The Hook

The Hook

I've been drawn back to consciousness again
It seems like hours, but may only have been minutes
I can no longer feel my hands, bound tightly, above my wrists
Long having been deprived of circulation
Trussed, like a pig to slaughter
Suspended in the air
But, with the unnerving dignity, of my clothing being untouched
This is not a sexual thing
If only it were
At least, then it would have meaning
If only I could call out
Plead, or, beg
But, something foreign gags my words
I don't know whether it's cloth or paper, or, even my own tongue
Engorged through fear
Threatening to end it all, before what lies behind that door
Betrayed by its shadow, cast in the only light in the room
It moves furtively, agitated and raw
My senses, heightened by my predicament
Can only place certain sights and sounds, but there none the less
The fevered shuffling
The metalic, sweet stench of fresh rainfall
The incessant drip of a leaking gutter, deafening with each tiny drop
But
It hadn't rained here in months, nor is it due to
And the dripping, I now realise, is pooling below my feet
Not outside
Barely illuminated by the light from beneath the door
There it was
Revealed to widened eyes
Now accustomed to the scarce light afforded them
A hook
The type, not out of place in an abattoir
On it, a strip of something dark and glistening
The noises behind the door are growing in intensity
Uneven breathing
Desperate
Like that of an asthmatic, clutching at life
Scratching and banging
Frustration at an uncooperative key
...
Then, after a relentless search
It finds its quarry
The scratching stops, abruptly
Blinding light fills the doorway
My eyes like slits, fighting the brightness
A shadow housed in fluorescence
Unmistakable, yet, indescribable
My bonds cutting into flesh
I try fruitlessly to escape
As it enters the room with intent
The last thing I see... is the hook
And what is plainly a human scalp, at its point.