Letter to Kidnapper number 1

Dear Kidnapper,

Your demands will be met if you allow me to bet all my savings on a last chance. You will go down in history and your story will be told, but only if you allow me a to say my peace. This whole situation reeks. Why are you keeping me in a cellar decorated with paper dolls? The steps creak at night. You don’t seem very familiar with this place you put me in and I don’t just mean the trap door. Switch our situations around, and I doubt you would understand the Stockholm syndrome I’m going through right now. I’m sure underneath your actions you have had some very decent thoughts, but I just can’t bet my life on that. Please, understand. I’m so sorry I can’t die just to let you prove that you are decent after all, but can you see how your delusions of grandeur might not be sensible? Excuse my hostility. I’ve been chained to this chair for weeks. I just want a change of scenery. A glass of water that isn’t drugged with Rohypnol. But then again, how could I talk like this if I was under? So I’m not under anymore. Is that it? Just speak to me, damnit. I know you are there. I’ve imagined the contour of your face a hundred times. Not for the police. Never for the police. But just to have a face that would take the time to capture me- part of me is honored. Why am I worth all that trouble? Maybe I’m the sick one here. How do we know who’s sick? Sickness seems to change with whatever mental maladies are going around. A man throws a brown chair threw a window and he’s deemed psychotic. Excuse me if I’m a bit obsessed with chairs right now, but at least the obsession isn’t about chains as well. I love you. Or is that something I’d say in return for my release? Release. Such a sexual term. I’m sorry, I won’t use the word sexual again. I should have guessed that would be a source of- heh heh- tension for you. Am I baiting you? Perhaps I’ve gotten bored. Should I be bored with existence? Should I blame this on an uncaring God? Oh but I don’t. I don’t at all. Do you believe anything I say? I don’t know if you should. Would I if I were you? Situations can’t be reversed, but would you trust me if this one was? How much trust is there really? Trust to be explored between two people? You never really see how far it goes. There are these people who live in ideological country clubs, and they sure think that their principles can’t be bought or broken or flaunted or corrupted. But they’ve never spent a single night in either of our shoes, or any other shoes but their own. Do I sound jealous? I’m really not and that is the fucking truth. I feel sorry for people who are so out of touch with reality that they betray their own spouse for a cheap word game. Careful who you pick to surround you. Your spouse is supposed to be some precious thing, but all around me I see people bitching and moaning. Then they turn around and commit public hypocrisy and nobody says a thing. You know that guy says he hates his wife, but then he has his magic gimmicks, like writing her notes everyday about how she is the pinnacle of her existence. And you, Mister. Missus? Oh dear.

I should take a breath.

Okay, two breaths. But it won’t stop me from continuing. You can’t stop me from saying what I have to say. Okay, that’s a false threat. You could do all sorts of things to stop my lungs from working. But seriously, what leverage could I possibly insist I have? My powerlessness is my only leverage. That doesn’t really make sense, does it? I’m getting confused again. It happens when I hear the footsteps. They plod around.. and it’s not so good. I think about different kinds of shoes. But I was never a person that thought about shoes before. Maybe my brain is trying to find escape routes. I shouldn’t tell you that. huh. I’m losing focus. I can feel it. This whole scenario, it’s like a kid who hands in a paper after you locked the school and went home for break. That’s how fragile the timing is. I was a random target. Or was it personal? If I figure that out, could it change whether I live or die? You want to say it’s in your hands but not in your hands. I don’t know. I don’t know what you think. I don’t even know if I want to know. But I think I could handle knowing.

I’ll get back to you when my head clears. I’m sorry, so sorry. They found me, they found me. I clutch at nothing. Luck is for losers. Trod away on your heavy heels. Girls who wear high heels always seemed sexy. What am I talking about?


It seems like the world stops spinning a little more everytime we hear about the horrible stuff around us. Police manufacturing evidence? Boy shot in mix-up over play gun? Media is conspiring to lie to the public? Just the other day I was walking along on the section where Olive and Summit collide in a triangle. I had been sorting out books to put in my fathers cottage, and I finally put the books aside. It was 4:15 am by this time and I thought to myself, “Well, I need to calm down, and do my daily walk twice. I have energy right now so let’s get one of these walks out of the way.”

