3 Chop

I eat my sandwich. It’s one of those plastic-wrapped ones you can buy ready to go in the supermarket. I wash it down with the water. So far, there’s no reason to assume that I’ll have to ration it. For a while, I try to figure out if we’re taking any turns, but being on a highway and not knowing where we last stopped means it’s useless.

My finger is throbbing. I bandaged it with parts of the mattress’s sheet. It was harder to rip free than I expected. I don’t want to get punished once my kidnapper sees that I tore apart his stuff, but there’s at least a chance that he simply won’t care, and I needed to staunch the bleeding.

Eventually, I lie down. I don’t want to sleep. Last time I passed out, he bandaged my leg. What if he does something malicious once I’m out for the count? Besides, my finger is throbbing like hell.

I check my phone. The message I wrote went through, probably while I was outside, but the reception is gone again. He must have done something to the van to block my mobile network. At least my cry for help is out there now.

It’s impossible to tell if we’ve travelled for hours or minutes by the time we finally stop again. I stare at the door towards the driver’s side with dread. The man appears again. I still don’t know what to call him or what he actually wants from me. For now, he’s tossing me another sandwich and a bottle of water. If it’s still the same day, at least he’s somewhat paying attention to a feeding schedule.

“You need to relieve yourself again?” He asks nonchalantly. “We’ll practice.” What a weird thing to say. I set down the food on my mattress and struggle to my feet. My muscles are protesting from disuse and the bandaged foot is giving off a dull throb. Still, I beat him to the sliding doors, attempting to push them open myself. They don’t budge, so it’s not tied to whether the van is moving. A moment later, he opens them for me. Maybe he’s using the fob to trick me into thinking there’s more to it.

It’s dark out. The stars are sparsely visible between thick layers of clouds. How far have we gotten since last night? We’re at another rest stop that’s more nature than civilization. He’s probably expecting me to pee on a tree again. When I try to step off the van, I’m stopped by the rope around my neck. He’s taken a hold of it, quickly working it wide enough for me to slip out. “Go,” he says.

I hadn’t dared take the rope off myself. The previous night, he’d reacted especially violently whenever I’d even touched it, so I had ignored it until I forgot it was there. It had been slack enough not to cause any issues. Still, not having it around my neck any longer is a relief. Maybe it’s a sign of trust. I let out a relieved chuckle. We’re getting somewhere.

I do my business and return. He gives me his usual “good”. I’ve never considered whether I’m cowardly or not, but obediently limping back into my kidnapper’s van makes me think I might be. Returning from potential freedom to the dark, enclosed cell, again drags up memories of my existentialism class. Am I choosing to be a coward or was I designed that way? Or was it something like ‘my awareness of being a coward means that I can take it into consideration when making choices, which again would make them wholly mine’? Something like that. If I had paid more attention in class, I could probably use my philosophy skills for . . . something. Yeah, right.

You think about the weirdest things when stressed, don’t you?

With my kidnapper satisfied, I lift my left arm. “Um, I don’t know what the grand plan is, but this might get infected.” Please, please say anything but “good” about this.

He grabs my wrist and I violently try to snap it back, mind flooded by images of what happened the last time he got close to my hand. He frowns at my reaction. “Don’t resist. Never resist.”

I take a nervous breath, forcing my arm to go limp in his grasp. “Sorry. My body just . . .” I trail off, watching him unwrap the crusty rags. The damaged nerves flare up again as he pulls off the final layer, ripping open barely clotted wounds. I scream, jerking on my arm again. His grip turns bruising, but he doesn’t comment.

“You’ll be better off without this,” he notes, pulling me towards the driver’s side by my arm. My feet lock even before his words fully register. Without? He means to chop off my finger, doesn’t he? I dig my heels in, trying to pull myself free.

“Wait. I need a doctor or a hospital. You can’t just chop off a finger. They need to set the bone, and then it needs to go in a cast or something.” Staring at the white bone flowering from the surrounding mess of flesh and skin. A part of me screams that it won’t fit back together the same way it used to. It’s too twisted. But the rational part knows that a human can’t do this with their hands, so it must be fixable.

“I gave you an order.” He turns to admonish me like a child or a dog. He searches my face for a moment, then: “You only have these ten fingers. You’re scared of losing one,” he states flatly. “That’s good. I will take two if you don’t behave. I don’t think you’ll need them.”

