I drive through the cold night, the open windows let the air remind me that I am still alive. The cold breeze stings my cheeks ever so lightly.

           The morning was like any morning, like every morning. Sunlight bursted through a couple of cheap curtains and it filled the room with a peach glow. I set up and saw my shadow posted up on the wall across from me. I got up and stared for a moment. The light at my back made me nothing more than a silhouette and I enjoyed the image in my mind of how I must have looked with the angelic light behind me. The moment passed and I got up to eat; to fill my stomach with some food before I left for work.
            Unfortunately work was bad and there wasn’t much food to be had this particular morning. Other than being bad, work was photography. I took photos of moments and sell them to whomever will pay for them. My photography was my work, my camera was my eye, and I never forget what I see. I settled on a box of cereal and closed the cupboard.
           
            He closed the cupboard. When he turned around a knife was in his hand. I tested the ropes that had me bound. A spider walked along my immobile arm. It bit my hand. All I could do was wince and watch the fangs pierce my skin, leaving tiny red dots of pain on the back of my hand.

            I headed to a site where there was supposed to be some action. A local gathering was about to start and the paper would surely love to have some photos. I stopped behind a large pickup truck with a camper shell on it. It was primered, ready to be painted. The camper shell was painted, the mismatched parts lended a Frankenstein-like quality to the truck. I was distracted long enough by the vehicle that I didn’t see the man on the side of my car until he yanked me out of my seat. He was dressed in white, and his skin was bronze. His head was bald and oddly shaped, with little ridges and ripples on top where the hair should have been. He had a tattoo on his cheek. He was serious, unemotional, and strong. I was frantic and helpless. He shoved me in the back of Frankenstein’s truck. A hand was placed over my mouth. It smelled, and I nearly choked. But it wasn’t the hand that smelled, it was the rag soaked in ether.
            I awoke with a headache. I had been placed on a chair in the middle of some kitchen, with dusty brown twine rope holding down my arms, my legs, and my head. Three men came in dressed in white, one was the man who dragged me from my car, the others were exactly like him in every way; triplets, and creepy as hell.
            The room was barely big enough to hold the three of us. The white tile, cheap wall-paper and “Navajo-White” paint on the walls made me wonder if we had the same landlord. The ether aftereffects began to wear off and I started to panic once more. The twine dug into my skin and burned my arms as I struggled against it; I was completely immobile.  A sick smell wafted into my nostrils, it smelt like burning hair; the struggling against the ropes was rubbing the hair off my arm. The men gathered around and began praying.
            It was a prayer I had never heard before. The parts in English, the parts that I could understand, gave praise and reverence to the “prince of pain,” and I knew I was in serious trouble.
            I had not been taken hostage, I was not held for ransom by greedy terrorists; no, I was kidnapped by killers, pure and simple killers. This was not about who I was, it was about who they were. They left and went to another room. I overheard their muffled voices pray some more and talk for hours. I was going to be sacrificed when darkness came.
            I panicked, but had time to calm down and think. What did it mean that they could sacrifice me? What were they sacrificing? I was the one who would give it all up to God. I sat and thought some more.
            Who would miss me? Who would I miss? Would I be able to miss? I could hardly think of anyone but my girlfriend. I loved her and she knew it. And she loved me too. I could tell by the way she kissed me. Her lips permeated my corporal being and kissed my soul. I prayed that one day our souls would kiss again.
            I cried for her, and I cried for me; unable to wipe my face, the tears dried on my skin and made it feel a little crusty where they had fallen. My shirt was nearly soaked from my weeping.
            I thought more of living and dying. I thought of my life while I sat and did not struggle. My photos were different to me now. Perhaps the ones I had taken for more artistic purposes would mean more to someone. Maybe my work would be celebrated and I would, in a way, live on through them.
The kitchen window was in my view and it told me more about when I was going to die than the clock that ticked loudly on the wall behind me. The three men came back in the kitchen while I watched the sun set. One of them was empty-handed and headed towards the cupboards and opened one. The other two stood on either side of me holding candles. The third stood back up
            He closed the cupboard. When he turned around a knife was in his hand. I tested the ropes that had me bound once again. A spider walked along my immobile arm. It bit my hand. All I could do was wince and watch the fangs pierce my skin, leaving tiny red dots of pain on the back of my hand. The ugly man proceeded to carve symbols on my face, despite my screams of protest. Their ritual had begun and I would die soon.
            Blood streamed from my wounds onto my face. Some went into my mouth, some clung to the stubble on my chin, and a lot of it followed the trail the tears had made and ended up soaking the top of my shirt. I passed out from the pain.
           
            I drive through the cold night, the open windows let the air remind me that I am still alive. The cold breeze stings my cheeks ever so lightly. They take me to a field. It is dark. Shadows stand in the field. Shadows of men, and shadows of women stare at me as I am dragged from the car to the middle of the group of shadows. Tied up like an animal I can do nothing but squirm, cry and think.

            A random attack, they saw some guy stop in his car, and they figured I’d be good enough. All of the minute, unimportant decisions I made that morning worked together to fit the plans of my captors. It was supposed to be a normal day. I had no real plans but so much that I had wanted to do. They have silenced now. The wind blows the grass by my face. I roll my head around in time to see an axe shining in the moonlight.