The Weight of Small Things

By day three of being tied to a chair, Bailey’s wrists were raw from the cheap rope. His mind was awash with guilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I come back here?

He walked away unscathed seven years ago.

“You’re a fool, Bailey.” The woman in front of him taunted. Not a stranger—his former boss. Back when she still pretended to like him, her saying his name was exciting.

His frantic eyes scanned her, the room.

She scoffed at him and bustled out of the room. The shriek from the door was awful. When Bailey winced, she swung it open again just to watch him flinch. Her laugh echoed down the long hallway as she walked down it. The door remained open, just enough that Bailey had a sliver to see the hallway.

The hallway’s scent drifted in on the cool air. His heart skipped as the mixture of Deanna’s perfume and oak flooded his nose. His wife’s hair smelled of the same one. He hadn’t expected that to hurt.

Bailey’s nostrils flared, fighting for air. He forced himself to steady his breathing. The door—still ajar—was tantalizing. A mistake? Deanna never made mistakes. Or she claimed she didn’t. He used to admire that confidence.

His tongue scraped against the rough cloth gag. It only came off for scant meals and water.

When is the next one? He’d pass on so many snacks.

Now he was thinking about snacks. Great. He shook his head.

He stared at the tools. He wasn’t sure if Deanna knew how to hold someone hostage: a scalpel, a hammer, a Tamagotchi, a rosary, grape jelly, and a single folded napkin.

Embarrassment, loneliness, fear—they all pressed in. Thoughts of his wife and daughters crept back despite everything he’d done to keep them out.

He blamed the Tamagotchi. His eldest daughter wanted one. He hadn’t gotten it. Why? Why didn’t he? She asked so softly. Even promised to share with her little sister.

The thought of never seeing them again was sharp.

The pain of failing them stung worse than the rope. He swallowed it down. Not here. Not now.

He heard Deanna shuffle down the hallway. She hovered just outside the door, only her shoulder visible. Why wasn’t she coming in?

“Daddy?”

Bailey thrashed instantly, instinct overriding everything.

She has her.

His daughter sounded like when she wanted him to lean in for a secret.

The cheap rope cut deeper.

The cloth bit the corners of his mouth.

He tried to yell he loved her,

—he was coming—

—he was sorry—

—he loved her—

—he would be with her—

Until he heard it. Laughter.

Deanna kicked the door open, revealing a recording snippet looping on her phone as she cackled.

“You always thought you were so clever,” she managed between heaves of laughter. One arm stayed behind her back.

In a flash, she’s all business. “Children are off-limits. No physical harm no matter what.” She stepped into the room, the fluorescent lighting doing nothing for her aging features.

Bailey’s pulse hammered at his temples.

“Look at you—all bloody now.” She shook her head.

His vision buzzed with adrenaline. He couldn’t look away. He was furious. She was a trainwreck. What happened to her?

“You’ve always been an embarrassment. To me. Your friends. Your family. Stop—you’ll cut yourself more,” Deanna brought her other arm forward and sprayed him with a bottle.

A stream hit him square in the forehead.

He blinked in astonishment. The water seeped into the cloth, and despite himself, he sucked every drop he could from it. He thought of the half-empty bottles rolling around in his jeep. How he’d give anything to hear them tumble around now. His wife always teased him for never finishing a drink.

His eyes flicked to the Tamagotchi. His mind drifted to his daughter—feeding her those first few meals without her needing help. She’d only been born minutes ago. How was she already growing so fast?

“I can see your montage of failure in your eyes.” Deanna smiles, sidling up to him. “Thirsty?”

She unscrewed the bottle, wrenched his head back, and tipped it toward his mouth.

Bailey’s adam’s apple bobbed in anticipation.

Deanna stopped.

The water hovered at the lip of the bottle—so close.

She leaned in, breath hot. Bailey saw layers of unforgiving makeup cracking through her wrinkles. He smelled the off-brand powder—too dry, too chalky, the kind his wife once told him to never buy again. He wanted so badly to buy his wife and daughters all the makeup they wanted.

He lunged, startling her. Her grip slipped.

Water splashed onto Bailey’s face before as the bottle fell, clipping his nose. He caught a single gulp. He cleared his throat—comfortably—for the first time in three days.

Deanna regained her composure, picked up the bottle, and set it on the table with the rest of her tools. Bailey kept is eyes on her, not the table. He already knew where everything was.

He studied her.

Rushed makeup.

A tang of sweat underneath the oak perfume.

A hesitation—choosing what to use next.

She felt his stare. She straightened, did a quick double take, and chose.

“The Nuns of Shum Way. A brutal sect. Heard of them?” She dangled the rosary in front of him, unscrewed it—the longer end revealing a pile of white powder. She held it up to his nostrils. He held his breath.

“I can wait. Can you?”

They locked eyes and Bailey sniffed quickly. He didn’t blink as heat flared through his nose, racing through his veins, lifting him up from the inside.

