Heads, Bodies and Tails…the middle


She sits next to me, her perfect features catching the light in a model worthy way. I watch her, and the glass touching her parted lips, then gulp.

I needed to drink, so I do…I swig my wine and then rush away from her to get another. People here are cold, aloof. When Mark had invited me, I’d imagined a student – worthy mess. But this was class

and boredom.

Some guy in a matching white number begins talking to me…he keeps staring down my cleavage but I ignore it. If I stayed here, to impress Mark, then I might get the job I had always wanted. 

To run his shitty, ridiculously wealthy hair product business. 


Mark comes to find me after twenty minutes or so. Most of the people here have lost their polite ways – mainly because of the alcohol use.

I go and find a place to sit under the stairs. Mark’s house is large and grand, and full of little nooks and crannies that no one else would think to build.

The cushions on this sofa are plush, and there are fairy lights above my head. Music plays with a deep bass in the room behind me, and I am grateful for the peacefulness of this space. Slowly, I lean forward and put my face into the palms of my hands. I run my hands through my hair, dig into my scalp deeply and then sign.

The alcohol had began to wear off, and the people who’d been fighting in the main room five minutes ago had stopped. They step out, just into my vision – two white, handsome men – and shake hands. I realize, with shock and glee, that one of them is Mark…

“Hey, Mark.” I go to stand, but he just walks away from my voice to guide the unknown gentlemen to the front door. I frown, perplexed, and notice that the second man is much older than I expected under my close examination.

I say, stupidly “Goodbye” – as a way of trying to get myself into the conversation and understand why Mark was blanking me, but it was no use.

I find out why he’s being so ignorant about half an hour later.

A girl from my secondary school has turned up and we’re talking about our pervert History teacher, Mr.Davis, and how he used to sweat during year ten lessons.

“Oh my God. Aha, he is so disgusting. If my Dad were to have known, he would have killed him.” She keeps leaning too far into my lap and laughing in my face, but I let her because I am glad that she is not a guy trying to bed me.

I am also grateful that I appear normal and sociable while speaking to her.

This is when I find out why I was taken here.

Why I had been pulled into this social circle three months ago, from a local pub in my old town.

This girl, Christine, looks behind me at one point during our conversation – I see the glance in slow motion. It’s her way of saying ‘Pounce’ or ‘Prepare for lift off.’

A sick feeling comes to my stomach, as I realize that she’s too pretty to want to speak to me and that the rest of the party are disappearing at a fast rate. Most are gone within a few minutes, bar three men and Christina.

The music stops, the front door is closed and Mark turns to face me with a smirk. I swallow, stare at him over the back of the sofa, and begin to sob.

The next thing I know is black. I suffocate on something that tastes like alcohol, and someone takes my phone and keys from my pocket.


Everything is black. I have woken, my feet bare and cold – and the tight sensation of something over my chest and wrists. I wait, listen…try to block out the sound of my breathing, but it’s no use. The only noises I hear are the ones I imagine while in some odd, neck snapping nap. I am a hostage, and I dream about black shoes.

Black shoes that yell down the metal, rusting halls outside.

Black shoes that run through the slime and sweat, to unlock the door on my cell and set me free.

“Miss?” They shout desperately, as they shine a light onto mu bruised face.

“Yes – yes, quick. They’re coming – help me.”

But no one comes.

Just the trickle of some water behind me, and

the dry fibers in my mouth

and the echoes of my useless, quiet moans – they travel around this nowhere like boomerangs.

The worst thing, I learn, is the loneliness.

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