Nine Lives

The Hangman grabbed Patti by her upper arm and forced her onto the crude table. Her eyes were wild. He went upstairs and tied off the opposite end of the noose to the second floor banister and pulled it tight. He came back down and sat in front of her on a chair he had dragged in from Patti’s kitchen. For the time being, she stood flat footed on the small table. Nails and splinters were assembled around her bare feet, and she was careful to avoid them. Patti felt ridiculous, stupid and exposed, like some sort of circus freak on exhibition at a sideshow. The Hangman just stared at her, his eyes dancing up and down over her taught body. She stared back at him while trying not to move too much. She didn’t want the noose to get any tighter or the table to break. The Hangman took out a book of matches and stood up from his seat. He lit one and held it in front of her face before blowing it out with an expulsion of foul breath. Tears streamed down Patti’s cheeks, but she did not make a sound. The Hangman pointed at the sack that he had brought with him. “Do you see that bag over there?” he said. “Those are just some of the things I’ll use on you later. Would you like to see them?” Patti’s eyes filled with terror. She started to shake her head and cry into her gag. The noose tightened slightly, so she stopped any head movements. The Hangman smiled. He walked to the bag and produced an old Polaroid camera. For about seven minutes, he took pictures of her. The camera flashed and filled the dark hallway with light. It spit out picture after picture. He took photographs of her terrified face, her cuffed hands, her well-formed calf muscles, feet, crotch area, etc. Patti was crying and shaking her head slightly. “Calm down, Doggy. I’m going to be leaving in a few minutes.” He held a picture in front of her face. “You look beautiful in this one, and I think it’s the one I’ll use.” Patti thought she looked pathetic. She knew what the pictures were going to be used for. He was proud of his work and wanted the world to know about it. The Hangman walked in front of Patti and slapped her, hard. This seemed to be for no reason. Patti was crying into the gag. “You look a little too comfortable. I think I’ll have to fix that,” The Hangman said. Patti heard him walk upstairs. His footsteps were loud and ominous. For a few seconds, he seemed to be fumbling around. Then the noose around her neck lost some of its tightness, and the rope its slack. For a moment, she stood normal, no pressure whatsoever. Her breathing was regular. And then she felt a steady pulling on her neck and the noose started to tighten. Her eyes widened and her breath quickened. Her hands started to open and close as her heart worked its way into her throat. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Patti had no choice but to go up on tiptoe. She made two fists with her cuffed hands as her heels cleared the surface of the crude wooden table. The rope continued to be pulled upwards. The chain between her wrists jingled. A nail sticking up from the table scraped the side of her right foot, leaving a deep scratch, but no more. Patti stood high on the tips of her toes, her calf muscles already screaming. She opened her hands and pointed her fingers down as if to reach in vain for help. This was the position Patti would be forced to stand in, perhaps for the rest of her life. Her toes were already straining, her legs shaking. She could not endure this for long.