Deanna chuckled. She cleared the water bottle, set the hammer upright on its head, wooden handle jutting up. She turned on the Tamagotchi and hung it behind him. She took scalpel and etched something on the back of the door, then smeared jelly over it. She unfolded the napkin ad pressed it into the mess.

She turned, smiled—and left, twirling the scalpel.

Again, the door stayed ajar.

The lights snapped off.

Bailey jolted.

A sliver of light caught the upright hammer. The jelly glistened just enough to reveal the word FAILURE carved into the door, the napkin’s corner dangling from the L like a cheap Halloween prop.

The powder made his blood itchy. His eyes struggled to focus. He tried to anchor himself on the hammer, but it warped, stretching into the shape of a tall, reaching figure.

What is happening?

He blinked at FAILURE. Its edges buzzed. Something fluttered.

A ghost?

Yes—a tiny ghost. It peeled itself off the door, read the word, turned toward Bailey, shaking its head. It fluttered around him and perched on the hammer. Like the hammer was wearing a little dress.

The cute little ghost shimmered then stretched upward, limbs forming, its shape swelling into his wife’s silhouette—backlit, soft, impossible.

She was beautiful.

She was furious.

“I can’t believe you forgot our anniversary!” she shouted.

Bailey tried to apologize, but the cloth smothered the words.

“You missed her first day of school.” She turned toward him, arms crossed, disappointment radiating off her. He squirmed in his chair. Why couldn’t he move? He thought of carrying his daughters to bed when they fell asleep on the couch. Now he couldn’t lift a finger.

He looked down and the world folded inward.

When he looked up again, her face was wrong, features stretched like a caricature. He blinked, and she shifted again, larger, harsher, her mouth too big for her face.

He shouldn’t have come back.

He shouldn’t have—

She lunged, her distorted mouth opening wide, and the world swallowed him whole.

Darkness.

A chirrup.

Hungry.

Right? That’s what that sound meant. He spun in the dark, searching.

Another chirrup—sharper this time.

It needed to be fed.

Why wasn’t anyone feeding it?

Whose was it?

His?

No—

His daughter’s.

Where was she?

He needed to feed her.

Both daughters.

His wife.

He cried.

Chirrup

He sobbed.

Chirrup

The chirrup sounded almost like his daughter’s laugh.

Bailey came to with a shock—or maybe he’d never fully passed out. His head throbbed, his throat burned, and the darkness clung to him like a bitter wet cloth.

A breath snapped in the doorway.

Deanna.

She muttered something under her breath and walked to the table. Bailey kept his head low, suppressing the itch in his throat.

Chirrup!

Her Tamagotchi.

Deanna stepped behind him and unhooked it, the tiny device chirping again in protest. When he was sure her back was turned, Bailey lifted his head.

The fluorescent light hit his eyes like a slap. He kept his gaze locked on the back of her head—the greasy roots, the stiff shoulders, the sale oak perfume clinging to her like regret.

She hadn’t bathed.

He assumed he passed out for a night. Or two?

She turned.

Bingo.

Bailey smirked as she jumped, hand flying to her chest before she yanked it down, rage flashing in her eyes. He blinked his own in relief—a tiny victory. He’d take any victory he could get. Even the petty ones.

She stalked over to him, scalpel in hand. She held the blade close to his eye.

“Jump like yesterday.”

Day four, then.

He focused on that while the edge blurred in front of him. A tear slid down his cheek. Deanna traced its path with the scalpel, grinning. Her breath hit him—rancid, sour, crawling into his nose and dying there.

He wanted to judge, but he knew his wasn’t any better. He missed his wife’s morning breath.

A sharp tug—the cloth ripped from his mouth, taking a layer of skin with it. He gasped, coughing hard, lungs shocked by the sudden freedom.

“How was—” he coughed, “—the divorce?”

She smacked him. Hard.

His headache split wider.

“Hit a nerve,” he said.

“You’re sitting in your own filth,” she snarled.

“Well, whose fault is that?”

They stared at each other.

“You’re a failure.” Deanna snapped.

“At what? Surviving you?”

“I have you now.”

“Do you?”

“You’re here. You came back.”

“You’ve never left.”

Her jaw dropped—nothing came out.

“How was prison?” he asked.

“Something you couldn’t survive.”

“Sure. You got me there.”

“You would never understand. Every morning. For seven years straight. I woke up in a small cell wondering if I was going to die that day.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t know—you’ve only had me for four days.”

Deanna laughed, caught herself, raised the scalpel again.

“I thought I could trust you,” she said, voice trembling.

“You trusted me to do the right thing.”

“But at my expense.”

“The definition of embezzlement negates that.”

“You cost me my life. My husband.”

“You cost yourself your life. How did your daughter feel sitting in court?”

That landed. He saw it. A crack in her armor.

Deanna’s face twisted. She thrust the scalpel toward him—wild, unfocused jabs that never came close. Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them on the inside of her elbow, steadied herself, and held the blade out again.

Bailey leaned toward it; eyes locked on hers.

They stared.

Deanna blinked at him. Once. Twice.

“Oh. Oh, oh. I see it now. You’re good.”

