Hostage Situation

“Help!” I yelled as my right hand throbbed to the point that my fingers grew numb. “Somebody help us!”

My own voice didn’t sound loud at all. It sounded more like someone who had never spoken a word in his life and had just now found his voice.

“HELP!” a nearby female voice screamed.

Now she was LOUD, such that her voice bounced off the walls!

I looked across the room at the woman, light-skinned and dark-haired like me, only her hair was long and wavy. Her feet were bare like mine, and she was wearing a flowery leotard. Her right arm was bound to a pipe running vertically up the wall—much like mine.

To her left was a dark stairway leading upward — to freedom.

Inday! My sister! My brain screamed as I opened my mouth to speak, yet with no words forthcoming.

I reached out towards her with my free hand, while she did likewise, her eyes drooping. “Christopher!” she cried with a hollow voice. “My brother!”

A quick scan revealed a small, dimly lit room somewhere underground, with a single chair just shy of the center. Against my wall lay a long table, large enough to accommodate a man. At the end nearest me, a wheel was attached to a long brown handle. But what really made my skin tingle were the leather straps hanging off either side, buckles glinting.

I glanced at the rusted vertical pipe behind me and tested the cuffs. I winced as the chain rattled and my hand throbbed anew. I wiggled my fingers; it felt like my hand ended directly at the palm.

I tapped at the cuff with my free hand. The steel was icy to the touch, with no space between my skin and the loop.

I grabbed the chain and yanked at it, careful not to move my other hand. Let me go! Let me go! I pleaded inwardly.

The pipe refused to budge, and the floor chilling the soles of my feet didn’t help, either.

“HELP!” screamed my sister once more, directing my attention forward. “Somebody help us!”

I watched desperately as she tugged at her cuff, grimacing and grunting. Her pipe refused to budge, and her chain rattled almost as loudly as mine.

She glanced at the stairway, then back at me with droopy eyes.

My heart skipped as I took in the sight behind the chair.

A man stood there, his vest and boots pitch black, holding a red stick — about three feet in length, maybe four — with appendages sticking out at the end resembling needles. His piercing blue eyes settled on me, making me jump. Though his face was obscured by a dark ski mask, I could tell he wasn’t smiling.

Inday trembled as our captor turned his attention toward her, making her shrink away towards the wall and hug it with one arm.

He sauntered towards my sister, waving his stick. I tugged at my chain with my free hand and gritted my teeth. I couldn’t let him hurt my sister. I just couldn’t—not without letting my parents down.

The woman whimpered as the baton suddenly crackled, spitting out tiny sparks of energy.

“NO!” I shouted as I rushed forward.

“OUCH!” I screamed as a new surge of pain erupted in my wrist and yanked me backward.

I fiddled with the handcuffs, shaking the chain as Inday pleaded with a cracked voice, “No. Please. Let us go.”

Our torturer stood with his back toward me, blocking my view.

“No!” I shouted, the cuffs rattling as I shook my right arm weakly.

The man brought the baton closer — about twelve inches from Inday’s heaving ribs from what little I could see of her.

“NO!” I shouted again, balling my left hand into a fist. “Zap me! Not her! Me! Let my sister go! Let! Her! Go!”

He ignored me, moving the zap‑stick slowly downward, inches from my sister’s bare thigh. I shuddered as my eyes drifted to the ceiling. Would that thing hurt less if he poked her over her swimsuit?

My thought shattered as a shrill “YIKES!” echoed throughout the room.

“INDAY!” I screamed as I bolted forward again, only to be yanked backward by harsh, cold steel.

The man moved aside to revealing Inday — now a quivering, kneeling, barefoot mess—massaging her thigh gently.

My heart skipped as the man directed his attention toward me, his gaze no less intense. His footsteps sounded heavy as I gazed upward. “Please don’t let him do to me what he did to Inday,” I muttered.

How stupid of me — begging for mercy for myself when he gave my sister none! I thought, biting my lip. I should’ve prayed for escape or rescue—for both of us!

I straightened as he approached, twirling his baton. Blue sparks jumped from the end, emitting a hissing sound that made my heart race faster.

He stopped a foot away from me and reached out, the zap‑stick hovering close to my exposed ribcage. I backed away until my bare back pressed the wall behind me. A cold chill ran down my spine, both figuratively and literally. How should I handle this? I wondered as I gripped the chain with my free hand. Any movement would provoke him, and then I’ve had it.

