Page 8 of Love Set Free

Jackson says it matter-of-factly. Much the way he did with his previous mention of shopping at a thrift store.

“Yeah, a couple weeks ago, it just didn’t want to start. And then before I could get it in to get checked out, there was this massive snowstorm. Chattanooga was dumped with like six inches of snow, which is normally more than it gets in an entire month during the winter. I needed to move my car so they could plow and… Well, it got moved. When a city tow truck towed itaway. So, anyway. I’m working on getting it back. I mean…I was. Before all…this.”

Again, Jackson’s tale was so far outside the realm of my own personal experiences. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to sound pitying or patronizing, but that’s how anything that came out of my mouth would probably come across.

Obviously, I’ve had car troubles before, too. But when I did, I just switched over to using one of my other cars. I have three. Two I keep in the city—a Mercedes for everyday use, plus a convertible just for the hell of owning a convertible. My third vehicle is a permanent fixture at our family’s mountain vacation home. And if I somehow couldn’t use one of my other cars while I had a car in the shop, I’d just rent one or borrow one of my parents’ spare vehicles. Since the age of sixteen, I’ve never been without easy access to my own means of transportation.

“Oh. Er. That…uh…that sucks,” I finally stammer out. The whole statement is completely banal and stupidly underwhelming.

“Meh. It is what it is.” While his words seem pragmatic and accepting, Jackson’s voice drops back into melancholy. “But if it’s all the same…” Is he sniffling again? It’s hard to tell, especially as he attempts to cover up the telltale sound—if there had indeed been anything to cover up—with a hoarse cough. “You know…I’m kind of tired. I think…I think I’m gonna take a nap now. Okay?”

“Yes. Of course, that’s okay,” I immediately reply, my own voice soft and gentle.

Is it the circumstances we’re in or something about the other man that has me reacting to him so carefully and tenderly? It certainly isn’t at all reflective of my usual, everyday treatment of everyone else in the world. Not that I consider myself to be a raging asshole or anything. But I usually don’t have much patience for other people’s feelings or problems. All adults havethem and I expect them to deal with them themselves, the same way I do with mine.

But Jackson…I want to soothe him. Comfort him. Take care of him until his sad moods lift and he’s back to being unexpectedly cheerful and friendly.

“Go ahead and have your nap,” I tell him. “I’ll be here when you wake back up. Obviously.”

I hope to get a teasing echo of my last word sent back to me but, once again, Jackson is silent.

Chapter Five

Phoenix

Nothing new.

Oh, God. How has another day passed with nothing happening? Today is the same as yesterday.

Wake up in a cage. Relieve my bodily functions in a fucking metal bucket. Pretend not to be humiliated by having to piss in said bucket. Gouge another tally mark into the plywood floor of my habitat. There are four of them now. Pass the time conversing with a man I can’t see but enjoy listening to. Cower passively as far back in my cage as I can while the only human that I’ve seen in days points his gun at me before grudgingly setting a Styrofoam container and cup in my cage. Force myself to ingest the contents—the same contents, every time—of those containers.

Actually, I suppose something new did happen today.

After placing my morning food rations in my cage, my captor grunted, “O balde.”

I had no idea what he was saying to me and I was afraid that my lack of understanding wouldn’t go over very well.

He grunted it again. “O balde, cacete.” Then he used the gun to point toward the bucket.

Really and truly hoping that this was what he was demanding, I crept closer to the foul smelling and revoltingly full metal bucket and, grabbing its thin, wire handle, I dragged it to the front of the cage, within reach of the man.

The way his nose crinkled at its odor and his downturned mouth hinted that he wasn’t pleased with being tasked with the chore of taking care of my waste. Ha. Almost made me wish I’d had even more piss and shit to deposit in the damned thing.

He reluctantly pulled the bucket out of the cage, then reached under my cage and pulled out an empty bucket. As he set this bucket into my cage, he sneered at me with an equal measure of distaste that he’d given the full bucket. Looking at me like I was a disobedient dog who’d intentionally taken a dump in the middle of his living room, instead of a man reduced to using the crude methods my kidnappers had provided for me in order to take care of a basic human bodily function.

I was tempted to sneer right back at him, offer some of my opinion of him. After all, he was the one cleaning up my literal shit. But my sense of self-preservation kicked in. It wasn’t all that reliable and had failed me in the past. However, for once, it came through for me—it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to antagonize the man with a gun.

But that’s it for today. Other than a new crap bucket, my fourth day of captivity passes just the same as my second and third day. I while away the time by conversing with Jackson, touching on completely inconsequential topics. I eat two bland, sludgy and gloopy meals. Drink two generously provided cups of beer.

And I wait.

Why is this taking so long? Surely, they’ve gotten their demands to my father and the money they want is making its way, electronically, to whatever bank accounts they want itfunneled into. So, why am I still here? Why aren’t I on my way to some drop-off location? Why am I still in this fucking cage instead of recuperating with a hot shower and some better-quality alcohol and food in the lap of luxury of a family jet?

At the very least, I expect my kidnappers to update me on when I will be returned to my family. I just don’t understand what’s taking so long.

Day four passes with me still in a cage.

Chapter Six

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