A Captive Audience of One

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.

'H-help!' No answer.

'HELP!' No answer.

'HELP! … somebody help me … pleee-EEASE … somebody he -' Ahead of him, a figure moved out of the shadows and into the light. Not completely into the light, but just enough for Ryan to see the dark, silhouetted figure of his captor.

Ryan examined the guy's build and posture, trying to figure out who it could be. He looked to be about six foot, at least. Hands in his pockets. Medium build. And was he wearing a suit? Yes. Judging by the squared off shape of the shoulders, his captor was at least well dressed for the occasion.