The Tied Woman

A woman is tied to a tree. She catches the scent of cannabis and kerosene on the breeze. Peeking underneath the red handkerchief around her eyes, she sees three SUVs crawling down the opposite hillside towards the compound. She passed out for what must have been a few hours. She then awoke to this, and the weather changed to hot and humid. It felt as though nightfall was coming, and rain.

The man at the airport had told her nothing but lies. It seemed as if she had been mistaken for someone else, or someone realized her husband was worth extorting. Had they asked someone for ransom? How long would they leave her here?

As the sun went lower, the hum of mosquitoes grew higher until they were all stinging her as they pleased. She had already relieved herself. Her hair was matted, fingernails torn. Janis surmised she must be looking like a wild animal with a mental disorder, but eventually, sleep came.

It was all supposed to be “easy money.” “Easier than picking it off a tree,” money. Speak to a man at one address, deliver a package to another. However, as soon as she arrived, she was attacked, tied, and dragged out here like this with no explanation. She had told the man at the airport no, at first, because she couldn’t speak Spanish. Her biggest worry was hurt feelings or miscommunication until she found herself tied to a tree.

By chance, they may have figured that her straight-laced appearance, whiteness, and imagined signs of conservative behavior were evidence of being a cop. Or, really, any kind of authority figure who is in a position to drop the hammer down on some friendly cocaine trafficking. A spy. The truth was that she was only a private investigator who never did well. She did even worse after the pandemic.

It was as if lying, cheating, scamming, stealing, and manipulation were all ten years out of style. At least, nobody was paying her to chase people around prying into her business.

The two jeeps were on the same road, and then dipped behind the hill. By the time she saw anything pop up on the hill, it was only one remaining jeep. It sputtered to a halt 12 feet from her, and she almost lost her knee strength at the sight of it. She almost dropped straight to her knees. The man in the jeep got out without turning the ignition off. He handed her a large white bag and her paperwork – license and registration – from her car.

She sniffed the bag and smelled the kerosene used to process the cocaine. Every time she smelled that smell, it reminded her of a woman she had met years before who had almost burnt to death from an illegal kerosene heater. Every single time, she thought of that woman. She thought of irrevocable changes made at the whim of humanity regularly because something is slightly inconvenient, uncomfortable, or financially unsound.

At first, it was weekly. The visits got less dramatic. Then it started up for real. Suddenly, she was asked to pick things up weekly with no tragic drama. The exchanges grew quicker and closer together until she realized they had begun to rival her real job for her time and attention. It worked out for a quick minute, and the time was good until she got caught.

Ten long years in prison, and all that was really on her mind was the smell of kerosene and cannabis. She changed into a different era of her own life. It had been years since she had smelt that odd combination. When she got out, she flirted with the heating oil delivery driver just because the smell was driving her mad.

I suppose it isn’t very strange, as I have heard people wax ecstatic about the smell of hot pavement before, or the taste of something bitter like coffee. It is even considered a sign of sociopathy.

She had a small, part-time job doing the books, taxes, and payroll for a construction firm. She walked her dog every day and went grocery shopping every Tuesday. Like a German cuckoo clock, she had her routines and activities, but her soul was in the past. Her passion was in the hunt, the chase, and getting away with it.

The horizon began to soften, the harsh glare of the high sun mellowing into a bruised palette of violet and gold. It was the slow exhale of the day, a gradual surrender that felt less like an ending and more like a gentle homecoming.

In the youth of the afternoon, the light had been frantic, demanding, and blindingly bright, much like the turbulent years of a life spent chasing shadows and adrenaline. But now, as the sun dipped lower, it traded its intensity for depth. The clouds, once invisible in the midday heat, were suddenly set ablaze with internal fires of copper and rose, catching the light in a way that only happens when the day is ready to let go. This was the beauty of the descent—a richness of color that the morning could never quite achieve.

Watching the sun sink toward the jagged silhouette of the world, one could see the metaphor of a long journey coming to its natural conclusion. There is a specific kind of peace in the quietude of a fading light. In the earlier chapters of existence, the light is blinding, and the path is often obscured by the sheer brilliance of possibility and the heat of ambition. But as the shadows lengthen, the world becomes more defined, more specific.

The frantic pace of the hunt—the chase that Janis had once craved—seemed like a distant, flickering memory compared to the profound stillness of the dusk. It was a reminder that while the fire of youth is spectacular, there is a distinct, understated holiness in the embers that remain when the flames have died down.

The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth and the first whispers of night-blooming jasmine. There was no violence in this transition, only a rhythmic, inevitable grace. The sky didn't break; it simply transformed. The orange glow near the earth gave way to a deep, royal indigo above, a silent bridge between what was known and the mystery of what comes after the light.

To live a life that mirrors this sunset is to accept that the slowing of the pulse is not a failure, but a refinement. The quiet routines of a Tuesday grocery run and the steady pace of a dog’s walk were not the bars of a cage, but the steady, comforting ticking of a clock that has finally found its rhythm.

As the last sliver of the sun vanished beneath the horizon, a lingering afterglow remained—a soft, pearlescent light that held the world in a tender embrace. The stars began to punctuate the darkness, not as competitors to the sun, but as reminders of a different kind of vastness. The calm was not empty; it was full.

It was the realization that a peaceful life is a hard-won masterpiece, a tapestry woven from the threads of storms that have finally passed. To sit in the twilight and feel no need to run, no urge to manipulate the shadows, was perhaps the greatest chase of all. The day had passed, and in its wake, it left a stillness that was not just good—it was enough.