Bailey shrugged. “I’ve had practice.”

She paced, muttering, then spun. “You think you’re clever.”

“I think I’m tied to a chair.”

They fake-laughed.

“Enough,” Deanna flitted the scalpel through her fingers with practiced ease.

“Learn that in prison?”

Her jaw twitched, “Tell me, Bailey, why did you come back?”

“Matt asked me to.”

Deanna stumbled back. “You’re lying.”

“I’m lying as much as I am walking.”

“Stop that! You’re not allowed to be funny. You talk to Matt?” The scalpel dipped.

“Sure.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What else did he say? You know exactly what I mean.”

Chirrup!

Bailey froze. His daughter’s Tamagotchi was hungry. Bailey’s resolve diminished.

Deanna zeroed in. “Ooh. Of all things here—the Temu-Goodie.”

“Tamagotchi.” He whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Tamagotchi.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure.”

“Stop it. You’re saying it like ‘shore’.”

“Sure.”

“Stop it!”

“Do you sleep on the couch even though you live alone?”

He missed sleeping on the couch during fights with his wife. His daughters cuddling him half of the night.

Her face flared red. “Where is Matt?”

“It’s been seven years, Deanna. Move on. He has.”

“You should have stayed gone.”

“But then you wouldn’t know where Matt is.”

She inhaled sharply, confused how she was losing ground while he was tied up.

“You want to go there, don’t you.” He thought of home—crumbs on the carpet, toys underfoot, the soft grunts his girls made as they slept curled in his arms. The kind of details you only truly value when you fear you’ll lose them.

“Where?”

“Untie me and I’ll help.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, Deanna. Who was the woman embezzling thousands from me years ago? In lieu of raise, you pocketed it yourself and told me nothing. Where’s that tenacity? That drive?”

“Right here,” She smiled, lowering the scalpel.

Her eyes darted around the room. She looked like someone who’d run out of people to ask for help. The weight of her choices pressed in—the same way the last four days had pressed on Bailey. Not for a fifth, he promised himself.

Deanna lifted the scalpel. “I don’t—”

Chirrup!

“Bah!” She hurled it against the wall.

Bailey swallowed the rage rising inside him. “That was getting as annoying as the quality of my kidnapper.” He kept his voice steady. It wasn’t his daughter’s real one—but it wasn’t hers to ruin.

“Tell me. Where. He. Is.” Each word punctuated with a poke of the scalpel into this thigh.

“Use the hammer, instead. Really go for it.”

She paused.

“What? If you’re going to poke, poke. My thirst hurts worse.”

She picked up the hammer.

“Do I need to guide you? Am I your first?” Bailey straightened in the chair.

“Stop it.”

“No, I want to play now.”

“Stop.”

“I’m all tied up and nowhere to go.”

“Quit.”

“Why? You came in here laughing at a video of my daughter from years ago. I want to laugh. Ha. Ha. It’s my turn.”

“What?”

“Oh, Deanna. One is a hammer. One is a scalpel.”

“I get—”

“Do you?”

“What are you doing?”

“Explaining your next move since it’s your first hostage situation.”

“You’re not my first.”

Bailey blinked. “Plot twist. I’ll give you that one. Doesn’t make you good at this. That’s a lot to unpack for right now, though. So how about this—use the scalpel, cut me out, and we get you to South Dakota to see Matt. How’s that sound?”

Deanna brightened—a weight lifted off her shoulders. “South Dakota? He’s in South Dakota? Where?”

“You have to cut me out. That’s the deal. Hurry. You got this. I figure you’re living down the hallway. I go and wash the last week off me here—because, you know, kidnap funk. Least you could do, right? Then we get you sent off. To Matt. Sound good?”

He used his name like bait.

She nodded her head slowly and sliced through the rope. Then she stepped back, still holding the hammer and scalpel. “It’s called Boomerang Alley. Last time I talked to him he sold his car to the Whalens.”

She mouthed the words to herself, eyes flicking to him.

“I pack and leave while you shower. Do not follow me.”

“Trust me. I don’t want to go there.”

“No—you’re supposed to say you don’t want to follow me.”

“Sure.”

She glared and stomped away, taking her time, knowing his legs were weak.

Bailey pushed off the chair, collapsed, and crawled toward the Tamagotchi. The little cat was hungry. His daughter used to pat his cheeks when she wanted something—the same rhythm of the chirrup. He fed it. It chirruped with happiness.

The sound cut deeper than he expected.

He clutched the Tamagotchi and crawled into the hallway. Deanna’s oak perfume clung to the air the way he clung to the thought of getting home.

He found a bathroom. Turned on the water. Cold.

“Oh, Bailey,” Deanna called through the bathroom door. He froze—naked, exhausted. “Sorry for kidnapping you.”

“It’s fine.”

“And sorry the stealing thousands of dollars from you.”

“Things happen.”

“Bailey? The hot water doesn’t work.”

The final straw.

He pressed his forehead against the cold shower tile. For a moment, he let himself miss them.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come back here,” he shouted.