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He sits in a rental car and chain-smokes, looking at a deteriorating house. Trembling.
After this cigarette, he will light another - and get out of the car, leaving the keys inside. He'll never see it again. Excitement and apprehension will make him smoke hard during that walk across the yard. It is the last real movement that he will be allowed for a long time to come...
He must open the door himself and walk in. That is the last volitional act.
The exit will be closed tight. There is no other way out of the house, for him. He will stay.
Stalling for time, he tries yet again to understand how he ended up here...

Watch as the emergency room walls solidify in his memory.
 

"Toro."
"Yeah?"
"We got a nut coming in."
Sighing. "Great."

Young guy, in restraints. Filthy -
"Let me go let me go let me go... now..."
Browning is there, with his tired smile, following just behind the stretcher. He's a good cop.
"What'd you bring us?"
"Runner." And he doesn't say anything else, so apparently the loon didn't do anything seriously stupid.
"Well, I'd run from you too," Toro says quietly.
"Funny guy."
"So - he's under arrest?"
Browning rolls his eyes. "No warrants. If you wanna take him on a 72-hour, I can forget all about his, uh, lack of cooperation."
"Done," Toro nods, right away. "Got him. You're a good guy, Browning, I don't care what they all say."
"Have fun," the cop smiles, turning to leave.

The guy doesn't want to hold still. Determined to get loose. He has to be tranked...
"You're not... real," he growls at Toro.
"Well, I think I am," Toro says calmly, as he slips the needle in.
"Nah. This is when you disappear, and they show up."
"They? Who?"
"The ticklers."

Notice the pause. Enjoy it.

"Ticklers?"
"Yeah."
Look closely, inside -

Old memories. Badly faded by time, but remembered as vivid experiences, humiliating, agonizing.
Ah.
The distracting thrill of fear racing down his spine. A big shiver of dread.

He forces his attention back to the present day. Encouraging the patient, soothing him - only a mild tranquilizer, and no, you don't have to fall asleep. It will help you relax. Trust me. I'll be back...
To listen.
Cause that to be an unsettling idea.
Send him off to another exam room.

Oh, crap. The tickle guy. Did he even let the psych unit know? The poor guy's been in there for a while...
He makes the call. Half-hour, forty-five tops. Gets a bottle of water - two bottles. Walks back into exam room 5.
The patient is relaxed. Looking at him. So is Shellie, the nurse who sat just inside the door, reviewing charts. "Good luck," she says quietly, smirking.
"What?"
She gathers up the pile of folders. "I'm not real."
"I've always suspected that about you," he mumbles.
Shellie just shoots him a look and leaves.

"Hey," he says, calm and friendly. "I'm Doctor Hunt."
"P-please, Doc, you gotta let me out of here!" The patient tries to move, but he's too loopy now. "This sucks. Please."
"Okay. I've got to take a look at your eyes, first. May I?"
The guy eventually nods. A good sign. Toro checks his pupils - and relaxes, because it should be a couple hours before the patient can even stand up. "I'm really sorry about making you wait, by the way. If I take those things off now, you gotta stay put."
"I'm fucked up. Can't even see straight."
"That's the idea," and he pulls a strap free.
The guy waves his wrist around drunkenly. "Oooooh... It came off!"
"Yeah," and Toro is secretly amused at the childlike tone of the guy's voice. "They're all coming off. But you gotta promise you're not gonna hurt anybody. Or run away yet."
The guy looks right at him. "I've never hurt a fly. They're still gonna come and take me, though, no matter what."
"They will, huh?" Toro finishes releasing the dude's left ankle.
"Count on it. They totally get into a setup like this. I don't why they haven't moved in already. Caught, all helpless... just the way they like."

