Page 15 of Saddles

Doug has a tendril of empathy, sometimes. He lets me up to go to the bathroom so I don’t have to lay in my own mess.

Maybe one of these times that they leave, they won’t come back.

That’d be better. Starving to death seems a more pleasant alternative.

I hate them both. More than I ever thought it was possible to loathe a human being.

My dad’s bitchy step-cunt seems like unicorns and fucking teddy bears compared to this hell I’m in now.

When I hear the whine of their snow machines, my stomach twists in dread.

Blustering cold swirls through the small cabin when they kick the door open.

“Did you see that guy? Like his horse would ever catch up to us.” Doug pulls off his helmet and shakes his wild hair out of his eyes.

Wait, there’s someone else?

Can that mystery man help me?

“Yea, I wish we could just shoot him and be over with it.” Dave unzips his snowsuit and leaves it in a pile on the floor.

“Wasn’t that one of the rules, though? We can’t kill anyone?” Doug follows his brother, but stops at the woodstove.

Thank goodness he’s putting a couple of logs on. It’s starting to get chilly in here.

I guess if they never came back, I’d probably freeze to death long before I starved. There was some book I read that said hypothermia is one of the best ways to die.

The next time I’m free, maybe I should just run into the woods, find a nice tree to curl up next to, and fall asleep.

“Rules are meant to be broken.” Dave reaches onto the shelf and pulls down a half gallon jug of whiskey.

Doug glances towards me, then digs into his pocket for the key to the cuffs. “But they said we wouldn’t get paid if anyone dies,” he whines as he unlocks me.

His voice drops as he grumbles to himself next to me. “I bet whoever that is has a phone to check in with. I ain’t that stupid ya know.” He sits back, almost imploring me to agree with his eyes.

“Well, you did kidnap me.” I shrug. “But thank you for letting me get up.” I’ve learned a little bit of nice goes a long way with him.

But his words resonate as I step over the beer cans to the rudimentary bathroom.

It’s barely a bucket over a hole in the floor. Still better than nothing.

A phone.

I could call Dad. The cops. The fucking army.

Hell, I’d call Jeffrey Dahmer and sick him on these two assholes in a heartbeat.

Like every other time I’m up, I scan the room for a possible plan of escape.

If only I could get a hold of the keys to the snowmachine. I know I could remember how to ride one.

I think the last time I did, I was twelve or thirteen. One of mom’s retaliation cheating trips against Dad. She ran off with an outdoor enthusiast who took his time showing me how to drive one.

In hindsight, he probably just liked having me on his lap.

A shiver runs through me. I’m not sure if it’s the cold or the memory.

“Doug!” Dave shouts from the living room. “Come have a drink! I think we got at least a dozen of those stupid cows over the edge.”

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