my tears, the day, my plan, and the outlook took a sharp turn. While my shoulders slumped and my body heaved under the weight of depression and solitude, the stairs outside my room groaned under pounding footfall. A fast approach: I heard it. I ran back to the bed, the butterfly abandoned, folded the blanket, shoved my notebook with my chart into the mattress—which I had slit openabout six inches on the side facing the wall—and with only one second to spare, lay the bucket handle atop the bucket as though it were attached. In he burst.
“Radio off. Follow me, now. And keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I detect fear in your voice, smell danger in your sweat, dear jailer
. I wiped the tears with my sleeve in an exaggerated motion of confrontation, as though smearing blood in a heated street fight and in so doing, inviting the match to continue.
Bring it
.
I slowly walked to the radio and with the lethargy of an obstinate, maniacal child, turned the dial to off, unwilling in my movement to meet his agitation.
“Move your fucking ass. I will throw you down these stairs if you keep this shit up.”
Having fun with you, imbecile, you make this so easy
.
I returned to the insipid, compliant captive I was supposed to play. With head bent and shaky voice, I delivered my catch phrase, “Yes, sir.”
“Move.”
You are so predictable, dumb beast. Throw me? As if. You’d lose your cush job
.
He gripped my forearm and pulled me so hard off balance I nearly collided with the bucket. Unfortunately, my foot brushed the side and for three heart-wrenching seconds, I watched the handle tilt and rock on the rim.
If it falls, he’ll inspect closer. He’ll find me out or he’ll give me a different bucket, which might not have a metal handle. Don’t fall. I need you. Don’t fall. Don’t, don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t, don’t fall
. Still it tilted and rocked. With head backwards as I was yanked forward through the doorway, I saw upon the butterfly’s blessing that Godsend handle defy gravity to bend to my will and stay put.
It didn’t fall. It didn’t fall. It didn’t fall
.
Out on the landing, where the walls were papered in a brown and dingy-pink floral print, he stalled. The cool, musty air and low lighting in this space reminded me we were in an old country house or building.
Twisting my wrist to near breaking, he peered over the railing to the steps leading down and then the narrow stairs leading up. Between these two choices, he shifted his gaze, seemingly unable to decide. A knock broke the stilted air. I presumed an unexpected visitor was at the door off the kitchen below. He froze.
A hare trapped by hunter
.
With the posture of a lizard who knows his camouflage has betrayed him, he hissed on low, “If you make one bloody sound, I will find your parents and cut their hearts out with a dull knife.”
“Yes, sir.”
As though we were some derelict soldier team, chest crawling through high grass, he beckoned me with folded elbow forward, “Move quietly. Go up these stairs now. Hussle, hussle, hussle.”
Yes, Captain
.
I did as told, him at my heels, his head so close to my ass I felt like saying,
Get your head out of my ass
, but I didn’t. He pushed me mid-spine to move faster.
“Faster,” he hissed.
At the top, I found myself in a long, steep attic. It was this view of open space, about three-quarters of a football field in length, when I realized I was in a colossal building. The sides jutted out in four spots, four wings, one of which was mine.
“Walk straight down the center to the closet at the end. Now!”
I practically skipped because he was pushing so hard. “Faster,” he repeated, whispering madly. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see along the way—whatever may have been stored up there must have been moved and the floors swept cleaned. Not even a mousetrap remained.
When we got to a free-standing, double-door wardrobe with top vents, he stuffed me inside, shut the doors, and
“Radio off. Follow me, now. And keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I detect fear in your voice, smell danger in your sweat, dear jailer
. I wiped the tears with my sleeve in an exaggerated motion of confrontation, as though smearing blood in a heated street fight and in so doing, inviting the match to continue.
Bring it
.
I slowly walked to the radio and with the lethargy of an obstinate, maniacal child, turned the dial to off, unwilling in my movement to meet his agitation.
“Move your fucking ass. I will throw you down these stairs if you keep this shit up.”
Having fun with you, imbecile, you make this so easy
.
I returned to the insipid, compliant captive I was supposed to play. With head bent and shaky voice, I delivered my catch phrase, “Yes, sir.”
“Move.”
You are so predictable, dumb beast. Throw me? As if. You’d lose your cush job
.
He gripped my forearm and pulled me so hard off balance I nearly collided with the bucket. Unfortunately, my foot brushed the side and for three heart-wrenching seconds, I watched the handle tilt and rock on the rim.
If it falls, he’ll inspect closer. He’ll find me out or he’ll give me a different bucket, which might not have a metal handle. Don’t fall. I need you. Don’t fall. Don’t, don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t, don’t fall
. Still it tilted and rocked. With head backwards as I was yanked forward through the doorway, I saw upon the butterfly’s blessing that Godsend handle defy gravity to bend to my will and stay put.
It didn’t fall. It didn’t fall. It didn’t fall
.
Out on the landing, where the walls were papered in a brown and dingy-pink floral print, he stalled. The cool, musty air and low lighting in this space reminded me we were in an old country house or building.
Twisting my wrist to near breaking, he peered over the railing to the steps leading down and then the narrow stairs leading up. Between these two choices, he shifted his gaze, seemingly unable to decide. A knock broke the stilted air. I presumed an unexpected visitor was at the door off the kitchen below. He froze.
A hare trapped by hunter
.
With the posture of a lizard who knows his camouflage has betrayed him, he hissed on low, “If you make one bloody sound, I will find your parents and cut their hearts out with a dull knife.”
“Yes, sir.”
As though we were some derelict soldier team, chest crawling through high grass, he beckoned me with folded elbow forward, “Move quietly. Go up these stairs now. Hussle, hussle, hussle.”
Yes, Captain
.
I did as told, him at my heels, his head so close to my ass I felt like saying,
Get your head out of my ass
, but I didn’t. He pushed me mid-spine to move faster.
“Faster,” he hissed.
At the top, I found myself in a long, steep attic. It was this view of open space, about three-quarters of a football field in length, when I realized I was in a colossal building. The sides jutted out in four spots, four wings, one of which was mine.
“Walk straight down the center to the closet at the end. Now!”
I practically skipped because he was pushing so hard. “Faster,” he repeated, whispering madly. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see along the way—whatever may have been stored up there must have been moved and the floors swept cleaned. Not even a mousetrap remained.
When we got to a free-standing, double-door wardrobe with top vents, he stuffed me inside, shut the doors, and
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