"Whoa. You lost me, there." Toro pulls the last strap free, and checks a certain motor reflex. It can't be faked. Yeah, the dude isn't going anywhere for awhile, much less put up a fight. The drug is really good for situations like this.
"It don't matter. They own me. I'll get hauled off again. It... aw, it doesn't matter anyway."
"Haul you off, huh?"
"Grab me. They got me outa jail. Twice. They'll be here. Won't be long now."
Rattled, he looks down at the chart. "Somebody else is going to come in and talk with you."
The guy thinks about that. "I'm not crazy."
"I never said you were... How about thirsty?"
"Oh. Yeah."
He holds the guy's head up, so he can swallow.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," and he steals a look at his watch. "They tell me your name is Jim."
The patient giggles... but he doesn't sound particularly happy.
"Jimmy, maybe? Jimmy Ray -"
"It don't matter. Jimmy Ray Doe. I'll be gone tonight. Fuckin' hands are gonna come and get their lost dog." Another fit of giggling.
Hands? He's depersonalizing whoever it is he's talking about. "Nobody's going to break in and drag you off."
"Just you wait."
"Why?"
He thinks that one over. "The police. I got away, finally, and then they had to go and scan my fingers. Right there in the car."
"They get to do that now, if you won't tell 'em who you are."
"I didn't do nuthin' wrong."
"Resisting arrest. Even if you did nothing else, you fought 'em."
"So I'm here. The cops gave me away. Hey, you bastards, we got Jimmy for ya! Found him. Come and get him. He's been a bad dog. Ran away from the kennel."
"Where's the kennel?"
The guy rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Everywhere. Usually they pull a hood on me, a blindfold, something. There's so many... I can remember five different places. No, six."
Toro just nods.
"Shit. They keep us there - like dogs."
"Us?"
"All of us. I'm not the only one, Doc. Get a clue. Catchin' us all... Tickle tickle, doggies. Howl at the moon -"
"Calm down, Jimmy. You're safe now."
"Yeah. Sure."
"Who are they?"
The patient's eyes get big. He clams up.
"Not gonna say?"
"They'll kick my ass - even harder. Look, you can't do anything. Nobody can. They're magic. All those hands. Gotcha, Jimmy. Welcome back."
Well, huh. "Ghosts? Aliens?"
The guy thinks for a second. "Nope."

"Can you see them?"
An odd grin. "The toys. Tools. Floating all around. Gloves - a lot of gloves. Moving... all by themselves." He pauses, and his expression gets bleak. "They'll get me back in the kennel tonight, the torture chamber, and I just can't take it any more..."
The guy starts to cry.
"Sssssh," he says automatically. But he stops himself. Bottling up emotions isn't therapeutic... "Right this moment, Jimmy, you're safe. I'm here. All kinds of people will look out for you. Keep 'em away."
"They're gonna grab me again. Tickle the fuck out of me. B-bad dog."
Toro pulls a couple of tissues out of the box. "Here. Take 'em."
"Thanks," Jimmy says quietly, blowing his nose. Looking lost. "What the hell. Sounds whacked, don't it? I know. You wouldn't believe what I've seen."
"Well, that's... a lot to have on your mind."

The dude snorts once. "Can't usually think at all. Not when they get busy. Tickling. And when I do get away, I'm just thinkin' about how to hide better."
"Well, I'm sorry tonight turned out so bad."
"Nuthin' like it's gonna get," the guy shoots right back. "This is the calm before the storm. They're gonna tickle me like nobody's business."
"We're not going to let that happen."
"Bullshit. At least you tried. I guess. And you didn't roll your eyes once."
"I've heard weirder things," he says, smiling. But he wonders if that's true.
The door opens -
Miko, the unit clerk, sticks her head inside. "Toro. GSW rolling in the door. Real shocky." That's one that can't wait.
He looks at Jimmy - wishing the psych resident would show up early - and then back at Miko. "Got a few minutes?"
She frowns. It's isn't really her job. But it's four-something in the morning... and there isn't anybody else.
"Stay loose, Jimmy," he says. "I got somebody else on the way here. Okay?"
The dude waves sadly. Go away. "It's a done deal. Nice knowin' you, Doc."
"C'mon, now. Stay relaxed, okay? I'll be back."
"Toro," Miko says sternly. "Now."
"Yeah... See you soon, Jimmy."
"No you won't," he shoots back, staring at the ceiling. Well, at least he's calm...