I watched, breathing heavily as it moved downward, the prongs inches from my ribs. It descended to my waist, and then my leg.

I closed my eyes, Tight. Maybe if I made my mind a literal blank slate…

A faint crackle…

“OWWWWW!” I screamed as I fell to my knees, my right arm suspended such that it stretched painfully.

“Christopher!” Inday screamed.

A sharp sudden sting flared up on my thigh, like being attacked by three angry hornets at once. My dark corduroy pants were apparently, how shall I say it, not thick enough.

My body quaked and my heart skipped as the man backed away and pulled off his mask.

I hyperventilated as I looked up at him — our torturer, twenty years older than us approximately, with fair skin, a blond crewcut, and his face twisted into a scowl that pierced through me.

I felt my chest with my unbound hand. My heart still pounded furiously, yet no pain. Thank goodness! Or was it? It would’ve been better for me to die of a heart attack—and at eighteen years old to boot—than to suffer this kind of torment. But I couldn’t. Not with Inday,

A hollow clutter drew my attention towards the chair, and I saw the baton spin towards it, along the floor, and then stop.

A loud jingle re-directed my attention towards our torturer holding a set of keys in his hand. I held my breath as he approached me first. Was it over? I wondered, watching—and wincing—as he grabbed my cuff.

A loud click, followed by a hollow ratchet.

I released a heavy sigh as my right arm dropped to the floor. Pain flared anew as it made contact with the floor, making me yelp.

I wiggled my fingers on the right hand while gently lifting it off the ground. Still numb.

I pushed myself up with my left hand, trying as much as possible to avoid any contact with my other wrist. It wasn’t easy, as my left wrist wobbled, but I managed to rise to my knees.

I looked back and there they were, those unforgiving handcuffs, dangling from the pipe by one bracelet, taunting me with cold silence, the memory of its steel grip, and its ever looming threat of another grip that teased of pain more constricting than the last batch.

All while his footsteps echoed throughout the room.

I placed my left hand over my chest once more. My heartbeat slowed.

Slightly.

I brought my right wrist up to my face.

A bright red circle. Is this permanent? I asked myself silently.

I carefully tapped at the mark with my left hand and grunted as my fingers sank into my wrist, practically into my flesh. A fresh wave of pain washed over older blankets of pain. It was like someone placing blanket upon blanket over you, only you can’t escape and they hurt!

All because of that bright, red circle!

“Christopher!” I heard Inday call. “My brother!”

I pushed myself to my feet — literally, with both hands — my right wrist screaming as I did so, and I ran towards Inday, gasping simultaneously as the sting flared up again near my ribcage. I threw myself to my knees, practically skidding, and hugged her tightly with my good arm.

“Inday! Inday!” I cried, looking deep into her brown eyes and brushing aside her hair with my chin. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, man!” Inday sniffled, still rubbing her thigh. “That thing stung!”

I glanced at her swimsuit, then at her thigh. “At least,” I said with a weak voice, barely snorting. “He didn’t get you on your leotard. Hate to see it ruined.”

“You’re joking even now?” Inday asked, indignation tinging her weakened voice.

“Just trying to stay positive,” I replied breathily. “That’s what faith is about, after all.”

I gazed upon Inday’s right wrist. Reddened and raw, just like mine.

I closed my left hand—gently, I might add—around her right wrist, and it was like pressing into a sponge.

“Don’t!” Inday screeched like a newly hurt kitten. “It’s still tender!”

“Sorry,” I squeaked as I withdrew my hand.

I gritted my teeth as both sets of pain blazed afresh. I made a silent vow to distance my left hand away from my right. No sense torturing my wrist again, only at my own—pardon the pun—hands.

“For cheekiness,” barked the torturer, drawing my attention back to him. “That!”

My eyes followed his finger as he pointed at the baton lying beside the chair.

“Whenever you two come here,” he continued, “I expect you both to treat this school — and me — with the proper respect!”

My gaze dropped at the word ‘respect.’

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Inday let out a clipped hiss, like a snake trying to get out a human word.

“Is that clear?” barked our captor, having our full attention.

“Y‑yes, Sir,” I shouted, trembling and my heart skipping once more.

“Y‑yes, M‑Mr. Rougeau, Sir,” stammered my sister, her voice more suited for a little girl’s than a woman my age—my exact age.

“Good,” he barked. “Now you two kids get back upstairs and continue your in-ring training. And remember — some trainers in this business slam harder than me.”