Alicia Atkins

There's too little light to make out more than its shape.

I start to rock side to side like some ridiculous mashup of turtle and crab.

I want to see his face.

But the boot rises up and comes down on my back with force.

A sob pushes out of my diaphragm through lips that are desiccated wastelands.

I might as well have just been a bare mandible, stripped of flesh and tendon and sinew for all the power I have to speak.

He stoops to me, and I feel his hands under my chin, lifting, bending my spine backwards.

He makes a funny sound, and it's a moment before I realize what it is.

He's giggling, and then I feel flecks of spittle on my neck.

He has begun talking to himself.

so low under his breath that I make out no words, just the obscene delight in his tone.

His obscene delight as he drags me into the living room, then loops another long plastic strand around my neck, bending me painfully even further back to secure it to my feet.

When he lets go, the tie bites into the flesh of my neck until I wrench my own spine back miserably.

straining to bring my head toward my feet.

The plastic restraint loosens just enough that I can catch my breath.

He's still talking to himself, nearly inaudible.

I'm here, but what's going on in his own head is paramount to him.

He doesn't feel the need to communicate.

Not yet.

I recognize him now.