In the hall, he grabs Miko's arm. "Witness."
She looks at him, all puzzled. "Huh?"
"This isn't smart," and he locks the door to 5, as quietly as he can, "but I don't know what else to do. Psych's on the way."
"Well, I'll try to watch him -"
But the phone's ringing, and she lopes off to answer it.
The outer doors open, and he hustles to meet the the gurney. "Okay, what's the deal?"
The paramedics give him the rundown...

The GSW is rolled into surgery maybe twenty minutes after arriving.
Shellie grabs his arm. Looking worried. The psych resident is right behind her - Dawson, Dawes, something like that...
"Hey, where's the loon in 5?"
"Still there," he says.
"No. He's not."

They look all over the floor, in the stairwells.
Dammit. "Are you sure?" he snaps.
"The door was locked when we walked up to it," Shellie says. "I'm positive."
"So am I," the psych resident pipes up. "I remember I made a smartass remark, when I saw it." Shellie nods faster.
Was that guy clever enough to lock the door again, after he slipped out? Why would he bother? "I didn't have anybody to babysit him. Shit..."
"Hey, it happens. They'll probably catch up with him soon enough."
"Go tell security?" Shellie suggests tactfully.
He looks at her, and sighs hard. "Yeah."
"You think he's hiding, in here?" Dawson wonders. "Or did he take off?"
"Out," Shellie says immediately.
"Nah. He was too woozy," Toro protests. "Couldn't even stand up yet."
"So - you think he's still in here?"
He shrugs. "Dude wanted to be gone. To hide. Unless he crawled off -"
"Maybe the tickle monster kidnapped him. Again."
"Shellie," and he couldn't help but grin at her, "I swear."

Finally home, he calls his girlfriend at her job, yawning throughout their brief conversation. She teases him about it gently, and they hang up after exchanging habitual declarations of love.
He's so worn out he has trouble pulling off his clothes. Dropping onto the mattress with a heartfelt sigh...
Quickly falling asleep.
In this state, he has no defense at all from scrutiny - or suggestion.

The old perceptions are methodically picked apart.

A vivid experience is not necessarily a bad one. His sexual experience has made that clear - knowledge he lacked as a child. That resistance is easily neutralized.

Embarrassment? The humiliation of it... uncontrollable reflex to laugh, loss of bladder control, a level of distraction so profound it prevents even the ability to yearn for the torment to end. These are the consequences for rapture - of a certain kind. Alone, where no one else could learn of the prolonged stimulation, only the master of the tickling will observe him. No audience. No pity, no help. Just the deep attack.
He's made to see that his shame - being immoblized, plundered, even smelly - is a luxury that will be stripped from him the very first night.
He will be forced to concentrate on sensation. Human foibles can be reclaimed, but some will not be allowed for an unknowable measure of time.

Agony is more difficult to address. The distinctive, welcome pain in his most memorable ejaculations... The withdrawn sliver or thorn, hurting him even as the removal feels so wonderful. What is the true nature of such things, he is made to think, devoid of the arbitrary labels by which men know them? It is a fallacy, but the arguments hammer away at his subconscious. The positive changes wrought in a man by intense suffering... Before the logical errors are recognized, shift his intellect to reinterpret those earlier memories. Those times in the past were clumsy and awkward. Callous tormentors, lacking any true concern for his long-term welfare. But the next ordeal will scarcely resemble those past events. He is to be tickled with the absence of remorse, a lack of satiation... but also a uniquely exquisite attentiveness, the mandate of enlightenment at the very door of psychosis. Held, and kept, in a sweeter agony that can never be diluted by his own volition or preference.

