime, typical news. I saw the headline at the top of page three, but I had to read it a second time before it began to click. EX-WIFE OF MISSING MILLIONAIRE DIES IN I-275 CRASH Cat? Catherine!? A crushing, hollow sensation overtook my entire body. I read it a third time, not wanting to read the type below the headline for fear of confirmation. It became hard to breathe. My mind searched for a way to convince myself that I was mistaken. With dread looming, I read on… A two car crash on I-275 late Sunday night seriously injured one driver and claimed the life of another. Catherine Upton was driving north on interstate 275 in Tampa when she was struck head on by an as of yet unidentified driver heading south in the northbound lanes. Witnesses say that the late model Honda was driving erratically while heading in the wrong direction in the center lane of the northbound side, when he swerved into the left lane hitting Upton’s SUV head on. Ms. Upton, 42, was declared dead at the scene. The driver of the Honda was airlifted to Tampa General Hospital where he remains in critical condition. He has not been identified and officials had no comment when asked if alcohol played any role in the accident, citing an ongoing investigation. Ms. Upton is the former wife of Thomas Upton, the millionaire real estate developer who mysteriously disappeared under suspicious circumstances six years ago. No arrests were ever made in the Upton case. He was declared legally dead. His case was featured on several unsolved mystery documentaries. Ms. Upton was never considered a suspect in his disappearance. ***** The highway traffic was fairly light for this time in the morning and I cruised along smoothly, weaving between slower drivers. The sun was making it’s way up in the eastern sky, clearing the tree line and creating a glare on the windshield, the visor doing little to help. I signaled and moved one lane to the right as I approached a split off with the left two lanes heading toward Orlando and the right toward Tampa and St. Petersburg. I could see dark clouds just to the south and I recalled the weather report predicting a rainy morning as a front passed through. I fiddled with the temperature settings, frustrated that I was having trouble finding a comfortable spot. Martin Foster, a popular morning radio host in Tampa was pleading for an end to duck face pictures. I’m not sure how we got here, but I’m on board. An aroma of hazelnut coffee fills the car, and I reach for my cup when my cellphone rings. I check the screen, it’s my assistant Lorna. Lorna Frances Kowalski is a short bulldog of a woman in her mid sixties who could drink any 250 pound man under the table. She’s brash, quick tempered, loud and has a two pack a day habit. She is also the second most important person in my company. By my side for twelve years, Lorna makes important all the things that I do not. She keeps me on time, in the right place and armed with the correct information. If it has anything to do with me or this company, Lorna knows about it. No one reports to Lorna, but everyone reports to Lorna… and with respect. She is always up to speed on permitting, finances, human resources, contracting, purchasing, inspections, payroll. Despite having no construction experience, she is well versed in building codes and materials. If something going on with the company might need to fall on my ears, then it definitely falls on hers. I pay her better than the executives. I make this company successful. Lorna makes me successful. “Morning Lorna.” “Hey boss, where are you?” She huffed, her voice coming through the car’s audio system. “We’ve got the Berkley people due in about half an hour”. I check my Rolex, it’s 7:15. “I’m about ten minutes out. I had to stop and help a guy who broke down on my street, lost a few minutes”, I lied. “Liar” she said, ending the call. The radio kicked back in with Martin Foster’s attention having shifted to an intern’s yoga pants. The Berkley people were in from St. Louis and we were in the thick of hammering out a deal for 14 apartment communities in Missouri. Lorna was convinced that we could close them this morning after tweaking a few minor points in the proposal. James Berkley owned a very successful investment company and we had worked with him before on several occasions. All positive. Though Jim wasn’t in attendance, I recognized two of the three names representing him that Lorna forwarded to me. They were good old construction guys wearing suits. The third name on the list was one James Berkley III, the young grandson of Jim and recent graduate of Stanford University. There’s nothing like a young kid, carrying the weight of his family name, with something to prove. Hopefully this is a tag along and not some rite of passage trip for him. I’m in the leftmost lane when I see the sign announcing my exit is one mile ahead. I hit the signal upward and quickly cut across two lanes before pausing to check my mirrors. The right clears and I take that lane with half a mile to spare. My phone rings again, I accidentally answer it without checking the caller. “What is it, Lorna?” I ask impatiently. “Tom? It’s me, Cat.” “Hey Cat, sorry I thought you were Lorna.” I signaled right and took the exit for route 14A. The ramp is a single lane that merges onto the three lane main road. The driver in front me is going a little slow for my taste, and I creep up on the back of his car and do my best to look irritated in case he checks his rearview mirror. Finally merged, I swing to the left without signaling and accelerate alongside of him, shooting him a disapproving look before continuing on. Catherine Upton and I were married for almost ten years, she is the mother of my children and a fantastic human being. She was out of my league - a stunning beauty with the heart of a saint. We divorced when Britt was 7 and Tommy 4. The divorce was her choice, but I didn’t leave her any other option. She remarried a few years later and remains so to this day. “How is Lorna?” She asked, not getting to the point of the call. The timer on the pedestrian signal at the upcoming intersection ticked from 5 to 4… 3… “Frightening” I replied. 