#poeticjustice

Terry knew something was wrong. He did not know what it was, but something was definitely wrong. He saw the note. At the time, he was elated. He knew the end was near. All his dad had to do was pay the ransom and he was free, free to return to his room, to his house, to his life. His life would be without his brother, but it was better than the life he had experienced since that brutal night when he witnessed Bentley being bludgeoned to death. The fear of that night plagued his every waking moment, and most of his dreams. He was rushed out of the death house and into the darkness. In frantic hiding, out of view of his neighbors, people who could have helped him, rescued him, he huddled against the wall of a dark room and cried. He drew warmth from an oversized coat with a musty smell. He did not know where it came from, but he accepted it without question. He was never given a comfortable bed and the uncertainty of what was to come kept him from sleeping well. But, the money did not bring his release. No one came to tell him that the debt was paid, that he was free. Maybe his dad was unable to pay the money. Half-a-million dollars is a lot of cash to get in such a short period of time. Maybe the police were there. Maybe the money was being watched. Maybe his dad was not willing to pay that much money. He was sure the kidnappers saw the money delivered. Something was wrong. Terry cried. His greatest fear was abandonment, a rejection by his father and mother, choosing their money over his life. He coughed to keep from strangling on tear induced snot. If his parents resisted, the outcome would not be good for him. He remembered stories he had read about kidnappers who met resistance. They would send a body part to the parents to prove the seriousness of their intentions. He did not want to lose a body part, though that would probably be better than the other option – the Bentley option. He worried about which body part. Was it a part he could live without? He moiled the unthinkable possibilities. He was not sure how often, how many hours or days elapsed, but his captors moved him from one hiding place to another, always at night. Food was sparse, barely enough to sustain him. Terry was hungry all the time. He relished every bite available to him. Orange juice would be nice. And a soda. He knew water was all he could expect. Cold fast food hamburgers or chicken tenders were all that came to him, discovered in the darkness, usually half eaten. They made him share food. And water, though he did find a melted soda, flat and fizz-less, waiting for him once. The taste was so bad, he decided to avoid sodas if water was available. But, orange juice would be nice. Orange juice was not served on ice that melted and weakened the taste. A couple of nights, Terry slept on the ground in the woods, near homeless people. Most of the time, he slept in dark, dank, empty rooms. The nights he slept near a homeless camp, he worried about the character of the people he heard snoring and moaning in the darkness. He would have felt sympathy for the lost souls without support networks, but he was too engrossed in his own hapless condition to worry about anyone else. A glimmer of hope … or fear - he was not sure … swept across him when one of the denizens of a homeless camp looked at him overly long. Maybe the man recognized him. He was sure his pictures were spread around the city. His parents would have done at least that, even if they would not part with their money to save his life. Maybe the dirty, bearded homeless man would tell the police. That was the last time he was allowed to sleep near people. Only the dark, dank rooms awaited him after that.