One
From “A Kidnapper’s Journal”
You saw her wedge a beat-up Nissan into a space in front of a seedy, stucco apartment complex. A part of you went numb. Somewhere, an emotion broke out of its pupa into the terrible light. And the California sun acted like a giant incubator on your fevered thoughts.
You had watched her for three days now, knew she was coming back from her workout with sweat in crevices the light couldn’t find, muscles taut, heart accelerated. A man’s button-down shirt was sloughed down over her workout clothes. As she started toward the stairs, you noticed her brown hair was dirty. This offended you. You resolved to make her wash it.
You walked down Electric Avenue, gloves on, pulling a stocking down over your face. You crept up the stairs behind her as if on a ride at the amusement park, a sudden thrill making your stomach leap. Turning the key, she stepped into her vestibule. You felt a hammer in your chest and followed her inside and grabbed brown hair, hearing a pleasing gasp in the back of her throat. Her hands flailed, peach fingernails clawing white molding.
Another yank got her full attention, this time wrenching her too hard, a spasm of choking as you slipped plastic handcuffs on. No words necessary. You closed the door, nice and easy.
Her mouth wide open. Trying to scream. No air coming out.