The trek into town was lacking - the atmosphere bland, abated. The magic of the morning had been lost to the humdrum of mid-day.
He finds his regular bench already in use, the suspect - quite the fetching lass - tall, slim, blonde and presently immersed in a hefty volume of literature. Crawford leers at her from thirty feet away, she turns a page taking no account of his presence.
He strides to a vacant accommodation - a bench made of concrete, foregoing his old standby of wooden slats. Opening his bag, no cigarettes - still on the counter at home - so it’s camera check and down to business - but then a searing pain hits directly over his right rib cage.
“Urgh!” he grunts through gritted teeth.
Ever self-conscious in public, he scans the surroundings for any attention he may have attracted. No eyes upon him.
He rubs the spot with his left hand, pressing gently inward. His stomach churns as a result of skipping breakfast. Perhaps a quick stop at a local eatery would bring relief. A club sandwich and iced tea sounds grand. His feet are in motion.
The small, empty diner allowed seating of his choice - near a window with excellent view of passers-by as well as anyone entering. The waitress arrives, sets his plate and beverage on the table, smiles and beats a path back to the kitchen.
Crawford shoves a corner of the toasted sandwich into his mouth just as she walks by. Her eyes fixed forward, sloping down, minding the cracks and ruts of the uneven sidewalk.
Crawford’s attention is glued to the young lady, her gaze ahead unbroken. He takes another bite and experiences his worst pain yet - ripping through him like a gunshot. He expels his food onto the plate, grabs his side with both hands and moans loudly. His thoughts spiral, breath quickens - he hastily drops a twenty onto the table and hurries from the establishment.
The walk home was punishing. He spills through the front door and onto the couch. Eyes squinting shut, in through the nose and out through the mouth. One more shot of blistering pain.
“Fuck!”
A few seconds drift and his biology finds equilibrium. His eyes crack slightly, falling onto the door in the hall. A door that was shut tightly at his departure that was now minutely ajar. Panic swells. He thrusts upward and jolts to his feet. Each slowly measured step across the ancient wooden floor creaks a warning to whatever may await him beyond the threshold. A breach is made.
“Hello?”
Eerie silence pervades as Crawford descends into the black obscurity of his basement. The timeworn steps were curiously mute with every advance. At the bottom - all was swallowed by darkness - until a flicking noise births the dim glow of the safe light.
His head jerks involuntarily to the right. First, a silhouette, then an image more clear - one of vague familiarity - it was her. Standing beside his work space - the blonde girl from the park.
“Hey, I’ve been watching you.” she admits with a devil’s grin.
“What are you doing here?” he probes in a fissured voice.
The girl takes to hand one of Crawford’s many cameras.
“Such a tiny little hole - but with enough light, it has the power to keep you forever.”
She returns the piece of equipment to the table and moves towards him.
“Stop!” he demands.
The young lady halts abruptly, locking eyes with her besieged host.
“Who are you?” he stammers.
She takes a few more steps.
“Oh, I think you know.” she offers flirtatiously.
Before he could challenge, a final burst of pain spears through Crawford’s midsection, collapsing his knees to the floor.
“Argh!” he cries in certain agony.
A clap of thunder bleeds through from above, he trembles in the fetal position with her looming over. She kneels and speaks softly -
“I can make it all go away.”
He grapples desperately for words.
“What do you want?”
The girl holds up her left hand and blows a fine powder into his face. He fights the intrusion - coughing, retching - then loses himself to a state of calm, slowly fading. She crosses the room to the work station and disrobes.
Crawford revives in the old wooden chair, fastened securely to its timbers with nylon rope, several layers of duct tape over his mouth. He watches the young woman perform a ritual similar to the one he had the day previous.
She removes the photos of the unsuspecting women from the wall and methodically tears them in halves, then quarters before setting them to flame.
“No!” Crawford screams from behind the tape.
The girl turns and snarls.
“Such a filthy habit, taking things that do not belong to you.” she scolds.
The domineering femme saunters over in a confidence that disquiets the tenebrous room.
“I’ve got something you are going to love.” she quips, tapping the tip of his nose with her index finger.
Her svelte, nude figure ambles back to the table. She removes a photo from the wash tray, hanging it to dry. He strains to focus, not close enough to fix the blur.
“Would you like to see?” she teases.
He mumbles obscenities through the mouth covering.
She faces him - smirking, then delivers the freshly developed photo, holding it just inches away. His composure immediately dissolves. Muffled screams and lunging as the young man’s body fights violently against his restraints.
“You don’t like it?” she taunts.
The temptress returns the picture to the table.
“I tried to get your good side.” she says, squirming in delight.
Crawford perseveres as his uninvited guest concludes her obligations. Moments later, the dank and dirty basement falls absent of sound. The once occupied chair - now empty with nothing but bindings and a ring of wrinkled duct tape. She casts her eyes upon the stealthily taken photo lying helplessly on the table.
“Goodbye Crawford.” she utters scantly above a whisper.
