by Cat Mann
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The moon was taunting me; staring at me from beyond the little rectangular window. The moon, unlike me, was free. Free to come and go as it chose. I was stuck. My mouth was soggy with old duct tape. My arms were pinned behind my back, my wrists held tightly together with handcuffs. I pulled at the cuffs but they did not budge, the metal only dug further into my tender, broken flesh. I was wet with urine. I could smell the ammonia – it made my stomach churn with nausea. Hit with a bout of violent heaves, my mouth filled with stomach acid, it tasted bitter and I could feel the texture of something chunky on my tongue. Due to the tape that kept my mouth from opening, I was forced to swallow my vomit back down. My teeth felt gritty. Leaning back against the water heater, I pillowed my head against a pipe.
I heard the heavy footsteps of No. 6 on the floorboards above me. He was whistling, carrying on a tune while he made his dinner. The house smelt of tuna. The acid and chunks flew up my esophagus again, my cheeks filled and I forced my vomit back down as quickly as I could. No 6’s fork clattered against his plate. I listened to him stand up; his chair rubbed loudly against the hardwood floors. I heard the clash of his dish as it hit the kitchen sink. Moments later, the basement door opened with a creak. Panic rose. It was time. What was he going to do to me? What was next? I squirmed and pulled at the cuffs. I started to breathe heavily, my heart pounded. Oh, God. Oh, God. He reached the bottom of the steps. I could see the wicked gleam in his eyes. He put his mouth up to mine. I could smell the tuna on his breath. Once again, the bile rose and filled my cheeks. Once again, I swallowed my vomit back down.