A Captive Audience of One
One weepy eye slowly opened, dark brown iris contracting to its smallest possible diameter, the sudden influx of light causing Ryan Larkin to blink and wince. He'd of opened his other eye but couldn't. It was swollen shut. Morbid shades of black and blue adorned the puffy flesh.
His one useful eye slowly began to adjust to the resplendent light in front of him. A single light bulb, hung lazily from a long thin white flex in the centre of the room, had flies buzzing around it, pinging against it.
Looking around, he thought that the shadowed corners of the huge room could provide great cover for someone, or something, to watch him unseen. That someone, or something, could have stepped out of the shadows at any moment and … That got him moving. He soon realised he wasn't going anywhere soon, though. Strong, thick rope bound his hands and legs to the seat he was sat in.
If I can just wriggle one hand free, he thought. Twisting his right hand back and forth, however, got him nothing more than the mother all Chinese burns, the pain causing him to grimace. Blood soon started trickling from a deep cut. After a few minutes of struggling, despondency soon gave way to despair, and he gave up. Whoever had tied him up certainly knew how to tie a damn good knot.
'Shit!' he said in low voice, then started rocking from side to side to see if he could pull himself free somehow. After nearly tipping himself over, he thought better of that approach. Lying sideways on the floor with his arm trapped underneath him wasn't going to improve the situation. Cracking his head open - and probably knocking himself out, too - was not going to help his cause, either.
He took deep breaths, trying to compose himself, the expansion of chest making him groan in pain. It felt like his ribs were broken. Whoever had given him a beating hadn't just restricted themselves to a touch of facial reconstruction, it seemed.
A plethora of questions raced through his troubled mind: Why am I here? … Who's done this to me? … Where the hell am I? … But the answers seemed to be hiding away in away in the dark recesses of his mind; that place where denial makes its home and cosies up with regret.
What else could he do but the obvious? He tried to shout for help but a barely audible gasp of air escaped him, the taste of fresh blood still coated his gums. His swollen bottom lip hung down. A Grand Canyon cut, scabbed over, ran half its length.
With one almighty effort, he got his vocal cords working. Fighting through the pain, he got soprano-strength output, voice straining.
'Help!' The single word echoed of the four damp walls, the quadraphonic clarity hurting his ears, making him wince.
