Left in the Dark

I can hear the AC/DC song “Highway to Hell.” I open my eyes, but I’m still in the dark. I can’t see anything. I try to rub my eyes and realize I can’t move my arms – or (as I immediately test them) my legs. The happiness I had felt when I heard the familiar music quickly evaporates as I start to panic. Where am I? I focus on the beat to calm myself and try to figure out more about my environment.

I am sitting in a chair, with my wrists attached to the arms and my feet attached to the legs. The chair is not particularly soft, and the arms and legs seem to be made of metal. I can’t identify how I am tied. It isn’t handcuffs or chains – maybe soft rope or fabric. It doesn’t feel like duct tape or electric wires. So, not in a hospital, immobilized for my own safety. Someone put me in this chair and tied me up. Hopefully, they also blindfolded me, which would account for the complete darkness.

I have no recollection at all about how I got here. What is the last thing I remember? Nodding my head to the song, I think about waking up in the morning at home, getting dressed, and taking the bus to work at the insurance company. Then nothing. Am I still wearing the same clothes? I wiggle my toes and decide I am still wearing my work shoes – just a little too tight to be comfortable. I lean forward in the chair and wriggle around to try and get some fabric within reach of my fingers. It takes a few goes, but eventually I manage to touch some woolen material. Yes, a loose jacket that I wore to work.

The music changes. It’s not AC/DC this time, but the distinctive sound of Flo Rida’s “Low.” Probably not an album, then. Perhaps a radio station or a playlist. Either way, an eclectic mix of styles. I am happy to sing along.

Information so far. I’m tied to a chair, probably blindfolded, still wearing what I wore to work this morning. Of course, that could have been five minutes or five hours ago, or even yesterday. But still, the good news is that I am still fully dressed, and I am not in pain. Good point – I don’t have a headache. Perhaps I was drugged? My mouth feels dry, and my bladder is full. My neck is a little stiff, as though I have been sleeping in an awkward position. That checks out. Plausible hypothesis: something happened at work or after I left, I was drugged and left to sleep it off for a few hours.

I tilt my head back and move it around to ease my stiff neck. Flo Rida fades out, and Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” starts to play. This is a crazy playlist, but I’ve loved each song so far. Whoever selected the songs is at least middle-aged.

So much for the sense of touch. Hearing is of little use, as the music covers any background sound. I still can’t see anything. That leaves smell and taste.

Is there any taste in my mouth? Maybe I can figure out whether I had lunch before this happened. I don’t feel hungry, but my brain has many more pressing concerns to worry about, so it probably doesn't care whether it’s time to eat. My breakfast was a Caffè latte, so I don’t expect to be able to taste that. My tongue does not find any helpful scraps of food in my mouth. There is no strong flavor like garlic, onion, ginger, or other spices. Since I like my lunch to keep me awake for the afternoon, my guess is that I didn’t get lunch yet.

I take long deep breaths through my nose, breathing out through my mouth. I smell a slight suggestion of stale cigar smoke. No hint of food or cooking, no odor indicating a nearby bathroom, no fragrance of air freshener or cleaning products. I suspect I am at a business location, not in a house. I am clearly indoors, with a faint occasional breeze suggesting air conditioning. I have no idea how big the space is. I want to speak, but my mouth is dry. Digging in my memory of being a hippie, I imagine myself cutting into a fresh lemon. I see a drop of lemon juice on the edge of it, and I raise it to my mouth to lick it. Immediately, saliva fills my mouth. In the final analysis, we are all Pavlov’s dogs! I swill the spit around in my mouth before swallowing.

“Hey! Is there someone here?”

My voice sounds as though I am in a large space. Perhaps a warehouse or factory. An aircraft hangar would be much noisier. More importantly, I wait to hear any response to my question. I repeat it much louder, since anyone else could be some distance away.

No reply, no sounds of anyone moving around, no door opening or closing. Okay, I’m starting to panic. The music doesn’t help. Now it’s Jim Steinman singing “Left in the Dark.” How very apt. Did someone select these tunes to mess with my head?

Back to my memories. What happened after I arrived at work? I went to my office and logged into the system. Of course, I do that every day, so my brain may be an unreliable witness, telling me what I know it would be like. Did anything memorable happen? Did I talk to anyone? My assistant – yes, she came in and I remember she smelled slightly of stale beer. I’ve been meaning to talk to her about whether everything is OK at home. She said there was an emergency management team meeting at 10 a.m. Attendance is compulsory, cancel all other meetings today, and don’t tell anyone about it. No further details.

Well, I have to believe that had something to do with my current situation. Insurance companies don’t usually have emergency meetings unless there has been a catastrophe. Now, did I actually go to the meeting, and what was it about?

Nothing comes to mind. I have no memory after Jan told me about the meeting, until I woke up here a few minutes ago.

Now we have Leonard Cohen. “Death of a Ladies’ Man.” I’m spotting a trend here, and I don’t like it.

These are not random songs. They all relate to something in my life. To someone in my life. To someone who should be safely locked up. The sort of person who could have called in a threat to an insurance company, to take all management off the floor when he kidnapped and drugged me.

If I have understood this correctly, we are both in danger from his manic personality. My best hope is to try and get him to talk to me, to take my blindfold off…

This time I yell at the top of my voice. “Steven!!! I know it’s you. Tell me what’s going on.”

And the song abruptly changes. Mick Jagger singing “Paint it Black.” I gulp, and then I hear his footsteps. He removes the blindfold and now I can see. As I blink at the sudden light, a part of my mind notes with satisfaction that I had guessed correctly. I am bound to an old-fashioned office chair in a deserted open plan office – in a building we had moved away from a few months ago. Steven is looking at me, wild-eyed and ready for desperate action.

Now I can hear police sirens outside, but I know they will get here too late. Steven smiles and says “This is the end of the line for you and me, babe.”