2… 1… 0. I gave the car more gas, I’m not going to make it. The lights turned yellow. The car in front of me began to brake. A quick mirror check and I jerked the car into the center lane and floored it. Yellow… yellow… yellow… red. I blew through the intersection and the red light. I scanned my rearview mirror, no cops. “Go easy on her, Tom”, she laughed lightly and paused. “How are you?” I didn’t have time for chit chat. The Berkley deal was a big one and would keep revenue rolling in for at least the next few years. I needed focus, not small talk. “I’m good” I sighed, “what’s up?”. Picking up on my impatience, Cat got to the point. “It’s Tommy,” she said. “He’s having some issues at school and I was hoping we could talk about it. Honestly, I was hoping you could take some time with him and see what’s going on.” She trailed off, waiting for my input. “Today?!.. Cat…” I paused, feeling the frustration at this distraction building. She didn’t say today, and I had fifteen more minutes of driving before I got to the office. “Tell me what happened.” “His grades have really slipped this term, he’s failing two classes and when I try to talk to him about it he just gets frustrated and walks away telling me that I wouldn’t understand. He won’t tell me what I wouldn’t understand. Maybe you can get him to talk about it?” She paused before continuing, “and he got into a fight yesterday at school.” “Is he ok?” “He’s fine, but the other kid has some bruises and a bloody nose. Tom, the other kid is 11 years old. Tommy is going to be 13 in a few months. This can’t happen. He could get himself into a lot of trouble and he could hurt someone.” I could tell she was a little exasperated. “I’ll talk to him, Cat… but it’ll have to be later.” “Later today?” “I don’t know, Cat… Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow but I’ll get to it. Boys fight.” That was a mistake. I regretted saying it instantly. “Tom, we can’t be ok with our son being a bully.” Her voice was cool and forced. She was disappointed in my lack of urgency. “Ok, ok. Listen, I’ve got a hectic day today. I’ll call him when I get a few minutes.” I glanced at the time, I’m in good shape but I won’t have any time to prepare. I hope Lorna is on her game. “You’ll call when you get a few minutes? Tom! I need you to step in here.” Her voice rose with each word. She sighed, “I’ll just have Trevor talk to him after school.” “Bring him to my office after school. Three o’clock. I’ll sit down with him. Listen, Cat, I’ve really got to go.” “You’ll talk to him?” She asked, sounding unconvinced. “I’ll talk to him. 3 o’clock. Send a message to Lorna. Gotta go.” With that I disconnected the call. I’ve got nothing against Trevor, I’m sure he’s a fine stepfather but he doesn’t understand my children and the world that they come from. He can’t relate to them. Trevor is the general manager at one of the local grocery store chains. I make sure that Cat and the children are well provided for and his income is unnecessary, but I’ve often wondered when he’d decide that it’s time for an early retirement living off my dime. I met Catherine Stetson when her father hired me to build an addition onto the back of his house. Her mother was unexpectedly pregnant with their fourth child and they needed another room for a nursery. I had just turned 21 years old. I had skipped college, opting instead for construction work. I liked working with my hands. I had a full time job with a small local construction company during the week, and I had my own “company” on the weekends, it was mostly odd jobs and handyman stuff to start. Catherine was 18 at the time and she spent the majority of the next few weekends watching me build the room, handing me tools as I needed them and asking a multitude of construction questions (she really wasn’t that interested). I milked the job to the point that her father was becoming irritated. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get the job done, I just wanted to drag it out as long as possible. I looked forward to talking with her and I didn’t want the job to end. It was obvious that she liked me (I hadn’t yet become an a*****e) and I liked her. When I could no longer stretch the job out, I asked her for a date. She said yes and we were soon inseparable. If I wasn’t working, I was with Catherine. It took a good year to win her father over, his opinion of me lessened by my intentional slowness on the nursery, but he finally came around. We were married another year later and couldn’t have been happier. We had dreams of raising a family… typical white picket fence stuff, though we thought it best to wait awhile until our financial future was more stable. Britt was born two years later. It was all downhill from there. Not that it was Britt’s fault, not at all. I became obsessed with landing contracts, making money. I not only wanted to keep up with the Jones’s, I had to surpass them. All of them. I was rarely home, I drank often and I had a couple indiscretions. Cat had her suspicions, but I had never been caught. They didn’t mean anything to me, but I’m on the road all the time and I drank a lot. Cat did everything she could to keep the family intact. She was a wonderful mother to Britt and never let our troubles show to friends or family. She suffered in silence. My shortcomings were not a symptom of displeasure with my wife. The only thing more important to me than Cat was my ego… and it was inflating. After weathering a particularly