His Desires

Chapter 3: Officially Acquainted

The temptation to wipe that smug look of his face is there. I know because I feel the tingles in my palms above my head where they are trapped in his grasp. I imagine the stubble that shades across his jaw is rough like sandpaper on my skin. The sound of slapping is a melodic sympathy in my ears which leaves me twitching under his piercing stare. If only he would let go of my hands, I'd grab his head and put it in a headlock. I'd wrap the excess chain around his throat and strangle him, whilst slamming his skull against the wall. A gory job I suspect but otherwise effective.  Even if the functioning part of my brain tells me it's impossible to do such a thing, the thought comforts me somehow. In a reality of my own, I would be physically capable to commit such an atrocity, rather than weakness overshadowing my actions. 

"I suspect that you want to kill me, yes?" The man questions broodingly.

His voice doesn't spark annoyance or fear within me. Instead my breath seizes while my stomach churns. Kill. My body shakes from the thought and the room is suddenly cold again. Too many questions I ask myself that dwindles my moment of bravado. I suspect it's my conscious - or my, say I don't know, my track record of  never killing a person before?  This angers me greatly for he  is the reason I am here in shackles.  Yet  I can't muster the courage to inflict any harm. A small amount of harm - possibly - even more - but not anything life threatening? He juggles my life in his hands effortlessly, a small clench of his fist and I'm dead. 

"I just want to know why. Why follow me, like you said before, for so long? What is the purpose of this kidnapping when you could have just introduced yourself, like a normal person." Normal, the world feels like acid on my tongue. Normal is a word I cannot associate him with.

He chuckles. "If you want to play twenty questions than all you have to do is ask." He strokes the tips of his fingers across my left cheek. I slap his hand away.

"Do you think you could not touch me for one fucking second and answer my questions? It's the least you can do." I ask, irritated.

"On the contrary Amalia, I haven't touched you enough. But yes, indeed you have a point."

I huff in annoyance. 

"But first," he says, "Lets have dinner - spinach and lemon polpette sounds delightful. I assume you must be hungry?" 

"You assume right." I answer, managing to inject enough sarcasm to furrow his brow. 

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Amalia. Remember that."

 I was about to reply but his glare rendered my mouth shut. I'll remember, maybe - at least for now. 

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a set of keys. They jingle against his fingers, the sound harmonious to my ears. Relief floods through my body, warming the blood in my veins and makes my heart flutter like bird wings. He presses his body against mine as he pushes my arms up to form a straight line. I feel pressure on my shoulder from the tip of the key where he presses it on my skin. Slowly, he trails the key across my left arm, the cool metal raises the hair on my skin and tingles it slightly. The space between us is silent, only our uneven breaths are heard. He doesn't look at me, his eyes are completely focused on the task in front of him. 

The key reaches the cuff  and a soft click is heard, just like that the metal falls from my wrist and hits the floor with a small clang. My arm hastily draws back to my chest. I clench and flex my fingers to regain feeling again, the simple movement non existent for they are too numb. A  sharp tingling sensation travels through my palm and doubles once the right cuff hits the floor. 

"All done. I would apologise for the indecent hospitality, but . . . certain matters call for drastic measures, as they say." The man sounded contrite.