#postal 1997

Chapter 4: Let’s All Go To The Movies!

“...Hello?”

“Why did you go to the hospital?”

“........What?”

“You were at the hospital for a few hours. Why?”

“Who the hell is this?!”

Click.

___________________________

You pick up a can of green beans, then set it down with the rest of the vegetables.

The built-in shelving unit is still nothing more than a massive pile of broken wood. Splintered boards and dented cans litter the floor near the bottom of the stairs. Coming over here is a risk but your stomach has finally won the argument.

The second bag of ice had melted hours ago.

Speaking of hours, nothing has come from upstairs in a long time. No footsteps, no pacing, not even the TV. Just silence. If he’s going to disappear for this long, you’ll have to take your upset stomach into your own hands.

If only you could find the damn can opener.

You kneel beside the broken shelves, shifting pieces of wood out of the way with your good hand. Every can you uncover gets sorted into little piles around you. Vegetables, fruit, soup, canned meats.

Your bandaged arm itches beneath the wrapping. The compression still holds it stiff and painfully straight despite hours of resting.

The next can is some kind of beef stew. You set it down right next to you to save for later. The muscles in your arm ache to move, desperate to bend after being held in the same position for so long. It feels like your bones themselves are begging to be freed. You pull another board aside and catch a glint of something shiny underneath.

“There you are.” You mutter as you fish out the can opener with a grin.

Snatching up the stew, you punch the opener into the lid and peel it open. The contents glisten in the dim basement light. Chunks of meat float in thick brown gravy that have sat in the can for god knows how long.

Your stomach growls but your appetite vanishes.

You glance towards the stairs, from this angle you can see the basement door at the top. You strain your ears, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing comes from upstairs, no sign Dude is around to deliver your daily meal.

Hunger wins.

Holding your breath, you lift the can to your lips and force the stew down as quickly as you can. The texture is awful but it fills your stomach. Your stomach seems to barely hold on to it as a wave of acid rises up in your throat. You cough as the burning sensation lasts for a few moments. You reach for a can of fruit cocktail, ripping it open as fast as possible. The sweet syrup washes away the greasy taste lingering in your mouth. You pop the fruit into your mouth one piece after another. 

Click.

You freeze.

Another click, then another.

The locks.

Your grip tightens around the can as your eyes snap to the basement door. The off-white door slowly creaks open. It only opens far enough for Dude to slip sideways through, as though he’s trying to keep a pet from darting outside.

He looks… Normal. Or at least closer to normal than usual.

His long hair is tied back into a low ponytail, although a few strands have escaped and fallen into his face. Instead of his usual duster, he wears a bright blue polo tucked neatly into a pair of black jeans. EZ Mart’s logo is sewn right into the breast pocket of his shirt. His heavy boots have been replaced with thick black sneakers. 

Sadly his hands are empty.

He closes the door behind him and takes a single step down the staircase. Then he freezes. His gaze settles on you sitting among dozens of cans scattered across the floor.

“...Hi?” He raises one hand in a hesitant wave before he thinks better of it and lowers it again.

“Hey.” You greet him back.

Silence stretches between the two of you. Dude slowly shifts his footing, widening his stance until he blocks more of the staircase.

“What…” He squints down at you before reaching up to touch the top of his head. “...What are you doing?” You squint back at him, wondering how to answer before it suddenly clicks.

He’s not wearing his glasses.

To him, you're probably just a blurry shape at the bottom of the stairs. It's a wonder he can even tell you apart from all the other shapes he possibly sees.

“I’m eating…” You glance down at the label in your hand. “... a fruit cocktail.”

“Eating?” He echoes back, slowly he continues down the stairs. “How many cans have you eaten?”

“Uh … two?” 

“Two…” He mutters. “That leaves … thirty-one.” He reaches the bottom of the steps but makes no move to close the gap between you two. “Are you…” He hesitates, as though trying to decide what to say. “Hungry?”

You stare at him in disbelief.

Has it only been an hour or two? Are you the crazy one?

Dude shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Yes?” You slowly push yourself to your feet. Every muscle in your body protests the movement. Your bandaged foot stings the moment you put weight on it, forcing you to favor your other leg. Your arm throbs beneath the right wrapping while the rest of you feels weak and sore.

“Oh” Dude shoves his hands into his pockets. He studies you for a few moments. Up close, you notice details you missed before.His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles carved beneath them from exhaustion. Something is caught in his goatee, though you can’t tell what. His blue polo is spotted with stains across the front, while dirt and dust cling to his jeans. His knees are especially filthy.