rough patch, Cat became pregnant with Tommy and things calmed down for a couple years. The business was really picking up and I still worked long hours, but I had managed to cut back on the booze and philandering. It didn’t last long. The death of our marriage started after I missed Tommy’s third birthday. I wasn’t working, I was delayed on a fishing trip. Things went sour and the drinking picked up again and I no longer cared to be faithful. She gave me two chances that year to get my act together. Our divorce was finalized just prior to Tommy’s fourth birthday. I missed that one, too. The divorce was uncontested, I did not try to minimize the financial impact. I gave Cat more than any court would ever order me to give and as my business grew, so did the checks that I handed her. I did not fight Cat when it came to custody of the children and she did not attempt to limit my time with them. The divorce was painful but amicable. It was a bruise to my ego. I spent the next seven years tending to that bruise. I was five minutes from my office waiting at a red light when the phone rang a third time. This time I checked. It was Lorna again. I let the voicemail take it, I’m almost there. The red left arrow light changed to green and I made the turn onto Frankford Drive. The street is lined with restaurants, shops, plazas and bars. It’s mostly new construction with several of the locations built by my company including the Westfell Plaza, Shakee’s, Mick’s Steakhouse and The Penguin Farm (a children and family game center I built for a nice Brazilian couple), Tommy had been completely consumed by that place for several years. He had their t-shirts, toys and hats all featuring their oversized mascot, Penpen the Penguin. Lorna, not one to give in easily, attempted to reach me again. A lengthy sigh was followed by a curse or two before I decided to hit the accept button. That’s when the truck hit me. ***** “It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage…” - Robert Frost My ribs, elbow and knee no longer ached or stung. My muscles and joints no longer felt stiff. My body, no longer tired. Catherine. My Cat. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling from the outer corner of the left. It comes in a wave, adrenaline does. It’s not instantaneous. The wave can be felt spreading through your chest and out to your limbs. It happens quickly, but you can feel it. It’s warm, very warm. The waves here are big and they are crashing. Pounding. I can hear them. I can taste their salt. My muscles tensed. I didn’t notice the blood coming from my mouth until it dripped down onto the paper I had spread out in front of me. I had bitten into my lip, hard. The salty, iron-like taste of blood filled my mouth and I bit down again. More blood dripped onto the paper. I began to shake. I buried my teeth into my wounded lip and gnashed them. There was little pain, but more blood. Each drop hitting the paper and instantly spreading through its sparse fibers until it could hold no more, then pooling. The drip became steadier. My hands, palm down on the paper, clenched, my ragged nails pointed straight down tearing through the paper and scratching the stone beneath. My Cat. I’m so sorry. baby. I thrust my hands apart, ripping the paper crookedly but completely from top to bottom. My back arched and I rose up on my toes, legs spread, chest out, arms falling behind me. I screamed. Enraged, I spun to face the stone wall behind me flinging my right arm, still holding it’s half of the paper, from my backside up over shoulder height and forward like a pitcher letting loose a fastball. My hand was still clenched as I smashed it, palm side first, into the wall. The pain was there somewhere, but it did not register anywhere close to the frenzied fury that shot through me. I drew my arm back and launched at the wall again, hitting it with everything I had, and then again. Then my left hand, and again. Faster. The dim and dying glow from the flashlight threw crazed shadows throughout the room. A drop of blood landed on its plastic lens, distorting the shadows. The paper, spattered with blood, shredded with each blow to the stone. The walls were streaked in crimson and small bits of skin. I became aware of the screams that filled the room, I did not realize that I had continued screaming. I did not care. I cursed the wall. I cursed the man. Leaving clumps of bloodied, pulpy paper at my feet I stumbled away from the wall, my hands a broken mess. I sprinted across the room and kicked the plastic waste bucket sending it into the pail and flinging hair and urine onto the floor and wall. I picked up the metal pail and began pounding it against the wall, my hands somehow still able to grip. The adrenaline continued unabated, fueling my wrath. My mind’s voice, willed into submission years ago urged me, pushed me, screaming louder than my own voice. I called to the man, I shrieked for him. With every clang of the metal pail, I called him out. He did not kill Catherine, but he stole her from me, he took my time with her away. He took what was mine. Mine! I tossed the metal pail against the opposite wall. The third pail remained, filled with filthy and muddied water. I jumped toward it, my legs as strong as I have ever felt them. I grabbed its handle and, in one motion, sent it flying toward the dirt end of the room. It left a trail of water as it flew through the air, bouncing in the dirt before banging up against the far wall. I grabbed at my own hair and pulled with all my strength. Releasing, I searched for something to destroy… to obliterate. The flashlight was closest and I grabbed for it. Somewhere inside my mind a thought floated to the surface, warning me against breaking the flashlight… but I would not listen, I was not in charge. Primal, raw emotion was in charge, chemicals