While the investigation occurs, he dreams of a warm, sunny island. Stunning women laugh as they straddle him...
And the impeccable waiters are all invisible.
Gentle, eager fingers... exploring him, making him chortle as he thrusts.
His sleeping body is not allowed to move.

Motivations are explored. A lever is needed, to make him long for it. It must be something he lacks and hungers for, wordlessly, intimately. A dozen possibilities fail to deliver.
And then the confirmation comes.
What Toro lusts after is... sleep.
The life of a medical intern is exhausting. He hasn't been able to get "enough" rest - not since the summer before his last year of med school - and the memories of being able to sleep all he wants are romanticized, gilt-edged.
So he starts to fantasize about that. The waking activity is downplayed - for now - in favor of the profound contentment of drifting off to sleep, no alarm clock, nowhere else to be...
His body will be toned and maintained as never before. Phenomenally exhausting work will be demanded of him - but not until after he sleeps, and dreams, for as long as he desires. And tomorrow also, after the ordeal is paused again. Consciousness fading, involuntarily, from sheer overexcitement. Every night. And the hunger for that unlimited rest is incomparably welcome, overpowering...
He seizes the fantasy without becoming fully aware of it, unable to contemplate all the aspects - such as the ferocious tickling which would make slumber so incomparably welcome. Plenty of sleep will continually allow the feverish, unending activity which has no useful comparison to any event he remembers with clarity.

The directive is repeated several dozen times, in sync with the fantasy-rutting...
Fantasize about this beach. And these fingers.
Stroking.
Squeezing.
Rubbing.
Making him chuckle. Lazy, satisfied laughter.
Leaving so he could sleep until his body naturally wakes up - for more tickling.
The command is given, and his subconscious responds gratefully. He can relax by thinking of the dream-beach... and the obsessed fingers.
 

Waking up, but still more asleep than conscious, he looks over at the alarm clock and groans.
After a minute, he starts to think about the dream.
His hand responds to deep instinct, easing around his member...

Slightly late for his shift, he takes the criticism stoically - and thinks about sun and ocean, low-key excitement which refuses to end, yielding after an eternity to the most soothing rest.
The fantasy scenario calms him, so it's imposed throughout his long, exhausting shift.

He returns home.

When he's unconscious, a new panorama is created for the benefit of his receptive imagination.

Snug clothing. It feels solid... and safe. He looks down -
Tight black leather, all over him. A perfect fit. He has never worn clothing like this, so he concludes it must be another dream. That belief will not dilute the intended effect.
His hands begin to move. Thin, soft leather moves his fingers, hiding them from view. He resists, briefly - but the clothing is unmistakably in control, inverting the hand-in-glove metaphor.
Unable to prevent it, he watches his hands pull a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of an inner pocket. His head is tilted down, to suck in the flame. He has not smoked in several years, but his own preference is irrelevant.
He takes another earnest drag. Expecting to be repulsed, he realizes that every physical reaction could hardly be more... positive. The inner confusion does not mitigate the relief - even enjoyment - that courses through him, as if learned through long and constant experience.
Watching the smoke rise up from his mouth, he's puzzled at his own vast satisfaction. His boots start to move...
The featureless space around him is recognized as a hallway, built from dark stone. As he moves forward, stumbling slightly until he cooperates with the boots, he sees an door, banded with mossy iron.
His left glove brings the cigarette to his mouth - and pushes his fingers away from each other.
The door creaks open.
As he walks in, the urge to chuckle is supressed. He remembers the enjoyable dream of last night, and is eager to see what similar thing will happen...
A faint click - and a torch flares to life with a faint sound reminicent of wind.
There is a man in the room, waiting. Naked, and bound -
The reason becomes luridly clear.

Even better, he recognizes the victim. It's Turtle...
Definitely the person he'd most want to see strapped down.
How fitting. The pain Turtle caused his family, particularly his older sister, is beyond description. And he's looking around as if he doesn't see... his tormentor.
Pulling at the restraints, eyes bulging with fear.

