Or hanging upside down in the spare room with a kiddie pool underneath me to catch my blood.
Packets of painter’s plastic were stacked neatly in the corner, a box of duct tape next to it, various twines of rope, handcuffs with their keys organised to each pair, and a blow torch.
I briefly wondered how many of the other spare rooms had people tied up, bloodied and beaten or wilting away into corpses. I wondered which room would be mine.
He had not restrained me.
Before leaving, I decided upon enjoying dinner first.
“Don’t you move.” Dig pointed a spatula at me. “You move, I’ll tie you down. Do you understand?”
I crossed my legs and made myself comfortable.
When he turned his back, I searched over the counter tops spotting the collection of cooking knives. Three laid idly on the drying rack on the counter within reach.
There was running water here, this place was close to a five-star hotel in terms of Execution Battle ratings. Though, without electricity. Dig lit up a small army of candles and spotted them around the apartment, bringing the dark cave to life. The flames flickered around me. It looked like we might be in hell. Lucifer bent over the camp kitchen stove on the bench, stirring pasta sauce and boiling linguini.
“What kind of mental health issues do you have?” I casually leaned closer to the knives. “You’re a psychopath? Are you a part of the Flat Earth community? Do you have attachment issues? What can I expect to endure during my time here?”
He grabbed the basil leaves. While he did his jumper hitched up a little, revealing a sliver of skin along his hip bones. My thighs tingled in response. I marinated in the look of him momentarily before remembering I needed to stab him and swiftly grabbed a knife from off the bench, hiding it under my t-shirt.
“Where did you get the basil from?” I asked, yawning.
“Found it growing outside in the pavement cracks.”
“And you are sure it’s not another plant that may poison us?”
“Yes.”
“And what qualifies you knowing this?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“And how is that certified?”
“Put the knife back.”
I did.
He set the dining table with a tablecloth. Candles collected in the centre, a bouquet of wildflowers became my neighbour, he fluffed the stems and pointed their petals to me. Lastly, he filled wine glasses with water and placed the plate of linguine in sauce and topped with pillowed basil leaves in front of me.
I leaned back as his tattoo and scar-speckled arm set down the plate. “I don’t like—”
“I didn’t put coriander in it.”
“How did you know I don’t like coriander?”
“A guess.”
“A wonderful guess, it’s almost unbelievable.”
He sat at the other end of the table and did not remove his hood nor his sunglasses and pushed the candles away from him until he dwelled in thick dusk. Now more shadow than man, he began to eat, spearing his fork into the pasta.
Once he chewed and swallowed, he looked up. “Eat.”
“I think you should let me go.”
“Eat.”
