Trapped

“Hey! Look at me! Don’t you dare ignore me and pass out again!”

The pain is intense, unbelievable and it shoots up my arm past my elbow. I don’t want to look down and see the gruesome sight that is causing the agony. I am not sure how much more I can take before I am unable to wake up and respond to his taunts and threats. My response is always the same, just muffled cries and questions from behind what I assume is duct tape over my mouth.

The pain in my right hand is masking all other awareness in me. I don’t know what time it is, what day it is, I am only barely aware of where I am, and although I vaguely recognize this person staring back at me with wild eyes and bad breath, I don’t know who he is. I do know that he has chosen me for a reason but for the life of me I think he has made a mistake and I am the one paying dearly for it.

He speaks again, more threats, “Time is almost up again and still, nothing! Does no one care about you? They will soon. They have to.” In his hand he waves the knife for emphasis, but I am almost past caring. I am delirious with pain and I know he is about to inflict more, but I have no means to stop him or to make him go away. He is in total control. It may sound strange but I am no longer frightened. I am almost curious as to what he wants. Why he is doing this. To me.

He lays the knife on the table beside my mangled hand, knowing that even if I could move my hand I couldn’t pick up the knife and do any damage to him. He knows it. He is in control. I am starting to realize it too and that thought, the one where I have zero ability to prevent this, to talk my out of it, to stall or postpone the next round of pain, does scare me. He checks the time on his watch and mumbles something about 30 min. Then glances at the phone mounted on the wall. A relic of a landline. Not even cordless, just a long cord all coiled and falling onto the floor. The call he expects and wants to happen has not yet. It frustrates him to no end. He mumbles often at the phone to just “Ring! Dammit, just ring!” It hasn’t. I know what the lack of phone call means, and inside I begin to moan softly as the minutes tick away in silence.

I break the silence, with a motion. I drag my useless hand off the table and as he watches I make a motion of pointing at my mouth and then rubbing my belly, without touching it. I know any contact would illicit a louder, involuntary moan from my covered mouth and he usually reacts with anger at that sound. I don’t want him any angrier than he always seems to be.

“Hungry?” he asks. I nod. He stares at me for a long time deciding what to do. Apparently having me go hungry is not part of the plan and giving me a glimmer of hope, he simply says “Pizza?” I nod once more.

He walks over to the wall mounted phone and stares at the list of numbers written on a sticky note beside it. His finger scrolls through the short list of take-out numbers I have written down. He looks over to me with questioning eyes as his finger stops at a number near the bottom. I shake my head, and make a motion for higher. His finger slides up the list as he watches me. I nod when his finger is on the right one. My favourite one. It is located in the same building, on the main floor. I live on the 11th. Also one where they know me well and may realize I am in trouble. I pray they do.

He reads it and then looks at me again. Then it is his turn to nod as he makes up his mind. He dials and then brusquely orders a large Hawaiian; ham and pineapple. I do not complain, it is my favourite pizza from my favourite pizza joint. Sure, things could be better but at least he didn’t order anchovies. He gives the address and then repeats 30minutes, and hangs up. Standing directly in front of me he looks into my eyes and when he does I can see the madness dancing in his. He looks again at his watch. “Funny how this is 30 minutes too. Your 30 minutes will be up before your pizza arrives, so you better hope the phone rings soon.”

Whether it is sweat dripping down the side of my face or tears, I no longer know. Both fell in buckets earlier. I had no control over them or the other bodily fluids that escaped the first time that time ran out. I risked a look down at my hand and this time I knew that they were tears.

His countdown and glances at the phone seem to speed up. Whoever said that time slows down and stands still when in a dangerous situation must have lied because the minutes seemed to blur by.

“15 minutes.”

“10.”

He skipped the obvious 5 minute warning and the next I heard was two minutes. My tears were flowing freely and now and my internal moans were now clearly heard. This time they did not anger him, as when he looked at the phone on the wall again he simply looked sad and confused. And determined.

“Last minute!”

I held my breath as he picked up the knife again. His phone made a little beeping sound, signaling the end of time. I took a deep breath but couldn’t look away. Mesmerized by the chopping motion. He was getting better at it, is the thought that ran through my mind as my index finger was almost cleanly sliced off. Only one more quick hack and it was. The pain seemed to intensify each time and I think because this finger was not only the last but arguably the most valuable one, it hurt on even new levels. Even he looked pale and in shock at what he had done.

Just like with all of the others he dropped it into a pre-made small cardboard box, little bigger than a jewelry one, sealing the brown paper wrapped around it with a piece of tape he had stuck to the edge of the table. On it was written the same message that the others had. I couldn’t read it but it did look like he had included this return address on it. Who was he sending them to? Why did no one call? I thought those thoughts but honestly they were so far down the priority list that my brain did not even attempt to answer. My brain was flooded by my pain receptors sending urgent messages of pain that exploded in my head. Drenching me in sweat. Pain shooting up my arm to my shoulder and beyond.

He picks up the sealed little box and saying the same few words to me as the other times with the other boxes he says “Delivering this, be right back” as he leaves the apartment.

I try and think of where he goes. He is not gone long for any of them, and I wonder if he runs to the post office down the block. If he runs and is just mailing it then he does have time to do that. Where is he sending them?

He is back in under 5 minutes, I think. He has time to smile shakily at me, is the smile like that because he just ran? I am not sure. Before he can say anything there is a knock on the door, and wafting in from the cracks around the old door is the mouth-watering smell of good pizza. My pain recedes a little as my empty stomach takes over and my hunger is now the most pressing matter.

He comes over to me and looks me in the eye from very close, and then unexpectedly smiles. A smile of relief, a smile that shows that all of this is thankfully over. The relief flooding through me is overwhelming. He leans in to whisper and says “They finally came. It looks like maybe they really do care.” Then shrugs down at the knife on the table as if to say he is sorry it came to that. He turns and walks over to the door.

He opens it and the smell of the pizza floods the room, the delivery person, Freddie, is someone who has been here often and I think of him as a friend. Freddie steps back a bit when the door opens. With the door swung open, he stands there not even trying to block access to the apartment. Freddie looks past him, at the knife on the table, the blood all around it, the large mirror propped up on the table, then as he is about to say something, Freddie looks down. Looks at his hand still dripping with blood through the wrapped dishtowel, and stops.

“Hey bro, you okay? Did you have an accident? Want to talk about it? I can bring you to the E.R. if you want.

“Also, I brought up those packages you left on the counter addressed to yourself. I thought it was weird but figured you were up to something. Anything I can do to help?”

I just smile back, finally happy.