“And you arm…” He adds the words absentmindedly, as though he’s finishing a conversation. He reaches up to brush the loose strands of hair away from his face. Two of them immediately fall back into his eyes.

“Come on.” He pulls a hand out of his pocket and holds it out to you. You glance between it and his face. After a few awkward seconds, Dude sighs “We are going upstairs.” He clarifies.

It only makes you more confused.

When you still don’t take his hand, he closes the distance in three long strides. His fingers wrap firmly around your good bicep. His hand is rough and dry against your skin as he gently tugs you towards the stairs.

You don’t really have a choice but to follow. At least this time your pants aren’t around your ankles.

You take one limping step before Dude slows without saying anything.. His grip loosens just enough that he isn’t dragging you anymore. He glances down at your bandaged foot, then matches your pace for the rest of the climb upstairs. Every step makes your heart pick up a little faster. It feels a little unnerving to go back upstairs. The door opens with no need for locks or any other fuss.

The kitchen that greets you barely resembles the disaster you remember. Every cabinet door is closed, the drawers have all been put back into place. Dirty dishes and empty containers clutter the countertops but compared to a few days ago it's almost normal. It smells like rotting trash but you can’t seem to locate a trash can.

As he leads you to the middle of the kitchen you get a proper look at the living room.

Most of the furniture has been shoved against the walls, clearing a wide space through the center of the room. The coffee table is completely covered in gun parts. Small brass cartridges sit in neat little piles beside springs and pieces of metal you don‘t recognize.

Dude stops, his grip never wavering on your arm. He glances around the kitchen for a moment before guiding you towards the back door. Even through the closed blinds covering the small window, thin lines of sunlight spill into the kitchen.

So close.

“Here,” Dude lets go of your arm. Every instinct in your body screams at you to run. Even if you reach the door, sprinting barefoot across god knows what with one good arm doesn't seem great.

Something suddenly slips around your neck. You freeze, your head turned towards the window. Not watching what Dude was doing at all, like an idiot.

Dude stands impossibly close. His hands brush against your skin as he fusses with whatever he’s fastening around your neck. His fingers work carefully behind you before he gives something a small tug, tightening it. He spends a few more seconds fixing something

Then he steps back, grabbing hold of …

A leash.

You instinctively reach for your neck, only to remember you’re still clutching the can of fruit cocktail. You toss it onto the counter without thinking. Your fingers close around something thick wrapped around your neck. The fabric is stiff and worn with age, the edges frayed. It’s rough against your fingertips and skin. It’s a little too tight. A metal buckle sits squarely on the front of your throat.

A collar.

“What…” You stare at his blank face in disbelief. “...What the fuck is this?” 

“I have to cook dinner.” Dude answers as though the explanation is perfectly reasonable. “I need you to stay put.” He gives the leash a tug as he turns and walks towards the living room.

Once again you have little choice but to follow. He leads you to the couch before stopping to consider where to secure the leash. After a moment, he crouches beside the couch. The sudden pull forces you to bend awkwardly as he lifts one corner of the couch just enough to loop the handle of the leash around the legs.

“There…” He stands back up. The leash leaves just enough slack that you are able to sit down on the couch. “...just…” His attention drifts towards the television. A battered VHS player sits beneath it. He walks over without another word and crouches in front of it. From where you’re sitting, you can’t see what he does. A moment later the television crackles to life. 

A western fills the screen, opening music practically blasts through the room. You recoil away from the sound, your ears assaulted by the noise after being in the quiet basement for so long. No wonder you can hear the TV all the way from the basement. He keeps the volume so loud it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone deaf.

Dude stands for a few moments, watching the TV before he turns and heads into the kitchen without a word. The moment his back is to you, your hand rises to the collar around your neck. The leash is attached by nothing more than a metal clasp.

One click.

That’s all it would take and the front door is only a few steps away.

You glance towards Dude as he moves around the kitchen, opening cabinets and gathering ingredients as though nothing about this situation is unusual. The memory of the shower flashes through your mind.

The scrubbing.

The water.

The impossible strength he’d shown once panic took over. Your fingers slowly slip away from the clasp. Instead, you look back at the television.

An old black-and-white western flicks across the screen. Everyone speaks Italian while English subtitles crawl across the bottom. You try to focus on the movie, but every clang from the kitchen pulls your attention away. Your eyes bounce between the movie and Dude, never settling on either for very long.