buried deep inside my brain were fueling the rampage. I began ramming the flashlight into the wall at shoulder height. The cover and lens did not survive the first blow. The light did not survive the second. In complete blackness, I continued. A sickening crack sounded from my right hand, but I did not stop. I could not stop. My mind focused all its hatred, all its misery, all its years of tortured stifled cries and I howled. I drew back again. The bell rang with a considerable amount of authority, not it’s typical three or four slow rings. Then silence, and another burst of rings. I stopped. My chest heaved as my lungs fought to provide the oxygen that my body needed. My heart pounded in my ears. The darkness had a reddish hue to it and rings of purple pulsated in my eyes. The silence continued, though it buzzed loudly in my burning ears. An ache slowly started in my hands and I dropped the battered flashlight. My head dropped for a moment and I focused on my shallow breath. I was not done. I crouched, picked up the flashlight casing and threw it into the darkness. I screamed to him to come to me. I roared. “Come in here!”, I wailed. “Come in here, b*****d! Come in here now!” I dropped to my knees and screamed it over and over. “Come in here!”, I sobbed it… “come in here!” The adrenaline faded and exhaustion was soon to follow. I bent over at the waist and let my head fall to the ground, taking some of the weight off of my knees. I wrapped my arms around my head and sobbed, “Cat...no!” I heard the creak. Fear, defiance, exhaustion and anger each made their case as the dominant emotion. He’s here. I am not in the nook. I am not chained. We are two men, alone and unbound in the same room and I was crouched, on my knees, unprepared. My thoughts raced. My mind filled with jumbled choices, decisions, actions. I did not move. Where is he? I strained to listen. Still, just the buzzing in my ears. No other sounds. Decide, d****t. Do something… but what? It doesn’t matter, just do something. My mind searched for the best option, though I was skeptical of its ability to do so. Then I remembered… The scissors. I hadn’t touched them, had I? They’re still in the corner with the mirror and razor. Not allowing myself to dwell on this choice, I sprang from my crouched position reaching my battered and bloodied arm toward the spot that I imagined the corner was. My hand, now pulsing with intense pain managed to spread its fingers preparing to clutch. My chest landed flat on the ground and I felt as though I bounced slightly, my hand initially touching nothing but stone. After the slight bounce (more of a slide), I felt a handle. It was plastic. It was the mirror. I was in the right spot. I shot my left hand forward and swept frantically with both hands searching for the scissors. Luck was with me, I found them. It hurt to grasp them in my swelling hand, but grasp them I did, tightly. I rocked my body forward and upward, like a jerky violent sit up and lashed out blindly with the pointy blade. Closed, the scissors weren’t going to slice. I had to stab instead. I rocked forward further, up onto my knees and thrust the scissors forward, to the left, the right, upward. The purple rings began to reappear in my vision. My weapon found no target. I started to stand when a jarring, blinding white light of pain flashed through my head. I felt my face and neck jerk violently to the right. The purple rings became a kaleidoscope of colors and the pain was instant. I hadn’t realized that I was falling until my face hit the stone. The scissors were no longer in my hand, I didn’t notice dropping them. I heard him grunt. Step, step… pause. I waited for the kill to come. I thought I imagined the light that suddenly filled the room until I saw the lantern placed directly in front of my eyes. I could see his boots and lower legs, clothed in what appeared to be jeans. I small pool of blood was forming on the ground in front of my eyes. My thoughts scrambled and I had trouble focusing. Was I passing out? I heard a clang and saw the shovel bounce on the ground slightly behind the man. He had hit me with the shovel. Damn. I should’ve gone for the shovel. I tried to turn my head to look upwards, but staying conscious was a struggle. The man stepped to his right, bent over and I felt his hands clamp around my ankle. I have not been touched since being taken. Not for years. Though I was aware that he was not inflicting pain, my body involuntarily spasmed as the sensation rippled through me. A tickling feeling was the last thing I expected. I was flat on the ground, chest down, head turned to the side. He began to drag me. My hands and arms which had come to rest parallel to my body began to catch the stone and my elbows bent as my arms worked their way up, so that they would be the trailing part of my body. I groaned as I registered new definitions of pain, as the damage from my tirade took full hold of me. The adrenaline was completely gone and I was left with the aftermath of the storm, the pain. It ached, it burned, it spasmed, it stung, it ebbed from horrible to excruciating and then to levels that I can not put words to. It left me struggling to breathe as each new stab of exquisite and unfiltered agony caused my breath to catch. In the lantern’s light, I could see the trail of blood that I was leaving as I was dragged the length of the room. So much blood. I was faint and I wished for the darkness. I felt the transition from stone to dirt and the man shifted direction, still pulling from just the one ankle. He was strong. I was broken. He had dragged me into the nook. He didn’t so much drop my leg to the ground, he threw it. I could hear him breathing, there was anger in his breath. I broke the rules and I was being dealt with. Number 9. Do not attempt to injure