One of the gloves makes a lazy gesture, behind Toro's back, and the door closes.
Turtle jumps. Very entertaining. He yells and struggles even harder.
With a glance, there is a padlock floating in the air - over to the door. The effect it has, on the prisoner, is incomparable. Locking him in. Sealing his new home.
The right glove points a finger - and a huge hunting knife appears over Turtle.
He screams at it... watching it descend. Pausing, right over his genitals.
The other glove makes a sweeping motion, and the blade disappears.
Both men are relieved. And new emotions are coming, for each. Turtle's eyes are tight with dread. He yells for help, for release - giving no sign that he's aware of Toro, standing in front of him.
The gloves remain motionless. Waiting... for Toro. Finally, he moves his index fingers -
A different object appears. It is exactly as he imagined it.
Turtle's uncertainty is about to end. This is how he will be broken - utterly changed - because of his earlier cruelty.
Moving his hands slightly... Toro sends a long black feather down to the navel of the prisoner, makes a loose fist -
And Turtle's nightmare begins.

Shouting pointlessly, the victim flails. He's fighting not to snicker.
The feather obeys Toro's every thought. He lights another cigarette, and imagines it moving up and down the prisoner's right side - more gently, so the unbearable tickling can build, and build...
Oh, yes. Perfect. He wishes for another feather, to sweep up and down Turtle's left side. It appears immediately.

Turtle wails hysterically, no longer able to squirm.
Toro is giddy with excitement. I'm a doctor, he thinks vaguely. Fuck, I reduce suffering...
But the feathers do not relent in the least. Torture. And it will continue, even when Toro isn't standing there, watching. Enjoying this. Meticulous overstimulation...
And he also knows, somehow, that this is only the first of an indefinite number of days Turtle will suffer. Just like this.

Two more feathers rise up, while the prisoner catches his breath...
Sweeping up and down his flexing soles.
All of Turtle's desperate movements, and the mindless braying, will not matter in the least.

His legs are jerking, maybe once a second. Regular little spasms.
Turtle laughs like a madman. His legs - just - keep - kicking - like - he's - gotta - get 'em - the fuck - out of - here - right - now - dammit - now - make it - stop - he's gotta - make - it - stop.

During break periods, Turtle regains his breath - and begs, with tears rolling down his face.
There is only one possible response.
Two magical gloves.
They rub the captive slowly. The intensity will be turned up, alright. Many gloves. So much higher.

Still pleading, when he can forestall the feverish chuckles...
but Turtle is a different man now.

Countless hours pass.

Waking up from that dream, he's thoughtful. Troubled.
Several reminders of the idyllic beach are necessary...

A few hours into his shift, he steps outside. Restless, bored -
Guide his hand.
There is something in his pocket that he didn't put there. Forbidden, but irresistible. The distracted mood which has ruled the day makes him pause and stare.
Decision, followed by the warm anticipation of fulfillment. He shakes one cigarette out of the pack.
The conflict is entertaining. Toro is thoroughly opposed to smoking, for many reasons - and yet the emotions of last night's dream are surfacing again. Sensible objections are heard and ignored.
A lighter is retrieved from another pocket.
The smoke in his lungs is much more disgusting than he expects.
Relief, stronger than anything else, makes it worthwhile.
He's stubbornly determined to smoke three cigarettes before he returns. Each is more enjoyable, more "right," than the last.
He pays no any attention to the disparaging remarks from the others, later, when they smell the uncharacteristic odor on his breath. They just don't understand.

