Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

It was no wonder she had thrashed around on her throne, moaning into her duct-tape gag, long after Milo went to bed on his air mattress. He had implored the girl to sleep while she had the chance but had been largely ignored. Eventually he had drifted off to a contented slumber, tuning out her pathetic noises, and slept soundly, as he always did after beginning a new adventure with a new girl.

Now he stepped forward. He slid the pliers into the right rear pocket of his jeans and then cradled Rae Ann’s head in his hands. She groaned and blinked rapidly, her eyes dazed and sleepy. Then they snapped into focus, widening in terror as she awoke fully and the reality of her predicament struck like a sledgehammer.

Milo smiled paternally. “Welcome back from dreamland, darling. Did you sleep well?”

Rae Ann turned her head to the side, avoiding his probing eyes. She began begging into her duct-tape gag, the words indecipherable but their meaning clear.

He shook his head. “We’re not done playing yet, so you may as well forget about being released. It’s not happening. Now, back to my question: Did you sleep well?”

The girl ignored him and kept her eyes glued to the corner of the room, looking at nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of returning his gaze. Milo squeezed her head between his hands. “Answer me.”

Still she refused to look. He sighed. He had chosen a strong-willed one this time, which in many ways represented an exciting challenge but in others was just plain frustrating. He removed his left hand from her head and flicked it out casually, smacking it against the bloody towel covering her right hand. The contact was minimal, barely more than a light tap, but his prisoner screamed into her gag, her head snapping back and forth as she tried desperately and unsuccessfully to move her injured hand out of harm’s way.

Milo tried again. “Did you sleep well?”

This time he was rewarded with an enthusiastic nodding of his prisoner’s head even as she whimpered and tears streamed down her now-filthy face. A snot bubble blew out of her nose and Milo shook his head, disgusted. He crossed the room and retrieved a tissue, then held it under Rae Ann’s nose and she blew with gusto.

“Now,” he said softly. “What you need to understand is that I expect you to answer promptly when I speak to you. Things will proceed much more smoothly between us if you do. Is that understood?”

This time there was no hesitation. The young hooker again nodded enthusiastically.

“Much better,” Milo said, reaching into his left rear pocket and withdrawing an X-Acto knife. “See? We’re getting along beautifully now.”

At the sight of the knife, Rae Ann’s eyes widened again in panic and she began breathing heavily, nearly panting.

Milo said, “Relax, before you give yourself a stroke,” and then he leaned down and deftly sliced the duct tape holding the blood-soaked towel in place over her right hand. The towel unwound and fell to the floor, revealing a hand featuring three hideously misshapen digits.

The nails were missing from Rae Ann’s first three fingers. They were gone, torn out last night with Milo’s pliers, and the tips of all three fingers were now swollen and purple, twice their normal size. The blood had more or less clotted overnight but still oozed sluggishly, pooling on her fingertips now that the towel had been removed, then dripping onto the clear plastic tarp covering the floor in fat blackish-red globules.

Milo felt a surge of excitement as he viewed his handiwork. “What have you done to yourself?” he asked with false concern, removing the pliers from his pocket and snapping them in front of Rae Ann’s face to observe her reaction. He wasn’t disappointed. Just as she had done when she saw the knife, she panicked. Her eyes widened and her head thrashed and she whimpered desperately into her gag, her terror complete.

“I’m just teasing you,” he said. “We’ll play again, don’t you worry about that, but the fun will begin later. I’d hate to get the reputation around town of being a poor host, so how does a little breakfast sound?”

His victim gazed up disbelievingly. Her desperate whining noises stopped but her tears continued to fall as she waited to see what would happen next. “Silly me,” Milo continued. “You probably have to go to the bathroom. It’s been a long night, hasn’t it?”

He waited for a response and got none. The girl sat completely still, as if confused by this unexpected turn of events, her eyes locked on his. He bent down without another word and retrieved his X-Acto knife. He sliced the rest of the duct tape from the girl’s limbs and helped her to her feet. He led her unsteadily across the room and down a short hallway, turning into a grungy bathroom. He indicated the tiny stand-up shower with a flourish, like a Realtor showing a mansion to a prospective buyer, turning to her with a smile and saying, “Play your cards right and maybe you’ll get to clean up later. For now, though, just do your business and come back out. I’m going to show a little trust and give you some privacy. Fuck with me at all, even a little bit, and the next time you’ll be peeing in front of me, probably into your clothes.”

He turned and paused at the door of the bathroom. “Oh, by the way,” he said. “Before you get any bright ideas, everything that could possibly be used as a weapon has been removed from this room, as has the toilet, as you have undoubtedly noticed. Just squat over the hole in the floor, do your business and come out. Are we on the same page here?” The duct-tape gag remained in place so she nodded, the seemingly unending supply of tears still flowing down her face.

“One more thing,” he added with an impish smile. “Just kidding about the shower. The water hasn’t worked in this building since before you were born, probably.” Milo stepped through the doorway and pulled the flimsy wooden door shut behind him, waiting on the other side. Moments later the door swung open and his guest appeared, eyes downcast. He took her by the elbow and led her back to her chair where he picked up his roll of duct tape and expertly resecured her in a matter of seconds.

After taping her ankles to the chair, he said, still crouched on the floor, “Now, back to my original question: What would you like for breakfast? I don’t have a lot of choices but I might be able to find something that would be acceptable, unless of course you’re one of those chicks that eat nuts and berries like a frigging squirrel—”

His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped sideways, his forehead thumping against the arm of his prisoner’s chair. He fell to the floor on his side and then staggered to his feet, stumbling blindly toward the shell of a kitchen, trying desperately to maintain consciousness as a vivid image invaded his skull. It was a vision similar to the ones he had been cursed with his entire life but much, much stronger.

More lifelike.

More real.

A young woman and a man roughly the same age sat at a table in the kitchen of a small house talking with an older woman. The house was near here but not too near; it was definitely farther away than was typical for his visions. He knew this because through the kitchen window he could see none of the tall buildings or warehouses or city hustle and bustle that he should see at any location in Boston. The scene was more pastoral; still bleak and run-down, as if the area—wherever it was—had seen its best days decades ago and had been sinking into a state of neglect ever since.

At the table, the conversation revolved around a painful shared personal history. The two women were related. They were discussing details of a baby given up for adoption. The younger woman was the baby and the older woman her mother. The younger woman was asking questions; she could not understand why she had been abandoned so long ago.