You glance over, startled to find Dude approaching the couch. He carries a cloudy glass filled with some pale liquid. He stops beside the couch and holds it out to you.

“Here, it will  help with hydration.” Behind him, steam rises from a pot on the stove. You reluctantly take the drink from his hands. The moment you have a hold of it he retreats back to the kitchen.

You bring it to your nose and take a sniff. There is no smell to the drink, it doesn't fizzle. You stare at it for a moment before taking a cautious sip. The strong taste of salt fills your mouth. You cough the mouthful back into the glass before setting it on the coffee table. The table itself looks like organized chaos.

Gun parts are separated neatly across its surface. Springs, screws, cleaning tools, loose cartridges, and bits of metal lie grouped into careful little piles. Your attention settles on a long flat piece of metal about the length of your palm. You glance towards the kitchen. Dude’s back is still turned.You casually pick up the piece, turning it over once before slipping it into the pocket of your sweats. It doesn’t bulge enough to be noticeable.

Gunfire suddenly erupts from the TV.

You flinch, instinctively clapping your good hand over your ear. When you look back up, Dude is suddenly standing beside the couch. You hadn’t heard him approach over the gunfire. His eyes drift toward the TV before he sets both bowls on the already cluttered coffee table. Mac and Cheese. Bacon crumbled on top and plastic forks already stuck into each bowl.

Without a word Dude walks over to the TV and turns the volume down manually. You can finally hear your thoughts again. He returns to the couch and sits next to you. Like actually right next to you. Not on the other side of the couch. He picks up one bowl and sets it into his lap, you follow his lead.

The whole scene feels wrong.

You’re sitting on a couch watching a western with the man who kidnapped you. The leash still runs from the collar around your neck to the leg of the couch. The whole scene is outrageous.

The smell of food distracts your train of thought. Your stomach quickly reminds you of how hungry you actually are. You dig in without another thought. Compared to cold canned stew, this is incredible. Except the salty drink that remains untouched on the coffee table.

Maybe it's harmless. Maybe it’s not.

“You’re arm…” Dude’s quiet voice grabs your attention. “How does it feel?” You glance down at it. Sitting on the couch makes it impossible to keep your arm perfectly straight. It hangs slightly bent thanks to some slack the bandages decided to give.

“Can I take the bandages off?” You ask instead.

“Well…” Dude traces his thumb around the rim of his bowl. A frown tugs at his lips as he visibly squirms. “It’s supposed to stay wrapped for a day or two.” He picks up his plastic fork and idly pushes the food around his bowl. “...After we finish eating," he adds, slumping back against the couch.

You watch him for a few moments. He has barely eaten half his meal, his attention fixed entirely on the movie. He leans his head back, looking completely exhausted. His eyelids droop shut for a heartbeat before snapping open again. One pot of mac and cheese seems to have taken every ounce of energy he has.

You turn back to your own bowl and keep eating. The plot of the movie is completely lost on you, but you sit through the rest of it while polishing off dinner. The calm between you two is unnerving, it’s nothing like you picture him to be. Most of the rumors painted him as some nut job who did unspeakable things in his house. Not this … retail worker exhausted from his shift.

The moment you set your empty bowl on the coffee table, Dude does the same with his barley touched meal.

“Alright…” He groans as he sits up straight before turning towards you. “Let’s unwrap it.” He holds out a hand, once more asking for your consent.

After a moment's hesitation, you lift your arm towards him. He takes it carefully, supporting your wrist with one hand while the other searches for the bandage. His fingers run over the wrapping, tracing each edge until he finds the one end. He keeps your arm steady as he slowly begins unwinding it.

Each pass loosens the pressure a little more. Your skin almost seems to spring free but the first touch of cool air makes your skin itch. It throbs in a way you can’t decide is relief or pain. As the last of the wrap falls away you breathe a sigh of relief. Dude gathers the long strip into his lap while you cautiously bend your elbow.

It moves, if only a little.

The movement sends a deep ache through the joint but it bends farther than before. A sharp pain zaps through your arm when you bend it too much. You stop and put your arm back down, letting it hang by your side.

“Does it still hurt?” Dude asks quietly as he fidgets with the bandage, rolling it into a ball.

“Yeah.” You rotate your wrist experimentally. Deep grooves from the compression wrap are still stamped into your skin. The swelling looks better or maybe it’s simply been squeezed flat for an entire day.

Dude stands and disappears down a hallway to a part of the house you don’t know. He returns a minute later carrying a large bottle. He offers it to you without explanation. You take the bottle to find more pain medicine. You shake two pills into your palm before realizing you have nothing to wash them down with except the cloudy drink.

