Chosen

Thursday

Edited as of 9-2-16

Thursday:

    I can't think. The pain throbbing in my side forces me from coherent thought. I sleep lightly in this upright position. Every time my head lolls to the side the throbbing increases in my side and I wake again. The adrenaline that had once coursed through my blood has left me, making the pain intolerable. I cry quite a bit, despite the efforts I make to try and stop myself. I could almost swear I can feel my blood seeping down my side, even though the man had bandaged the wound.

It is one of these moments I find myself sleeping. I am jolted awake, only this time I am awoken by the screeching of the door opening. The smell assaults my nose again. But then it is gone as quickly as it had come.

Did I have an answer this time? No? What was I going to say? What have I been doing these last few hours-days? He was going to stab me again, only this time I was going to die. I probe my brain for an answer to the question I know he will ask. But he says something I do not expect, but I am glad he speaks anyway. It gives me more time to think.

"Your parents have issued missing person ads for you nearly everywhere, and to think it has been less than 24 hours since you have gone missing. But your parents must be very persuasive or maybe just rich because they have the police searching for you too. Or maybe someone saw something, but I saw no one. Your friends at school have rallied half of the school to look for you as well. But no one is looking here for you, so don't build your hopes up."

But it was hard not to, and I need something in this darkness, something that will keep me going. Then I am thinking, they are doing all of this for me? I wonder also why this man chose me in the first place.

He continues, "Now seems like as good a time as any. What are your last words?"

I hurry for anything. I can hear him step closer to me and I say the first thing that pops into my head, "It only seems fair that if you are going to ask me a question I should be able to ask you a question. Since you are sooooo about fairness."

"Interesting. I have never heard any of them say that, usually they say something like 'please don't hurt me'," He pitches his voice to mimic some weak being. Do I sound like that?

"What I am wondering," He continues, "is if those are your last—"

"I was being perfectly serious," I quickly interrupt before he decides to stab me again. The thought of it makes my previous wound ache more.

"Okay then, I see . . . let me think for a minute." He is silent. And since it is no longer raining I can't tell any meaning of the time, but I can still smell the dampness in the air. My back aches as well, from being in the same position for such a long time. I wiggle my hands around and feel the leather straps digging deeper into my skin drawing blood from the scabs. The warm liquid runs down and drips off of my wrist.

Finally he says, "I can see that being fair. However you cannot ask for my name, or any other personal information, like where you are, or the names of my other interviewees."

"How will I even know you are telling the truth or not? You could lie to me the whole time."

"Yes, I can see why you would think that. To you I am only a murderer, but I have not lied to you yet, and that is one thing I will never do. I have never been a liar, and I am not about to start now."

I think about this for a minute before hastily adding, "Okay, I will go first."

The man laughs emphatically, filling the room with his deep roar. It terrifies me; then again everything this man does scares me. I am afraid to even speak. Yet somehow I have been doing remarkably well.

"All right, I can tell already that you are going to last longer than all of the other interviews. I have finally chosen the right person."

"How long did they last?" I ask on impulse, and I would have instantly have kicked myself if I had been able. Of all the things I should have asked, this stupid question has taken its place.

"They varied. Some lasted only four tries, others as many as ten. But even if they had succeeded, I don't think they would have made it. Now what are your last words?"

"Death can only be miles away from this pain," I say, although I know that is not what he is looking for. I try to sound poetic, but it just comes out like crap. Like some big author who has written an amazing first book, but when they write the sequel it comes out as an echo of crap from the first one. I say it anyway because there is nothing else I can say. I hear his footsteps as he approaches. I try to move away but of course I can't. I can only brace myself.

I bellow out as he stabs me, confirming what I already knew. My answer is not good enough. I weep and try to keep my breathing even, but I keep gasping and holding my breath even though I'm struggling for air. I couln't even see this man as he approached to stab me, I am a helpless pup at the mercy of a corrupted master.

"Why me?" I weep, "Why me?"

"Because I like the way you talk, the words you use, the sassiness about you."

Do I really have those qualities, because right now I feel everything but sassy. I feel weak, hallow, like a worm.

He continues anyway, "Especially the way you speak to your friends."

So, he knew me well enough to know my name, my friends, and our conversations. I must have seen him at least once before. I frisk my brain for an image of this man, or who he could be. (Who did I know with that voice? Who did I know with a muscular build and brown hair? )There are just too many possibilities. I take a deep breath as he asks again. . .

"What are your last words?"

Not. One. Word. The stab that accompanies my silence is just as painful as the first and second. I weep longer. I can feel the blood running down my side like thick syrup. He exits the room without saying anything else to me.