Dreaming of the beach. Again.
As before, he is the captive. The fingers are in no rush at all now. They drill him hard, at times, and it nearly makes him pass out. Excitement. Rapture.
But most of the time the teasing is exquisitely paced. No matter how many times he uses the word "dream", in his thoughts, there is nothing to support the notion.
Apparently, his third ejacuation is not to be hurried. They stroke so light, so slow, so continuously.
Beyond happy, his body sings...
After an inestimable time, he's being carried to a boat.
Iron bars, crosshatched, secure the door. Beyond that, the calm sea. He's being taken somewhere. Kidnapped...
There is a time when the sky seems darker, beyond the dark gloves tickling him. They lift off, and as his chuckling begins to fade he watches them move. Floating to new positions, without haste. No indecision at all.
Slightly less dark than the walls that enclose him, they descend.
Two determined hands attack his sides, making him fidget again, yelping softly.
They talk to him, in their direct way, and somehow he knows what their fingers are saying on each rib, repeating it endlessly all over his exposed armpits, back down again, crawling up...
The tickling on his left verifies that the sensation will become all the more overwhelming.
The tickling on his right confirms that it is not going to stop.

Years and years of diffused contentment seem to drift by...
And he focuses on dark iron bars.
No longer on the boat. He is looking up at the ceiling of a dry, quiet pit.
A cigarette slides between his lips.
He takes it eagerly, and looks over at an oil lamp. Near it, a long blade of grass rises up and hovers above the hottest part of the flame. Floating to him.
Sucking in, he holds the smoke for a few seconds. Familiar, distinctive pleasure - and all the sharper because this is the only cigarette he will be given today.
The ways of his existence have been memorized, through long repetition.
A clear, warm day can be seen through the bars. He is thrilled to know that, and also to be kept from basking in it. There is a large antique lock holding the bars closed. Even if he was not strapped down - so perversely comfortable - he could never reach it.
The flickering oil lamp shows him shelves and trays, covered with the equipment which is used to intricately excite every part of his body, the splendid abuse which will continue again when he is done enjoying the cigarette...
He knows that, and embraces it.

Attempts to remember the way his life used to be fill him with a wordless gratitude. The memories are so foggy now - all those decisions to make, the accumulated frustrations, concern for a future which might never come. But it has been a long time... and such matters are irrelevant now.
An enigmatic hunter has laid claim to him. Persistence and action have triumphed, and his desires are ruled with the same firm control.
He smokes, calmly, in an unbreakable cage... on an island unknown to anyone else. Soon he will devote every moment to the impossible task of comprehending all of the sensation his owner can induce. His thoughts and opinions will never have an effect.
The future will bring a seamless continuation of the days which came before.
Alert, and revelling in a level of physical vitality which seems to call out for a full day of exertion that is challenging and sublime, he takes another long drag.
The cigarette is starting to move. He tugs fiercely, before it's taken away. That exhalation is always prolonged as much as possible...
Catastrophic rapture is about to envelop him.
Blissful pulverization.
He cannot stop it from occurring.

Shivers of excitement - and horror - run through his body, making him pull idly at the cuffs. They do not yield at all. It is the hunter's wish that he stay flat, and accessible... as feathers rise up from their honored place on a tray. One by one, hovering closer, and he knows the number will eventually be ten. The very sight of them, as they prepare to devastate his most sensitive areas, makes it impossible for him to hold still.
The sky doesn't change. Like humanity, it doesn't know of his doom.
At last, the light, skillful stroking makes his body tense up...
Barking quiet laughter no one else will hear.
 

He has the next day off. No work. Preferring to nap - except for a quick trip out for cigarettes and beer.
Petroleum jelly, and unhurried masturbation. Flat on his back, imagining the skill of the fingers, and those unyielding walls trapping him.
Having completely forgotten about the prior plans made with his girlfriend, he chooses to ignore the telephone when it rings, delighting in the small acts of defiance, giving no further thought to his answering machine in the living room...