Before you can reach for it, Dude is already handing it to you. You reluctantly accept the glass, popping the two pills into your mouth before taking large gulps. You try not to taste it but the salt coats your entire tongue.

“Ugh,” you grimace, unable to hold back your reaction.

“What’s wrong?” Dude asks as he lowers himself back onto the couch. This time his leg brushes lightly against yours.

“It’s so salty.” You set the glass back on the table before you're tempted to throw it all up.

“Salt helps with hydration,” Dude explains matter-of-factly. “You were sick.” You bite back the urge to point out that almost drawing someone probably isn’t helpful to treat a sick person.

Instead, you take stock of yourself.

Your foot hurts, your arm hurts. Your nose feels a little stuffed up and your sinuses ache faintly. Whether that’s from the freezing basement or the beginnings of a cold you can’t tell. Honestly the pain in your arm trumps all.

“Are you…” Dude shifts deeper into the crouch cushions, looking far too tired to stand again. “... feeling better?”

You glance at the TV as the credits start to roll.

Are you?

“...I’m okay.” You go to lean back but the leash goes taunt. It keeps you in place, sitting on the edge of the couch slightly hunched over. “Better when the meds set in … probably.”

Dude nods once. “Good.”

Silence settles over the room.

The text on screen ends and it cuts to static, filling the house with constant buzzing. You wait for something to happen. The next ordeal to go through, the next freak out, the next whatever. Dude sinks a little further into the couch. One hand rests on the cushion between you. He tilts his head back, resting it against the back of the couch. His eyes stay on the TV, though they seem unfocused.

“...Let’s… wait for the medicine to kick in.” He runs a hand over his face, pushing his hair out of his face for the hundredth time today. His eyelids flutter as he fights to keep them open. It’s a losing battle as in a matter of moments his eyes slide shut. He lets out a long content sigh as he melts further into the couch. His muscles slowly start to relax, sleep taking hold of him.

You stare down at him, watching and waiting. The longer he stays still with his eyes closed, the more your heart starts to speed up. All of your nerves start to buzz with energy. Your eyes drift to the front door. It has only three standard locks on it, chain and two dead bolts. It would slow you down a bit to unlock them but it’s better than sitting here.

You reach up and unlatch the leash from the collar. Moving slowly you lay the leash down on the couch next to you. You stand up, keeping your movements careful so you don’t disturb the couch too much. Dude’s breathing stays slow and even, he doesn't move an inch.

There are two pathways available. Cross in front of Dude or take an extra second to go around the coffee table. Even with every second being valuable, you pick going around. Unwilling to get close to him in fear of waking him up. You inch around the table, watching your feet with every limped step. Between each step, you glance at Dude. Worried that at any moment he will wake and freak out, resulting in another incident where you’ll probably get hurt. Each step closer to freedom fills you with an almost giddy excitement.

You reach the door without a single problem. You go for the first lock, your fingers shake as you grab the chain lock. Every inch you slide it is an agonizing gamble up until you work it free. You gently guide the chain down, letting it hang without swinging around.

Next is the first deadbolt that you carefully turn. It clicks, causing you to jump. You glance over your shoulder, but Dude doesn’t move an inch. Not even his breathing changes. You move to the next bolt, treating it the same way, then finally the small lock on the knob. It clicks open easily.

You grab the door knob and hold your breath. Slowly twisting the knob until the door cracks slightly, the air pressure from outside forces it to open a little more. You open the door farther as fresh air rushes past you and into the house. The scent of autumn fills your nose.

Cool air, fallen leaves and freedom.

“DON’T-” A shout of pure panic comes from behind you.

You don’t look back, you don’t wait. You rip the door wide open and launch yourself forward, out into the open.

Right onto your injured foot.

You stomp down onto the concrete front step. A sharp pain shoots through your entire foot and calf. Reflexively, you lift the injured foot again, switching to your tiptoes. One hobbled step forward with your good foot and your outside. The fresh air completely envelops you. It touches your skin, your hair, fills your lungs. The sight of the street beyond the fence is like a dream.

The same street you use to drive down each day. 

Now a beacon of freedom and hope.

Arms wrap around your midsection and yank you back inside. Dude’s fingers dig so deeply into your sides that you can feel his nails. His grip is so hard that it hurts. He yanks so hard that you lose your footing and fall back into him. Dude struggles with the sudden weight and falls backwards.

