Breathe through your nose, was the only thought that came into his head. He tried to concentrate on that, but he was too scared and drunk on pain for his brain to muster any discipline at that moment. Littlewood needed more air, he was desperate for it, and instinctively he drew another deep breath through his mouth. The mixture of bile and blood that was sitting just under his tongue was sucked back into his throat, blocking the oxygen passage even more.
Total panic.
His eyes rolled back into his head and the contents of his stomach exploded inside him, shooting up through his chest and esophagus like a rocket, though to him everything happened in slow motion. His body started to go limp. Life was quickly draining away from him.
He felt the acid taste of vomit take hold of his mouth a fraction of a second before it was flooded by warm, lumpy liquid. At that exact moment, his gag gave in, dropping from his mouth as if someone had snipped it off at the back.
He threw up all over his lap. But the good news was he could now breathe.
After a battery of dry coughs and spits, Littlewood started taking desperate gasps of air, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen and at the same time calm himself down. He started shaking, convulsing with two realizations – one: he had just come within an inch of death; two: he was still tied to a chair, and he didn’t have a clue what was going on.
Movement came from his left. Startled, Littlewood’s head snapped in that direction. Someone was there, but the shadows didn’t allow Littlewood to see.
‘Hello?’ he said, in such a weak voice he wasn’t sure it’d been audible to anyone but himself.
A few more desperate breaths to steady himself.
‘Hello?’ he tried again.
No answer.
Littlewood looked around himself. He saw a large bookshelf crowded with leather-bound volumes, a floor lamp by the side of a large desk across the room from him – the room’s only source of light. His eyes moved right and he saw a comfortable brown leather armchair. A few feet in front of it he recognized the psychologist’s couch – his psychologist’s couch. He was back in his office.
‘By the look on your face, I can see you’ve figured out where you are.’ The phrase was delivered in an even voice. Someone had come from the shadows, and was now standing about five feet in front of him, leaning against his desk.
Littlewood’s gaze refocused on the tall figure as even more confusion settled in.
‘This is your office. Four floors up from the road below. Thick windows. Thick walls. And your window faces the back alley. Outside your door there’s a large waiting room, and only then do you reach the door to the outside hallway.’ A pause and a shrug. ‘Scream if you like, but no one will hear a peep.’
Littlewood coughed again to try and clear the vile taste from his mouth. ‘I know you.’ His voice was croaked and weak. Fear cloaked every word.
A smile and a shrug. ‘Not as well as I know you.’
Littlewood’s head was still too fuzzy for him to put a name to the face. ‘What? What’s all this?’
‘Well, what you don’t know about me is that I am . . . an artist.’ A deliberate pause. ‘And I’m here to make you into a work of art.’
‘What?’ Littlewood finally noticed that the person in front of him was wearing a clear, hooded, thick plastic jumpsuit and latex gloves.
‘But I guess that what I am does not matter. What matters is what I know about you.’
‘What?’ The fog of confusion was getting denser, and Littlewood started wondering if all this wasn’t just a bad dream.
‘For example,’ the artist continued. ‘I know where you live. I know about your awful marriage all those years back. I know where your son goes to college. I know where you go when you want to let off some steam. I know what you like when it comes to sex, and all the places you go to get it. The dirtier the better, isn’t that right?’
Littlewood coughed again. Spit dribbled down his chin.
‘But best of all . . . I know what you did.’ Pure anger found its way into the artist’s voice.
‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The artist took a step to the left and the light from the pedestal lamp reflected on something that’d been laid out on Littlewood’s desk. Littlewood couldn’t make out what it was, but he realized that there were several metal objects lying there. Shuddering fear traveled through every inch of his body.
‘It’s OK. I will remind you as the night goes on.’ An irreverent chuckle. ‘And for you, it will be a long, long night.’ The artist grabbed two objects from the desk and approached Littlewood.
‘Wait. What’s your name? Could I have some water, please?’
The artist stopped directly in front of Littlewood and chuckled sarcastically. ‘What, you want to try your psychology crap with me? What would that be? Let’s see . . . ah yes . . . Appeal to the assailant’s human side by asking for the simplest of things, like water, or going to the bathroom. Sympathy for those in need is a natural sentiment to most human beings. You want to call me by my name? Who knows, maybe I’ll call you by yours – which would humanize the victim in the eyes of the assailant, transposing the victim from a simple victim to a person, a human being, someone with a name, with feelings, with a heart. Someone who the assailant could maybe identify with. Someone who, outside the given situation, could be just the same as the assailant, with friends, and family, and everyday problems.’ A new chuckle. ‘Appeal to their human nature, right? It’s supposedly harder for people to hurt someone they know. So try to strike a conversation. Even a simple one can have a massive effect on the assailant’s psyche.’
Littlewood looked up with horror in his eyes.
‘That’s right. I read the same books as you did. I know hostage-situation psychology as well. Are you sure you want to try your bullshit with me?’
Littlewood swallowed dry.
‘The building is empty. We’ve got until tomorrow morning before anyone even walks past your door. Maybe we can chat while I work, what do you say? Want to give it a try? Maybe spark some sympathy inside me?’
Tears filled Littlewood’s eyes.
‘I say let’s make a start.’
Without any more warnings, the artist pinched and twisted Littlewood’s exposed nipple with a pair of metallic medical forceps, pulling it away from his body so hard that the skin almost ruptured right there and then.
Littlewood let out an agonized cry. He felt vomit starting to rise up in his throat again.
‘I really hope you don’t mind pain. This knife isn’t very sharp.’ The other instrument the artist had retrieved from the desk was a small, serrated knife. It looked old and blunt.
‘Feel free to scream if this hurts.’
‘Oh God, pl . . . , pl . . . , please, don’t do this. I beg you. I . . .’
Littlewood’s next words were abruptly substituted by a soul-chilling scream as the artist slowly started sawing off his nipple.
Littlewood almost passed out. His mind was struggling with everything. He desperately wanted to believe that whatever was happening to him wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had to be inside the absurd world of some crazy dream. It was the only logical explanation. But the pain that shot up from his blood-and-vomit-soaked chest was very real.
The artist put down the blunt knife and watched Littlewood bleed for a while, waiting for him to catch his breath, to regain some of his strength.
‘As much as I’ve enjoyed that,’ the artist finally said, ‘I think I want to try something different now. This might hurt more.’
Those words sent Littlewood tumbling down a rabbit hole of such intense fear that his whole body tensed. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs cramp so hard it paralyzed him.