Once again, it is time to dream.
He's fully refreshed, comfortable... and looking at the ceiling of a padded room. Thick straps keep him hopelessly flat.
Knowing beyond all doubt that the room is beyond discovery -
Suddenly his right foot is free. His leg is extended. He can't get it to budge.
A black satin glove appears - much wider than usual, in his fantasies. The size of the glove is suggestive of a pro wrestler. It's right above his foot, pointing...
The human foot.
he hears the voice, without knowing if it's actually audible or just reverberating in his thoughts. Low, measured tones. Commanding.
There are 128 combinations of speed, pressure and motion for the effective tickling of the human foot. 68 reliable locations can be identified which are at least one centimeter in diameter... providing approximately eleven hundred useful pattern-intervals for ten semi-independent points of contact.
Another glove is suddenly accompanying the pointer. Both of them set their fingertips, one by one, against the soles of his feet.
Asynchronous tickling of both feet, with implements or an increased number of contacts, yields almost two hundred thousand distinct permutations.
Stunned, unable to speak, he watches the gloves rise and move - over his armpits. Long before they arrive, his foot is anchored again, instantly, silently.
The lateral surfaces between the shoulder joint and iliac crest can be reliably stimulated with 224 speed/pressure/motion combinations, on 108 productive locations. In excess of fifty thousand pattern-intervals are known for four groups of five fingers, brushes or other contact mechanisms.
The gloves lay on his stomach, spreading out. He squirms, because the sheer area they can cover is alarming -
The abdomen, between diaphragm and pelvic ring, has -
"I get it," he says.
Without knowing why he interrupted the voice, he's thoroughly intimidated...
Oh, yes. You will.
The gloves multiply. Four gloves pet him skillfully, roaming all over his frantic, squealing chest.

At some point - much later - he realizes there is a new pattern to the attack. Rhythmic, almost mechanical.
Gloves have their palms as flat as possible, hiding his pecs. They move only their fingertips. In unison or alternating, changing speed at will.

The number of gloves keeps increasing.
Foot foot foot foot.
Gut gut gut gut.
knee knee knee knee.

Unceasing movement, resuming innumerable times...
Longer swipes. Ribs, ribs, ribs, ribs.
Thigh, thigh, thigh, thigh.
Ass, ass, ass, ass.
Shin, shin, shin, shin.
Many fingers ease into his armpits again...
 

He wakes up enthralled.
Packing a few things, leaving a brief note for his girlfriend -
Toro lights another cigarette, picks up his suitcase and walks to the bus stop.

Then the rental car agency, a fine meal - as if it was his last taste of freedom...

And the drive. Three hours, maybe four. He knew where to turn, without wondering how he knew. It was all happening as it was supposed to happen. Out into the country, down miles of unpaved roads.
 

Lighting one more cigarette, he gets out of the car. Longing, fear, excitement, dread...
The front door is unlocked. He steps inside -
And just as he expected, it closes magically behind him.

The gloves come - as real as he is, no longer constrained to his dreams - and lead him to a stairway. His clothes are taken away.
And the room is warm enough. So dark. He cannot even see the door, after it closes and locks. There is no need to remember it, or think about it.
Gloves ease him down to the thick pad on the floor.
Creaking and jingling sounds tell him of the sturdiness of the restraints. He does not fight. There is no reason to resist. Locked in, and locked in again - of course they'd chained him down.
A cigarette touches his lip. Quickly, he takes a light and sucks in deeply - as if it's the last chance he'll get to smoke tonight.
Only one thing is bothering him, marring a supremely overriding sense of peace and well-being - the room is too dark. He fidgets, but of course the restraints will not yield, stretching him quite effectively. He knows exactly why he was immobilized, but the amazing frustration probably won't return until tomorrow.
Wrong. It's wrong somehow, he thinks, not what he expected, this is not the deal -
There is a sliding sound overhead. Wood scraping over wood.
He blinks, and sees the silhouette - of bars, over him and past his feet. Right about where they should be.
And color appears. It's a photograph, being laid down on the far side of the bars...
Blue sky, with just a few clouds.
A huge sigh of relief escapes from him. Now that's more like it.

15nov03