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Being kidnapped and tortured is one of those things you can never fully prepare yourself for. What a lot of people don’t anticipate about the experience is that the torture extends far beyond the actual interrogation.
See, when you’re being held against your will, the people holding you hostage know that as long as they keep an eye on you so you can’t break free from your restraints, they have you at your mercy. That means they don’t bother to make sure they’re out of your earshot when they discuss what they’re going to do to you. What tools to use to get you to talk. How they'll use them. How they’ll kill you. Where to dispose of your body to ensure it’ll never see the light of day again. You'd think you'd find it comforting to know what their plans are, so there won’t be any surprises. But knowing exactly what’s in store for you, and that there isn’t a thing you can do to stop it- that’s where the real fear comes from.
Before today, Paul didn’t think anything could be worse than that. Somehow, though, this is. Out of all the things he’s done in his life, he never could have imagined that weaseling out of the sign language courses his wife invited him to attend with her would end up on his list of regrets. But here he is, watching his two kidnappers converse with each other in sign. Paul can only guess what they might be saying, and his brain has decided to take this as a personal challenge to fabricate the most gruesome theories possible.
To distract himself from the slideshow of horror playing in his head, Paul tries to focus on the pain in his wrists from where the ties binding him have left rope burn. He’s spent a fair amount of time today trying to loosen the restraints, but Paul is obviously not the first person these two men have ever tied to a chair. The only thing he has to show for his attempts is wrists that hurt even more than they did when he started. He thinks to himself, I’m going to have some really bad bruises in a few days. When he realizes what he just thought, a lump forms in his throat. He feels like he’s about to cry. But he can’t cry. Not in front of these men. He’s going to be okay. He just needs to calm down. Needs to relax.
Paul closes his eyes and tilts his head down so his chin is touching his chest. He uses the deep breathing technique he’d learned in anger management, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His attention drifts to the now-familiar sound of the slapping of hands and leather tassels, the faint chirping of birds in the field outside. The hum of the traffic on the nearby highway. After a few minutes, his heart rate is has slowed down significantly, and he’s starting to forget where he is. Needless to say, he almost has a heart attack when he hears,
“What do you think of the color of this room?”
His head jerks up and he opens his eyes to see the man in black staring down at him. Paul’s pretty sure that was his mind playing a trick on him- the man didn’t just ask him about the color of the walls, did he?
“W… what?” Paul’s throat is so dry it hurts, and his voice is shaky and scratchy. He tries to swallow, but that just makes it worse.
The man in black steps towards him. Paul instinctually leans back, but there’s nowhere to go. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
In a tone of voice sounding more akin to how a friendly neighbor would talk to a new homeowner than how a kidnapper would talk to a tied-up hostage, the man in black elaborates,
“My friend here likes the color of this room we’re in. He tells me that our bathroom would look good with this paint job. What do you think?”
Paul can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s spent hours rehearsing how he should answer if he’s asked about the drugs, the money, or the other guys involved in his operation. He can handle those questions. But this- this is something else. It must be a mind game. Everything about the man in black's body language suggests that he is genuinely interested in Paul’s opinion on the paint. Paul’s eyes dart towards the man’s partner. The cowboy has his arms crossed and a stern expression on his face, as if to say, don’t think we can’t tell when you’re lying.
In the end, Paul decides it’s best to agree.
“I like it.”
The man in black lifts his hand, and Paul’s stomach drops as he watches him reach into his pocket.
This is it. The beginning of the end. I wonder if he’ll pull out an ice pick or a pair of pliers. God, I hope it’s a gun… just shoot me and get this over with.
But instead, it’s a piece of paper. The man holds it up so that his hostage can see. Paul has sweat in his eyes and his vision is unfocused from all the stress he’s under, but when he squints he can make out that it’s a photo of a bathroom.
Still sounding friendly and harmless, and still with an honest-looking expression on his face, the man reiterates,
“So you think this bathroom would look nice if we painted it the same color as the walls in here?”
Paul gulps. He can’t tell whether his brain has shut off or if it’s working at three times its normal speed. All he knows is that he has no idea how to answer this man’s question.
“…yes?”
You have to stop killing people just because they disagree with you. It’s unprofessional.
Whatever. Just help me get him out of here. …You know what, on second thought, this color isn’t so awful. It just doesn’t go with the sink or the shower. As long as we find the right tiles, we can make it work.
I think the sink and shower would look fine along with this color. But if you want to redo the only bathroom in the cabin and spend a week taking hose baths in a kiddie pool outside, that’s fine by me.