A hollow bang echoes through the house as you both crash to the ground. Slamming down right onto your side, thankfully on your good arm. Dude’s hands don’t lose their grip for a single moment.

In an instant, you’re shoving, pushing and clawing to get away. You shove at the floor and at Dude’s arms, trying anything you can think of to break his hold.

“Don’t! Not out there!” Dude shouts as he struggles to keep hold of you. Dude presses against your back, his weight keeps you from getting up.

You try to kick at him, hitting his long legs. Dude grunts, but he pushes you forward, forcing your face down into the carpet. It smells like chemicals. His entire weight presses down into your back as he slides his knees to either side of your hips. He pulls you up onto your knees with a grunt.

You keep fighting. Clawing, elbowing, anything to get away. It’s so close. The cool air is still drifting in. 

You try to pull away again but he holds firm. Dude struggles as he gets to his feet, keeping his hold on you as he forces you to stand with him. Once standing, you refuse to put any weight on your feet. Forcing Dude to hold your entire weight, he groans with the strain of trying to keep you upright. He starts to half-drag, half carry you back towards the living room.

After a few steps he pauses, he tries to adjust his grip. You take the opportunity to yank yourself downwards. His grip slips but he quickly clamps back down, his painfully dig into your ribs. He straightens again, dragging you with him.

The struggle continues and all too soon your back at the basement door.  He keeps one arm around you as he lets go with the other to open the door.

It’s all or nothing.

If you go down into that basement, you’re not coming back out.

Adrenaline shoots through your entire body as you try one last thing to escape. You plant your feet on the ground and shove yourself hard into Dude. He shouts as the attack takes him off guard. His balance gives out.

He starts to fall towards the stairs.

The whole world shifts as you fall with him. His arm still locked around you in a death grip. His body hits the stairs with a sickening crunch. You land on top of him, his other arm shoots out wrapping around your head. He pulls you hard against his body. The combined weight of you both drives you down the stairs at an alarming speed. A loud thud comes with every step as Dude’s body takes the full force of every step.

The pair of you spill out onto the basement floor. Your head spins as you push yourself upright. Dude’s arms release you without a single protest. Your eyes land on the pile of broken wood besides the bottom of the stairs. The pieces are sharp, big enough to hurt.

It would be so easy.

You reach toward the pile. Your fingertips brush against the rough texture of the wood.

Dude groans loudly. His hand reaches out, fingers finding your shirt. ”Don’t…” He tries to take a deep breath and immediately winces. “Don’t go … out there.” His voice is  stained with pain. His grip tightens. “It’s not safe.”

You look down a t him. His eyes are only half open but they remain fixed on you. There is no anger or fury at your escape attempt. Only terror. His face scrunches with pain as he tries to breathe through it. His hands never leave your shirt. Your fingers linger against the broken wood. You could grab a piece and …

Dude shifts beneath you, groaning as he starts to move. Every movement visibility hurts him but he doesn't stop. Slowly he forces himself upright. You instinctively move back, ending up sitting on your haunches between his legs as he sits up fully. The wood pieces just out of reach now.

His face twists in pain as he tries to straighten his spine. Still, he doesn’t let go of your shirt.

”You can’t…” Dude leans toward you despite the pain, bringing his face close to yours. His eyes dart all over your face as though he’s trying to make sure you’re still there. 

“You can’t go … out there.” He takes a shaky breath as he starts to look over all of you. You can see the way his eyes scan over every inch of you. “Not with the infection …”

All you can do is stare at him. Body shaking with adrenaline. The collar tightens around your neck every time you take a breath.

”Stay here. I’ll do better.” His voice cracks slightly. His fingers tiger around your shirt. “I’ll … I’ll give you more food … more clothes …” He swallows hard. “Blankets … whatever you need.” He pulls weakly at your shirt, trying to bring you closer.

“Just … stay here.”

You stare at him in stunned silence.

He’ll do better? At what? 

Kidnapping, keeping you locked in his basement, scrubbing your skin until it hurts?

You want to laugh.

You want to cry.

You want to hit him.

Instead, you just sit there.

Staring up at Dude as he clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. No shouting, no struggling, no frantic scrambling for freedom.

Just the two of you sitting on the cold basement floor. Bodies buzzing with adrenaline and pain. You can hear your blood pumping into your own ears. He should be mad or something but he is just … promising to do better.

”Don’t…” He closes his eyes. “…Do that again.” The words are barely a whisper. He leans forward, lowering his head down until it nearly touches your shoulder.