yourself. I broke so many rules. Screw your rules. The chains rattled and my mind told me to protest. Do not let him put those chains on you! I had no fight left in me, there was only exhaustion and pain. There was no part of my body that I could move without amplifying the suffering to crippling levels. I had lost. He chained my wrists first, dropping each to the ground with the same authority as he used on my leg. I cried out in agony. Internally, I resisted. My mind ordering my limbs to kick, to jerk, to move, to stand. There was no response. I laid perfectly still as the chains locked home around my ankles. It was done. The man knelt on my abdomen and I tried to shriek, what escaped was more of a guttural groan as the air left my body. He grabbed my hair in his fist and pulled my head forward toward his. My head throbbed from the beating. The lantern light splashed an orange glow on the walls behind him, but it did not turn the corner and light the nook. His body was just a black shape. He was crouched, I could not estimate his size but I could feel his weight crushing my stomach, making it impossible to breathe and stretching my pain threshold well beyond its limit, but I had no breath with which to scream. I pleaded with my mind to allow the darkness back in, let me pass out. End this torture. He released my head and I wasn’t able to stop it from slapping against the dirt floor. He stood and left the nook without saying a word. I heard metal scraping stone and then steps. I could see him again, standing in the dirt in front of the nook. Air entered my lungs in short gasps. He held the shovel with both hands, his back toward me. He spread his legs, drew the shovel back and thrust it into the ground. He used his weight as leverage to pry a chunk of earth from the ground, lifting it and placing it beside him before drawing the shovel back and thrusting again. He was digging. He was digging a hole. My vision began to swirl and somewhere inside I sensed panic, though I was helpless to even consider its demands. A reddish purplish haze began to encapsulate my vision… it was staticy. The sound of the shovel hitting the ground seemed to become more distant as if it were happening thirty feet away instead of just a few. The buzzing in my ears increased and drowned out any other noise. The haze in my vision grew larger and I was left with a small circle of focus before that too dissipated. My final thoughts before blacking out were of Cat, Britt and Tommy… thoughts of a life long since left, a life abandoned. A life that I gave up. I did not think of my cars, my wealth, my empty home. I thought of my family. I’m so sorry, baby. Finally, blissfully, I lost consciousness. “Hello darkness, my old friend…” ***** “Mother fu.... Hey! Hey! Wait!!” The truck that had just rammed into the back of my car gunned by me and sped down the street, swerving wildly to the left and down one of the many residential side roads in this area. “No! B*****d!”, I slammed my hands on my steering wheel. Throwing the driver’s door open, I burst out of my seat and stared off in the direction that the truck had gone. “D****t!” I cursed and walked a few steps backwards toward the rear of my car. A couple of cars had pulled over and a young man was getting out of his red Jeep, he paused when I looked at him, unsure of the proper greeting. “You ok, mister?” he shouted. “I saw that guy take off!” “Did you happen to get his tag number?” “What?” The young man started walking toward me. “His tag number!” I snapped. “Did you get this tag number?” He paused, taken aback by my tone. “No, I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.” “I’m fine, you can go. There’s nothing you can do here.” “Did you see the mask?” “The what?” I asked. “He had a mask on, some kind of clown face… like a halloween mask.” “Thanks, you can go.” A mask?, I though. What the hell was that about? The damage to the back of the car was extensive. The young man hadn’t yet made his way back to his Jeep when I looked up at him. “Go ahead, kid. It’s fine.” The truck hit me square on the back bumper, tearing off the tag and pushing the trunk about halfway back. Metal was crumpled and cracked. The back window was shattered. “B*****d!” I spat to myself. “What?” Jeep guy asked. “Jesus Christ, kid. Go! I’m fine!” The other driver that had pulled over sat in his car, window down and watched. “Y’all right?” I turned my gaze toward him and head nodded him to move along. I stared as the window went up. He drove away. Jeep kid hopped back up into his seat, took one more look my way and drove off. “B*****d” I said, again. I found the tag about thirty feet behind my stopping spot. I crouched to pick it up as traffic started to back up behind me. I was blocking one lane completely and another partially. The third lane, to the right, was clear. I walked back to my car, feeling the eyes of every passing driver on me. Tossing the tag into the back seat, I opened the driver’s door and sat down. The car was still running and I picked up the phone and hit the number for Lorna. A mask? The back seat was covered in glass and coffee was splashed all over the center console, radio and cup holders. “Boss, where are you?” Lorna asked without a greeting. “I’m on Frankford, just past that penguin place we built. Got in an accident. Come and get me and call a tow truck for my car.” “The Berkley people are here” she said. “You ok?” “I’m fine, have Smitty babysit them, I’m right up the road.” “How’s the other guy?” “Took off.” “I’m on my…” I had already hung up before she could finish. “D****t”, I muttered. I checked the time. I’m late. The Berkley boy was just going to have to wait. I dialed Cat. She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” She answered. “Cat, it’s me.” “What’s wrong, Tom?” She asked. “Listen, my car was just