*****
So this isn’t good. Really bad in fact. My head is pounding. I can’t speak, it feels like there’s something over my mouth. My arms hurt, god do they hurt and why on earth can’t I move them. My eyes feel blurry and I can’t keep them open. Got to concentrate. What the hell is going on here? Got to
Whoa. Was that a dream? No, I’m still here. Why does my room keep spinning around me? God, my hands, my arms. I look up. Ouch, that hurt my neck. Okay, why are my hands tied above my head, why are they tied to the ceiling light? Why’s there tape over my mouth? This is a bad situation I think. I just can’t reach the floor and
Suddenly something, a hand, a rough hand, grabs my face and pulls me round and I’m looking into a man’s face, into his black eyes and stinking breath and he’s very very close to me and his hand is clamped over my jaw and God does it hurt and I’m thinking
“Now you fucking listen to me” spit comes out as he talks and it enters my mouth and I feel sick but there’s not a lot I can do and don’t throw up I can feel the bile in my stomach and I can see the anger in his eyes
“This is your only warning. John Paris. That is closed. That doesn’t re-open, you understand me?”
“Mmmmmm” I say through the tape, nodding my head vigorously.
He’s looking straight at me, straight into me, he’s not saying anything just staring and I’m thinking Jesus, he knows, he knows doesn’t he, oh no. And slowly, deliberately, still holding my face, he reaches into his pocket with his free hand and takes out a switchblade, opening it up in front of me. I can feel the sweat run down my face, drip onto his hand, I can see into his eyes, I can feel the heat of the blade as it touches my cheek, I can feel the blood before I feel the pain, but I can feel the pain and all that time he’s looking deeply, silently at me as he draws the blade downwards, as I can feel it slice through my t-shirt, ripping it apart. And then he lets go and looks down and he’s cutting me, cutting my chest and I want the pain to stop, I want to be able to hold my hand over my face and stop the blood and all this time he’s still doing something, still cutting and god do I want him to stop I want to moan and cry but I can’t, can’t cry that would just make it worse and then he stops. Steps back. Studies my chest. Nods. Reaches up. Cuts the rope holding me up and I tumble to the floor and I can just seem him walk away and softly close my front door. And then I cry
Kings of the Night Page 19
