My legs wobbled, driveway gravel crunching and crackling uncomfortably beneath my bare feet. There was a chorus of car doors closing behind me. More crunching. Crackling. Snap-crackle-popping of rocks against boot heels.
Ahead, a bird whistled pleasantly, as if in greeting. Exactly what kind of bird, I couldn't tell. Mainly because there was a black bag over my head.
I had no idea where I was. There was a nice, calm, gentle breeze, though. I could hear trees swaying around me.
The sun warmed my forearms, my feet, and the back of my neck. It came and went, replaced by what felt like, by contrast, frigid cold.
My head felt light and woozy, as if at any point I might lose consciousness. Dark spots bled in an out of my vision, like phantoms.
Being up all night was doing things to my brain. Not to mention being abducted.
Not to mention that, before being abducted, I'd spent the last several weeks in Aberdale Rithium Rehabilitation Center.
It’s a prison with lipstick. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.
You’ve likely seen it before, probably in some ad trying to convince you it’s such a great use of taxpayer money.
It’s got these tall, bleach-white walls surrounding it. There’s a giant gate, guarded twenty-four seven. Cameras are everywhere. They’re these little black half-bulbs that almost look aesthetic, part of the architecture.
Most of my time was spent in a locked room not unlike a cell—despite the attempts at homey furnishings.
Every day I was escorted down hallways packed with these rooms. I'd leaned, peering through the windows on each door—desperately searching for some new visual stimuli in my surroundings—only to discover that every room looked exactly the same, down to the smooth plastic vase next to every bed.
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Always sunflowers in those things. Couldn't hurt to switch things up a little. With such a rigid routine and environment, any change at all would have been more than welcome. Waking up and seeing red roses in that vase would have knocked me flat.
Speaking of…
There it was. That musty smell, with just a hint of pine, like a torn branch.
Hands gripped my arms on either side, steering me like a rudder. My wrists were ziplocked together behind my back, so all I could do was lean into it and try to stay out of the way of those heavy-sounding boots. Ouchie.
“Excuse me, I have to ask. Is that...sunflowers I smell? Because I freakin’ hate sunflowers.”
The hands on my left gripped tighter. A voice next to my ear hissed. “Do you feel like you’re in a position to ask questions?”
I gulped. “So, tulips, then?”
I should have seen it coming. It hit my ear like a dumbbell. I staggered sideways, my hearing popping in that ear, the surface area around it throbbing, signaling the onset of what would probably be a nasty bruise.
The guy on my right put a hand on my shoulder, propping me back upright. “Hey. We need him conscious.” His voice was rough, husky.
“Does he look conscious, to you?” The one on my left shot back.
“Guys, guys, please don’t fight over me.”
I felt a twitch on my right, and a battering-ram jab into my gut.
I heaved.
Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up…
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Leftie said. He seemed both pissed and oddly concerned for me at the same time.
“What can I say,” I said, gasping. “I have issues with authority. Honestly, I kind of blame my mother—” I felt the cold, familiar, ring-like texture of a gun barrel against my right cheek, pressing the rough fabric of the bag against the side of my face.
So that’s how it was.
I decided to stop talking.
The henchmen, after pausing a moment, possibly to have some exchange I couldn’t see or hear, marched me forward, off the spiny gravel and onto a walkway of smooth, loose pebbles that parted slightly underneath my feet.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but things were hazy, out of focus. And not just because the fabric pulled tight against my face left nothing but muddy shadows in my vision.
How the hell did I even get into this?