hit. Can you…” “Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?” She interrupted. “Cat, I’m fine. Just listen.” I snapped, my patience with this morning wearing thin. “I need you to go to my place before you bring Tommy to the office and pick up my truck. Maybe Trevor can drive it. My car isn’t driveable.” “Ok. Tom, are you sure you’re all right?” The concern in her voice was genuine. A tinge of guilt crept into my mind for being so short with her. “Yeah, I’m ok. It’s just the car is a wreck. I’m going to need the truck. Can you do it?” “Are you going to get checked out? Are the police on their way?” Cat asked. “Can you do it?” I repeated, my guilt replaced with irritation. “Yes, we can do it” she said. Her voice flat. “Thanks, I gotta go.” I could hear her start to speak as I hit the end button and put my phone back in the car. I looked around the street. The traffic was really starting to back up and some waiting drivers looked at me impatiently. I suppose I could’ve moved the car to clear the road, but instead I paced, owning my lane and a half. Drive around, pricks, I thought. I’m sorry my mashed up car is interfering with your morning commute. A siren could be heard approaching in the distance. “D****t” I said, again. The phone started ringing. I walked away. Lorna arrived at the accident scene within minutes, the police had arrived and an officer took my statement while another documented damage. There wasn’t much I could tell them about the other vehicle and I skipped the part where I shooed off the two witnesses. I did my best to hurry them along and had Lorna talk to the tow truck operator when he pulled up, his window down, pointing at my car with a “is this the one?” look on his chubby, wrinkled face (as though there was a chance he was about to take the wrong busted up beamer). It was nearly 8:30 when we were finally able to leave. The Berkley people had been waiting an hour and I was starting to feel a little tense. I had to move a few folders from the seat as I climbed up into Lorna’s truck. I slammed the door closed, it was misaligned and met the body of the truck a little low before bouncing up into place with a bang. I was mildly surprised that it remained attached. I looked at Lorna. She could easily afford a nice car or truck. She shrugged her meaty shoulders and took a drag off a newly lit cigarette. Shaking my head, I turned forward, put my head back and closed my eyes. I took the final few minutes into the office in silence… wishing I wasn’t the only one. Upton Development Group was situated in a large, square three story brick building in the business district just a short ways off of Frankford. I had supervised the build myself and I took a fair amount of pride in the finished work. The brick was a brownish-red, leaning a little more toward the brown side. The windows were large, square and tinted dark… so dark that it always looked like dusk from the inside. Personal preference. The main doors opened to a reception area on the right. The reception desk was circular and just offset from a corner seating area with carpeted floors and refreshments, plush seats and a 60” television tuned to CNN or FOX or Cartoon Network, I have no idea. Marble floors began a few feet outside of the reception area. To the left was a large auditorium for meetings that involved too many people for a conference room. In the back were restrooms and the center held an elevator bank for access to the second and third floors. The second floor housed logistics, human resources, purchasing, payroll and accounting with their respective department head offices and planning rooms. The client conference rooms and executive offices were on the third floor. My office occupied the south facing corner and was a fair representation of the person that I had become. Overstated and intimidating, it overlooked a small lake just beyond a cluster of thin trees and brush. No parking lots or streets were visible from my office. My desk sat a few feet in front of the large window. It was so big that I couldn’t quite reach everything that I had on top of it. It was made from solid wood and you could serve dinner for eight on it. The floors were covered in a thick emerald green carpeting that contrasted nicely with the light oak covered walls. The walls held several large framed prints of some of my best work, aerial shots of enormous communities that never failed to impress new clients. A set of cabinets built into the walls to the right of my desk held code books and other reference materials, the doors kept closed so as not to take away from the open shelves holding finely bound books and a leather set of encyclopedias, as well as other showy brass and copper things that I had no use for, but was happy to display. Play the role! In front of these shelves was a round table with four chairs for executive meetings. I stayed at my desk for these. On the left side of the room were a few leather reading chairs and a discreet wet bar. On these walls were autographed photos of me and several of the bigger sports stars of the time, a politician or two (or three), and a few celebrities I had met around the country. This is where the big deals get made. This is my arena. I have killed many a bottle of brandy here with people of extreme resources. This is where I really played the part with the big boys. I loved it. ***** My dreams seldom take place in here (though, when they do, they’re in pitch darkness, it’s like sleep thinking with no control of your thoughts… yeah, chew on that for awhile). My dreams are typically nonsensical and I have very little recollection of them within seconds of waking. In my current situation, this is probably best. Vivid dreams of family and friends, or of the ocean and sky would be torturous. Most of my dreams fade, leaving me in a