4. The Taking

Day 1

Marcus

I was so nervous about this for such a long time. I never, not for a moment, doubted that I would do I; the morality of it was never an issue. It was the getting-away-with-it part. But in the end . . . I'm a rich guy. And a smart one. And those are about all the superpowers you really need these days. In the end, I did it Dexter-style. Well, not quite. First I attached several microscopic GPS trackers to your school-bag, items of your clothing, mainly shoes that you wore often, and kept tracking you until I found a weak spot. Just a few minutes gap with no adults around, at the side of the school’s practice field facing the park, with no CCTV cameras. There is where I "did you" Dexter-style, a mere quick prick in the neck and then everything went fuzzy. And dark.

It was like that for a good, long while. I did not allow you to wake up until you were ready. Your bowels flushed by countless enemas. Your bladder emptied to the last drop with the use of a catheter. But I didn't leave any marks of having done those things, and I even replaced your clothes. The school-girl uniform: Scottish-style pleated skirt, dark blue, grey, and black, white shirt, dark blue overcoat. Socks, even the shoes I left on, just as they were the moment I grabbed you.

The one thing that was different was the collar around your neck: solid steel, an inch wide, locked in place with a sturdy lock, rather heavy on your tender neck. It was thicker than it needed to be, with Li-pol batteries inside, and electrodes on the inner side. Those would not be the ones causing the pain – well, not really. But that was yet to be experienced. The job was done so neatly that you will not know, until I use the collar, about the two hollowed-out molars on either side of your mouth, in your jaw, the points where the electric current will be felt with intensity that cannot be achieved anywhere else on the human body. Anywhere. I promise. And you can trust me; I'm quite the expert on matters of pain.

You wake up on the floor of a cell. It is cubical, three times three times three meters. Perfectly smooth plastic, walls, ceiling, and floor. There is a toilet, but the cover is down and locked in place with a lock. There is a sink, with a tap, but the tap likewise has a lock fixing it to a hook in the wall, making it impossible to turn on, no matter how hard you try. That's all. The door is so seamless that you cannot even identify where it is. If there are gaps through which air is supplied, you cannot see them. There certainly is not an obvious, movie-style grid leading to a spacious air-conditioning system offering an escape. No. This dungeon has been made by a sadistic genius, not by some Hollywood pretender.

A sadistic genius, yes. Me. I stand over you as you stir awake. Well over six feet tall, muscular, dark-skinned, but clearly Caucasian in my rough features and with my intense blue eyes. Wearing a loose pair of white pants – something people would wear for yoga or a meditation perhaps – very comfy, as is my t-shirt. I'm not dressed to impress. I'm dressed to feel good. That is the whole purpose of me being down here, as well as your purpose of being here, in fact your very being, full stop, from now on. Of course, you don't know that, yet. Your eyes still look fogged over a bit.

Laura

I awaken slowly, methodically, the process taking several minutes overall, from my first little groaning inhale, to the spasmodic twitching of the fingers of my left hand -- like a puppy's paw, chasing rabbits in its sleep. I am dreaming, a foggy dream, and in the dream, I am holding my head, for it hurts. It hurts with a dull, throbbing, deep-seated hurt, and in the dream I am clutching my head, leaning over, at the soccer field, asking Marissa who just threw the rock that hit me hard enough to make my head hurt this bad.

And then I am on the ground -- did I pass out? -- and it is hard. I moan softly as lucidity comes with difficulty. The ground is so hard. I am on my back. The dream fades away as I open my eyes, lids fluttering, squinting against the brightness. I am not at the soccer field. But my head hurts. I look up, my expression one of confusion. I see you -- a man -- is it coach? He is tall, looming. My eyes focus in on his face. It isn't coach. I moan as my head throbs. I move my right hand to the base of my nose and grasp it between thumb and forefinger. I look up at you again. "What happened?" I ask, in a thick, soft -- almost whispered -- little voice.

Marcus

I flick the switch on the small remote in my left hand briefly. It's just several volts, but flowing straight through nearly the entire length of the nerves of your molars, it's enough to feel agonizing, enough to force your jaw muscles into a cramp, clamping your mouth shut.

"Shh. Don't talk. As you can see, talking without permission hurts," I say in a rather soft, compassionate voice. "Don't talk. Just listen. Your life as you know it is over. Your whole world is now this dungeon, and to start, this cell of it. There is nothing else but this. Nowhere else but here. No one else but me. That means . . . whatever you need – water, food, even the air that you breathe – comes from me and is controlled by me. I can give and take it as I please. I own you and control every aspect of your life. I will come again soon, and you will undress, completely other than your collar, and you will tell me the three basic truths of your life now. There is nothing else but this. Nowhere else but here. No one else but me. And then I'll tell you more. Until that lesson is done, there will be no food, no water. Nothing. No light, either."

With that I leave, the door sliding open and then closing seamlessly. The room utterly, eerily quiet . . . and pitch-black dark. For minutes. Dozens of minutes. An hour, before the lights come back on and the wall slides open and I walk back in, looking at you expectantly with my piercing blue eyes.

Laura

I am still on my back, foggy, my head hurting, temples throbbing, when suddenly, a horrifying, deep-seated, agonizing pain erupts in my mouth, in my teeth, in my jaw. My eyes go wide as I squeal in pain, my little shape no longer prone and languid, as I draw my knees up, turn onto my front, grasping my jaw with both hands, groaning in agony, my knees driving my body head-down across the smooth plastic floor. My mouth clamps shut, biting hard -- I'll feel that later on in the sore muscles there.

It seems to last forever, but in fact is over almost before it starts. I gasp, a sobbing exhale of pain mixed with befuddlement and relief. I look up, at you, on my knees, clutching my jaw, my eyes horrified. I listen as you speak, working my jaw open and closed. My eyes are wide and fearful. I do not know what you mean at first when you mention my collar, but then my right hand drifts down and I feel it there for the first time -- cold, metallic, thick, heavy. My eyes glimmer with tears as I realize I am not dreaming. This is real. You are real.

I listen, in shock, emotions washing over me – terror, pain, and horror. I am stunned as you walk away. My eyes follow you -- I am about to call you back, call out to you. But I'm a smart girl, and something stops me. Something saves me. And then -- darkness. Utter, complete, inky black darkness. And quiet – stifling, thick, a complete absence of noise. I listen, head cocked, for ANY sound -- and hear none. I sit back, on my bottom, in the dark, on the smooth floor. I draw my knees up, clutching them to my chest. I begin to shiver, quaking with fear. I cry, too, for I am only 11 years old.

I have a long, wet, weepy little-girl cry. Shaking and crying, hugging myself. It lasts over 30 minutes, yet finally stops. I try to remember what the man said. There were three things -- three things and I have to take my clothes off. In front of him. But what were the three things? They were something like: “I am the only one here. You are here, too. This is the only place.” At least I think that's what they were. I sense that you will be unhappy if I get them wrong. It leaves a pit of worry in my tummy. I grasp absent-mindedly at my collar as I think, force myself to think. I dread having to take my clothes off. I sit there, my bottom falling asleep. But I don't want to move. The room is dark. Scary. And then the lights go on, startling me. I gasp, squinting, blinking, looking up at you.