MASON Marks, what have you gotten yourself into?
Strung up like a piñata. A pounding headache. The effects of seeing the world from the wrong side up have not only pulled on the unfortunate muscles residing in my calf, but made it increasingly dizzy to see, let alone think.
My kidnapper—still hesitant after our last encounter—stands off to the side of the dimly lit room. Once again I find myself straining to catch a glimpse of this hidden figure; the veins of my neck darken and buldge from the effort.
"A-are you al-alright?" They stammer. The voice, still sounding as if it'd been through a wood chipper, surprises me. Not due to it's unique sound or unearthly tone, but rather the sincere concern expressed through the stuttered words. What kind of kidnapper is this?
I open my mouth to respond, most likely with some sarcastic, half-wit remark, but no sound comes out. I try again. Scattered breathes stumble out of a tightening throat. Ribs heave up and down with the weight of the world and yet I still can't speak. The sickly sweet feeling of panic follows this absence of breath. Soon I'm gasping for oxygen, and taking none in. The rope tightens around my ankle as I shake and squirm in a pitiful attempt at relieving the invisible pressure sitting upon my chest.
The lights are dancing. The beams and their shadows are taunting me—teasing me. I clamp my eyes shut. Light-headed and unsteady, I'm unable to detect the gloved hands cradling my head. My eyes remain closed until I'm repositioned at a new angle: head elevated by the hands supporting my neck while the rest of my body forms an awkward right angle.
I can breath. Each and every rise and fall of my chest burns. It burns like fire from the back of my throat straight down to my lungs. But I can breath.
Staggered gasps of breathes fill the numbing silence. Eventually both my vision and head unclouds. Thoughts start to leak into my mind. They start as a slow drip, then a reasonable stream, and finally burst into a gush of panicked concerns, anxieties, and drastic predictions. The majority of which are unrationable and idiotic to say the least:
This is it. This is how I die. I'm a dead man walking. They're gonna murder me and then leave my body to rot... or worse: sell my limbs on the black market. It's all over for me. I won't even make it to the legal drinking age. I—
"I can not tell you how sorry I am about all of this." Their words are rushed and agitated. "Please j-just listen."
Pardon? I swallow the breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Remaining silent, I wait to hear what they have to say. It's not as though I have a choice. My mouth is heavy with numbness; still recovering from the effects of being upside down.
They don't wait for a response, which is fine by me. It isn't like I had one to give.
The support for my neck weakens slightly as they shuffle their footing. "I know I'm only here on a Temporary Visa—don't get me wrong, I'm extremely grateful to be here. But life in the states is difficult. It's not easy to make a stable living."
"One thing led to another; I just needed to make money. Theft was the only way. People steal all the time, what makes my attempts any different?" They hesitate. "Pretending to be a handicapped homeless man to gain sympathy might not've been my best choice. Nor was the idea of using my—er...abilities to take their wallets and dart off with...how do you say? 'Inhuman' speed?"
I stop squirming and take in a sharp breath. The functioning part of my brain now ceases to cooperate. The fundamental wheels and gears needed to think spin to a holt, latching on to two words in particular: Handicapped and Homeless.
YOU ARE READING
The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔
FantasíaMason Marks is a screw up. Every day is a struggle to cough up enough money for rent, to ignore the reek of despair flooding the streets, to stop himself from slipping further into the shadows and slums of Downtown L.A. And he is sick of it. When h...
