The Captive (300 Words of Fiction)

His eyes were shut, and everything was dark.

He inhaled, sharply, snapping his head upright. It were as though life abruptly crashed into him. Slowly, he wiggled his toes. Pinky toes first, gradually working toward the big ones. He was alive, but that was all he knew with certainty.

He tried to blink, but his lids stayed shut. A sharp tightness pressed into his temples. Duct tape, he concluded. His head was wrapped with duct tape. It was dark, he couldn’t see, and he was blindfolded by duct tape.

Inhaling again, he took inventory: numbness in his butt, like using a toilet for too long. He was seated, and must have been seated for a while. His head throbbed and his neck ached. Movement of any sort was painful.

Movement.

He couldn't move. Zip ties bit into his wrists and ankles. He fought, frantically and aggressively, nearly tipping his seat, testing the limits of his constraints. But he was stuck.

His pulse accelerated. It was unbearable. It was a boxer bludgeoning his insides. His heart thwackthwackthwacked against his ribcage like a speedbag as he tried and failed to breathe without choking. He coughed and fought and struggled and grunted and shook his plastic cuffs with all his might but he was stuck he was stuck he was stuck.

BANG

He froze.

Somewhere in the distance, a click and the tink of small metal hitting concrete. The unmistakeable smack of skin and bone collapsing into concrete followed.

Then, not a sound.

His chest boxer froze with him. Time became malleable. Seconds expanded.

Then, steps.

The click and echo of dress shoes in an empty space grew larger. Slow and steady, the sound grew louder. Not a word, not a breath, not a thwack. All was silent, and the steps drew near.