peaceful and visionless (but semi-conscious) state before I wake and before my alert mind can grab hold of whatever it was I had dreamed about. Sometimes a more powerful or emotional dream will leave me with some specific memories, but their context is lost quickly. I prefer to be awake and in my thoughts rather than asleep and dreaming. The passage of time when I’m sleeping does nothing for me. My awareness here is continuous. My moments in that peaceful and visionless stage were brief. Those wonderful moments before I remember… all of it. It was the yawn that opened wounds in my lips that startled me fully and painfully awake. When you open your eyes to blackness each and every single time for as long as I have, you do not expect to have to process visual information, at all. Dirt, pain, warmth, light and unfamiliar surroundings all fought for my attention at once and I had to close my eyes to grasp what they were seeing and to understand what my body was feeling. I was warm, but not all of me. There was light above me, but not around me. I was neither on the floor, nor in the nook and there was dirt everywhere. I hurt, badly. My face, arms, hands, knees, lips and chest all singing a different song of woe. Each pain individual, yet somehow intertwined. I’m in a hole. There’s dirt on me. I’m in a grave. He’s burying me. A mound of dirt which had been shoveled in, lay across my legs from my feet to my waist. He’s burying me alive! I bolted upright at the waist, clawing at the sides of the hole with hands that would not close. The sudden and violent movement sent a firestorm of agony through me. I went back down. Get up, you b*****d, my inner voice barked. I tried to turn to the side to loosen my lower half from the dirt and it was working. I was able to prop myself up on one elbow before vomiting onto the wall of the grave. My head was swimming and I knew that I was going to pass out. Deep breath, steady yourself, do not pass out. I pushed up on my elbow and barely managed to get into a seated position. Where is he? The hole was just deep enough that I could not see out of it while sitting upright. What is he waiting for? I could not waste time, facing him up there was a far better option than watching him from down here. I put both hands down on either side of my legs, trying to position them so that most of the weight would fall on my wrists and not my swollen, broken hands. Still, it was excruciating. Simultaneously, I pushed down on my wrists, taking as much weight as possible while pulling my legs toward my chest. They moved, more freely than I expected. With my feet now against the ground, I pushed with my legs as hard as I could and let the momentum throw me backwards against the back wall of the hole. I kept pressure with my legs, so that I remained in half sitting, half standing position. The impact against the wall sent yet another round of torment to my brain’s pain center. From this position, I was able to throw my arms out of the hole and get leverage with my elbows on the ground. The static purplish haze started to surround my vision again, and I had to pause and breathe. There was so much pain, I wanted to vomit again. Adrenaline worked to keep the pain just slightly at bay, but I couldn’t take much more. I used my elbows to lift myself a little so that I could get my eyes above ground level. A mound of dirt blocked my view of most of the space, but I was somewhat relieved to see the shovel sticking straight up out of the pile. At least it’s not in his hands. Deciding not to lower myself back down, I continued to lift with my arms until I could draw my legs and feet back within my center of gravity. Once there, I relaxed my arms and tried to stand upright. The haze flashed and I slapped my hands on the ground to steady myself, not thinking of the gashes and swelling. I tried to breathe through the pain without losing any ground. The haze subsided and I stood, carefully. I did not see the man. Scanning the lit space caused another bout of nausea and again I vomited. Bile ran down my chin onto my chest, it reeked and i felt a gag coming on. Deep breath. I swung my body to the right so that my upper abdomen was pressed against the wall of the hole and placed as much weight on my arms, folded beneath my chest, as possible. My feet lifted slightly from the ground and I started lifting my left leg up along the dirt wall. Just a little further. I pushed down on my forearms harder, lifting myself higher until my knee cleared the edge of the hole. Shifting my hips clockwise, I was able to get my left knee on top of the ground and began using it to lift myself out. Broken, bleeding and crying, I climbed out of my grave. I collapsed onto the considerable pile of dirt that still remained unearthed, exhausted. Every breath was labored and for a moment I questioned whether or not I should have even left the hole. I will not be buried alive. He’s going to have to kill me first. I don’t much care what he does with me after that. I’ve never seen so much light in here. The lantern lit all of the walls. They were smeared with dirt streaks and handprints from countless trips fumbling around in the dark. The amount of blood on the floor and the walls concerned me. Most of the dirt mound was on the stone part of the floor, as my grave took up a considerable amount of the dirt floor section. Because of the angle, the nook was still dark, though I could make out some details. I could see the chains. I scanned back toward the lantern, its light causing me to squint, a muscle movement I’m not very familiar with anymore. Folded in half and lying on the floor next to the lantern was a piece of paper. It was dirty. It was the note. The note was a list of rules and it was the only communication I had ever had with him. At least it was the only communication I had ever received from him. I was given a short grace period to understand that I was not to break the rules. I uttered three words my first time in the nook, and those were the last three words I had spoken to him until today (is it still today?). This was not the first time I’ve been hit with that shovel. Not the second, either. Standing was slightly easier, as I was already partway there on the dirt mound. My first step was my last as I nearly tumbled back into the grave. I doubt I’d get out again. I steadied myself and dropped to my knees. I crawled around the mound on my knees and forearms, being cautious not to hit my hands on stone. When I got to the lantern, I rolled over onto my left side and picked up the note. I’ve read it many times. Unfolding it, I immediately noticed the change.
