Calling Mr. Nelson Pugh ✔️

*** BREATHE IN *** Part 1

"Now look what you've done," he started. "This is not slow, not savoring the experience. You've ruined it. This is too early."

Something to that effect. I couldn't have cared less what he was saying in that instant. I snapped.

"You... You son of a...," I stammered. "What have you..." The channel kept flipping, rapid, like a radio set to seek. "If you've hurt her, then I'll..."

The voice on the line calmed, regaining its quiet composure. "Finish a thought, Nelson."

Yes, finish a thought. Your wife could be dying. Yet only one thought held firm. I had to speak to Eleanor.

"Put her on the phone."

"I don't think she wants to talk right, now."

"Put her on the phone!" I screamed.

"You really should watch that temper. Especially as this is your fault. We were having a civil conversation and you had the impertinence to yawn, as if it meant nothing to you. That is not how one carries himself in polite discourse."

Perhaps it was my fault. If I had called sooner, if I hadn't been lost in my own stupid anxiety, if I hadn't taken my pills, then perhaps I could have seen the signs in time to get Eleanor and our daughters out of there. Now she, my Elly, was at the mercy of this madman. In the background I could hear her. One moment she wailed and the next she whimpered. Back and forth she vacillated between the two, wailing until she could wail no more, then murmuring softly until her strength rebuilt; then the screaming returned. Yet with each scream-whimper cycle her volume lessened bit by bit.

My throat constricted. I had been married to this woman for eighteen years. She was the mother of my children and the woman with which I shared a bed. She was the woman who had seen past all of my flaws and found something within me to love. I gathered what strength I could and spoke.

"Leave her alone."

"I doubt that is what you truly want. What do you know about stomach wounds, Nelson?"

I let my breath slip. The action came automatically. I had't wanted to give this man that satisfaction, but I knew enough to know that if this psychopath had stabbed my wife in the stomach, there was little that anyone could do for her now. Depending on where she had been stabbed, and how deep, she could have fifteen minutes left, or fifteen hours, but her chances were against survival.

"It's a painful way to die. Slow and agonizing," the man continued. "What you want now is mercy – a quick death. If you do as I say, I'll grant her that. Your daughters, too."

Judging from what I had gathered that this man had in store for my family, I knew he was right; a quick death would be merciful. Yet the police would be on their way by now. I did not hear the sirens, but my family lived in the country, so that did not surprise me. They needed time for the police to arrive, and that's what I had to give them.

Time to die slowly and painfully. Time to suffer... time to drift... away...

Wham! I bit into my lip as I slammed the drawer of the nightstand against my left hand with a sickening crunch! Bones shattered and the flesh bruised, while a fresh stream of blood poured from my severed lip. But I hadn't screamed, and I hadn't drifted away.

"What was that?" the man asked.

If I was going to save my family, any of them, I had to make this man feel in control. In that moment, I knew it. The man on the line got off on control, no, power. He was probably hard as a rock just dicking with me, the lives of my wife and daughters in the balance. Yet, control would give them time.

"I hit the wall. It was stupid. Now please, put my wife on the phone."

"First tell me, shall I leave her alone or shall I put her out of her misery. The choice is yours," came the voice.

"I need to speak to her first."

"And I need an answer."

"And you'll have it. But let me say goodbye." My voice trembled. I had to speak to Eleanor. Everything hinged on her.