My legs weaken at his words, knees hitting the floor hard. He gives my arm another tug. If he keeps going like this, he’ll dislocate my shoulder. Which order does he mean, anyway? He never ordered me to let him chop off—don’t resist. Never resist. It makes sense. He’s been ordering me to let him manhandle me multiple times now.

“Okay, hold on. I can’t control my body right now,” I try to mollify him, because I don’t want to lose two fingers. While I try to sort out my legs, I have a few precious seconds to figure out how to stop him from mutilating me any further at all. I try to calm my breathing, feeling my heart beat furiously in my temples. I swallow down bile before pushing my good foot underneath me to get up. I can’t think of anything to say.

“Please, I’ve been doing what you want me to. Sure, I mess up, but I’ll be more careful. Just don’t chop off my finger.” As soon as I’m up, he drags me through the door and to the front. A large ice box sits on the passenger seat. Outside the window, a rundown gas station lights up the night. He produces a large knife from the glove box. Would he get in trouble for carrying it around like that if he got pulled over? My thoughts go everywhere but to the problem at hand.

“Hand on the box,” he orders. Not complying is not allowed. I’m terrified. I don’t want to lose my finger. I don’t want to lose more than one finger. I could try to punch him and make a break for it, but who knows how far he’d escalate the situation once he caught me again. And at this point, I’m certain to the core that he would. He doesn’t look much physically tougher than I am, but he is.

I’m a coward. I place my hand on the ice box. Maybe, if he sees that I’m doing as I’m told now, he’ll rethink his plan?

The blade settles on the base of my pinky.

I have to physically fight my body to stop it from pulling away.

“Please. Please, I’m begging—”

The knife barely adds to the horrible pain in my finger. The frazzled nerves are still firing even after it lies disconnected on top of the light blue lid of the ice box. I stare at the twisted limb with a dry mouth. For once, I’m not vomiting at the violence. I’m numb. My brain is frozen. Why won’t the finger stop hurting if it’s no longer attached? Blood gushes from the wound, so I pull my hand towards me. Wouldn’t want the food to get contaminated. I’m crying. Who wouldn’t?

Looking at the twisted mess of my finger still gives me headaches. It’s like the bone tried to bloom onto the outside, encapsulating the rest inside. It’s completely nonsensical.

I barely register the man pulling a first aid kit out from under the passenger seat. He smiles lazily. “Very good. Now look, I’m prepared. I’ll make sure you’re in good condition to do what I need you to do.”

I don’t dignify this with an answer, wordlessly letting him pull my hand into his lap. His fingers on my clammy skin send goosebumps up my arms. I don’t want him touching me, yet I let him wrap up my hand, concentrating hard on not pulling away. He clearly doesn’t want me dead just yet, that much is clear, but he also hasn’t actually told me what it is he wants from me either. I just stare at the hand. I’ll never get that finger back. Somehow, that fact is making all of this feel much more real.

“I can’t do this.” Did I say that out loud?

“You’re doing alright. I could’ve done without the detour from your . . . rebellion, but I expected some . . . trial and error.” He’s casually putting the leftover bandages back in the first aid kit before storing it back under the passenger seat. “I’m very pleased.”

Great. “If you’re going to kill me . . . could you consider doing it right now? If you’re so pleased?” I almost don’t finish my request. I don’t want to die. But I also can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to wonder when he’s going to take another piece of me or find a worse way to torture me. I don’t want to die, but if I have to die, I’d rather it be quick and painless.

He chuckles. The sound crushes my soul. “I’m not killing you. I need you.” He points at my bandaged hand. “I’m keeping you alive. No matter what.” While spoken casually, to my ears, this sounds like a threat. “Now go back and rest. Your body needs strength to heal.”

He’s right. It’s dark outside.

I could fight him.

I could attack him over and over until he has no choice but to kill me. Would I be successful?

But he’s right. I’m tired. My text got delivered. Maybe, my recent trip outside even let me receive an answer. Plus, this guy isn’t looking too well either. There are dark bags under his eyes. Has he been driving this entire time? I know where he keeps his knife. If I can claw my way out of the back of the van somehow . . .

I nod and leave, almost wishing him a good night out of habit. I don’t want to die. I just also don’t want to suffer. I might think more clearly tomorrow.