I’d have crumpled it if I could close my hands. Instead, I let it slip from them as I gently rolled onto my back. I rested my head on the floor and felt the urge to close my eyes. Defiance still coursed through me and I wanted to sleep. Filling in the hole would take a lot of energy and my energy account was nearly maxed out. My pragmatic side reminded me that I’ve probably used up any mercy that was coming my way and if I didn’t fill the hole, I might find myself a poorly positioned spectator while he fills it. I had to roll back onto my side and draw my legs in while using my arm to push myself into a sitting position. Weariness almost outweighed discomfort, but not quite. From my perspective, the mound might as well have been a mountain. I hadn’t noticed the water bottle and small cup sitting in front of the mound when I had crawled around the dirt, nor had I noticed how thirsty I was. Where does he go? Or, better yet, how does he go? Even with the room well lit, I could not see anything that could be an entrance. No hatch, no door, just stone and dirt. In the same knees and forearms manner, I crawled toward the water. The small cup had several pills in it, a couple round, a few oblong. There were markings on the pill, but nothing that could be used to identify them. Well, he didn’t half bury me so that I could climb out and poison myself. I clumsily put the pills in my mouth before considering the impossibility of opening the water bottle. There was no way I was closing my hands around that cap. I had to use both hands just to pick it up. I’ll be damned… he loosened the cap for me. Who is this guy?! For a violent, ‘bury you alive after I keep you in a hole for eternity’ type of guy, he seemed unwilling to kill me. The pills were starting to dissolve in my mouth, leaving a bitter taste. I spun the cap the rest of the way off with the back of my hand, used both hands again to squeeze the bottle, raised it to my mouth and drank deeply. It was still very cold. He hadn’t been gone long. The pills scratched my throat as they went down, but they made it. I stopped to breathe and drank deeply again. Save. Don’t finish it. I couldn’t help myself. With the bottle nearly empty, I wiped my mouth with my forearm and considered the dirt. I’m no stranger to hard work, it’s just been awhile. Attempting to handle the shovel taught me that I was not going to be using the shovel. My hands were useless. Even standing, the urge to close my eyes was strong. Focus. It’s just a job. Figure it out. I kneeled into the pile and crossed my arms in front of me, using them like a bulldozer to push the top of the mound. Dirt spilled down the opposite side, closer to the hole but not into it. A little lower and I pushed again, more dirt moving down. This time a little going in. Ignoring the realization that this was going to be more than a little chore, I continued. Push, reposition, push, reposition. With the pile rising at the very edge of the hole, I moved forward and pushed more. This time a lot of dirt fell into the grave. I knew my task and I worked. What seemed like hours passed and I began to worry about the lantern running out of fuel. My job was not yet complete but I had made good progress. My head ached, a pulse of pain with each heartbeat and my arms were tired, sore and scratched from the labor. I needed a break, but I felt sure that if I stopped, I would not start again. Without leaving my position in the dirt, I was able to reach the water bottle and, though I knew I shouldn’t, I finished it with one last long gulp. I felt sick. The pills seemed to be helping with the pain, but I was still dealing with quite a bit of it. They were probably making me drowsy, not that I needed any help with that. Push, move, push, move… slowly, the hole was being filled. It was more of a depression than a hole now. I was nearly done. The job became more difficult as I went on, the dirt near the bottom of the pile being packed down from the weight that had been on top of it, but I continued. Push, move… Your eyes are closed. I fought to open them. The repacked ground was uneven and there was still some remnants to the mound, but I was spent. From my crouched bulldozer position, I moved forward with my forearms leaving my knees in place. I laid down on my stomach, head on the soft and loose dirt. Shut off the lantern. No. Screw the lantern. I’m not moving. I closed my eyes, but I was still awake. I dragged the knuckle on my right thumb through the dirt, creating a circle. I gave the circle eyes and a smile, then an upside down “U” shape for hair and a stick body. I’m so sorry, baby. I made two more smaller stick people next to the taller one. They smiled, too. I closed my eyes again and embraced the darkness. My arm resting over my shattered family. ***** © 2016 RickAuthor's Note
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1 Review  Last Updated on April 6, 2016 Tags: dark, suspense, psychological, mystery, thriller Author
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