Dark clouds are rolling in from the horizon; the storm is beginning. On the roof of the church in the distance, the rusted-out wind-vane spins, hit by the winds that howl through the branches of the old trees glazed by the light of the setting sun.
The curtains on the window are ragged; the sheets on the bed dirty, not straightened. It isn’t the best place to be, but then again, I have no choice. A kerchief is over my mouth. My hands are shackled, then stretched and tied to one of the bed-posts, the same for my feet. My clothes are soiled and tattered in some places after the struggle they had to subdue. The sun has risen and set thrice since I was dragged into this room like a rag-doll.
The door to this room is open; the light in the hallway turned on. I see two shadows on the wall. Their voices are muffled, but I can see one of the shadows nod. Then I’m blanketed by darkness again. I lie there alone, crying, listening to the silence.
They come after a while, switching on the light in the room. They have a phone with them. I saw that coming a day back; I’m ready to tell what they want. But as one removes my gag, the other throws a quick punch, breaking the bridge of my spectacles, making me yell out in pain before the spinning world around me cascade into emptiness.
When I awake, I see the blade of the knife near my big toe. And a searing pain that shoots down from my left palm. I know it’s not over. But they’ll get what they want…
To be continued with the next Sunday Whirl…
© (october 25, 2011)