Snatched

Anchored to a merry-go-round upon the high sea, all I wanted to do was sleep. Swaying back and forth, and round and round the oppressive fog began to lift. I was feeling pretty woozy, so I focused on my breathing.  Breath in. Breath out. Inhale and exhale. Inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth.  Deep cleansing breathes just like Yogi Master Ly, taught me. He would be proud.  The world lurched forward and violently jolted back.  Was that an earthquake?  What the hell was going on? Evidently I exited the pleasant merry-go-round, and stepped right on to the aggressive tilt-a-whirl while I was busy focusing on my breathing exercises.

It was a matter of when, not if, I’d be tossing my cookies in to the air.  The nausea surged with every tilt of the world.  I wanted off this ride, badly.  I attempted to lift my leg to position my foot to the floor, and nothing. Not good, my neurons were seriously misfiring and forgot to send the message to my leg and foot to move off the bed.

As I lay motionless and weak it occurred to me I never figured out why placing one foot on the floor managed to control the spinning in the room, but it did so I went with it.  I sent up a silent prayer to the Gods of Alcohol, and promised to never drink again if they would grant me mercy this one last time.  It was a simple prayer consisting of only necessities; get one foot to the floor, stop the world from spinning out of control, and make it in the toilet or trash bin – either was really fine by me as long as I didn’t have to change sheets it was all good.

Another failed attempt to move my leg sobered me up some. Determined to move a leg, I raised my right arm to assist and was met with resistance.  Immediately I raised my left arm and discovered the same resistance was holding me back.  Panic-stricken, I raised my head from the pillow and forced my eyes open.

It was very dark in the room but I could see the chains tightly suspended in the air and now felt the cold metal cuff’s biting in to my wrists. I was strapped to the bed. My legs were secured, which was why I couldn’t move them.  I jerked at the chains furiously, yet they wouldn’t give.

As I peered around the darken room I tried to swallow the terror that was threating to overtake me, and to think. I needed to think. My brain felt like cottage cheese. The small mushy curds that refused to stick together, like my thoughts.  Things I knew, my raging headache was not alcohol induced, this time, this was not my bedroom, and I was most definitely in some sort of trouble.

The bedroom door opened casting a muted yellow ray of light across the room, but I didn’t see anyone. In the silence, I called out “who’s there?”

-To be continued-

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7 responses to “Snatched

  1. These two pieces are good. I wondered if you had thought of doing another from the victim’s point of view, but not in the first person? I have a hunch that would pull something else out of the encounter, something more universal?

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    • You raise a very good point and it’s something I considered at one point and then forgot about. Both of these were raw first drafts, so I need to rework and pull them together. But you are right I need to do the victim from a different POV… First person tends to be the easier (lazier) voice I fall back on. Now you got me thinking again. Thanks!

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      • I know what you mean about first person. I think that change here could go deeper into how being any woman in that position would feel. I wondered, too, if there isn’t some connection between something deadly like this would be, and what it’s like to be on the receiving end of male attentions/obsessions. I don’t think men really know what that is like. And where is the line? I found myself wondering if there was something more universal you could get at.

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        • You are definitely leading me to something more powerful and I want to dig deeper to see what I can flush out,,, that is when I get the time and right frame of mind. 🙂

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