So I started down the street on Olive Avenue where the road sort of comes together and adjoins but not quite. All was clear when  a black guy comes across the street. I’m walking to the east- no, excuse me, the west of Summit. He’s on the other side; between twenty-five and thirty, 180 pounds, wearing a brown imitation leather jacket and jeans. But! The key thing about this thing is the way he was running. There’s running when people are kind of drunk, skittish running, the loping kind of laughing running when people run like their kids like they do when they are getting out of bars. This guy was not running like that. He looked over his shoulder and he began to run very businesslike. He began to run away or towards something but I guess away because he looked back. Right?

Then there was a police car that was parked up the street, the cross street. But the cars lights were off and I couldn’t tell from where I was whether there was anybody in there or not. I come around the corner and I’m getting ready to cross there when I spot a shortish man who looked like this wild, well, werewolf, sporting an almost black top haircut is in a throwing up position, as if he’s throwing up in the gutter, and I couldn’t really tell at that point if he was sick or not. He looks at me, and I’m getting ready to keep walking, when he goes “RAWWWR” but not in a funny way, in a scary way while he was still in his bent over position.

He darts in and out in a weaving fashion in his wolf-like state and leftover stretchiness. So at this point I’m not even crossing the street anymore. It appears he wants to talk to me so he changes directions again until we end up with him facing me on the other side of the street corner. So now I can either shamefacedly run away or find out what he wants. So he begins to wheedle in this begging manner of can I please, please talk to you for a while? Except now he doesn’t look like a werewolf. His eyes are wide and he looks kind of weird and spacey. So he starts telling me that this black guy has hit this 60 yearold black lady, slugged her, and you gotta call the cops, do you have a cell phone? And he spouts some stuff about how he got kicked in the stomach by the robber and that somehow the guy found out where he lived.

Well, It occured to me that the robber couldn’t have gone into the curb in time. And B, the man in the leather jacket was running around this corner while the other guy was making all these sounds like he’s just been kicked in the solar plexus. It occured to me that I’ve watched the aftermath of a crime.

Werewold-sounding guy was actually the good guy who got kicked in the stomach after this woman escaped- a woman who I never saw, mind you- so he was trying to get a cell phone out of me. We are practically standing outside of a halfway house, so I just told him to bang on the door and that somebody would come out. When I left he was trying to do that. Or he was completely crazy in which case I didn’t want to be anywhere near there. I’ve heard that if you get kicked in the solar plexus you can make a sound like that. That’s one thing I’ve seen a reaction to but this was just so… extreme. Now when they gave my mother haldol, she tried to bite the nurse. But anyway, I guess that was kind of my little adventure.


Hello there… you.

You must have doused me with a lovely cocktail. So clever… You are so clever. I’ve decided to give you a name. It’s an honorary thing, yes. So.. here goes. I’ve decided to call you the Trespass Killer. I understand it’s premature. But I feel as though you are trespassing all over my psyche, and I can feel the outline of the impression your stomping on me makes. How can I escape from the rampage without all the dirt you will kick up in the process? Maybe that dirt will get you tracked. But that’s not what has really caught my attention. This cocktail is bringing out the blue in my soul. Did you hope to get red? I should never mention red again.. I’m sorry. It makes you think of blood. What an insensitive guest I am.

You never put merely one thing in the glass, not my dear Trespass Killer. You want to get as many things in there as you can, so as to confuse me better. I think there’s some love drug in there.. ecstasy. Dissolve it in wine, add my daily dose of methadone- no, take just enough away so I’m up all night- and then put in some type of Hallucinogen. I haven’t figured which one out yet. But I’m determined to. Sometimes it helps to categorize things. I know you are picking from three categories- Narcotics, Depressants, and Hallucinogens. Maybe I should privately call you the NDH? Or DNH? How very appropriate all of this is of you. You knew not to give me stimulants. Does that make this personal or was it simple a touch? But you never touch any of this stuff. Do you think that gives you the edge, the control? Are you a scientist, my clever clever Trespass Kill?

How was that? Did I do okay? Please tell me I did okay. My leg is shaking so bad I’m afraid. Just one leg, not both of them. My right leg feels like it’s about to knock everything down. Help me, please. One experience can dilute all of the others with its unruly and unmatched territory. I imagine the flat curve of your smile, always ironic, never uplifted. The jagged bark of a laugh. The way it’s faked is only heard in slow motion, and while people think at different speeds, the world is rarely turned back like a metronome. A metronome wouldn’t be precise enough to catch the delicate artifices in your masks.  Even on days whipped by wind, your hair never gets matted. During a climax, you don’t feel your heart race. Others won’t accept that your eye contact is a raging dare. Are children and small animals afraid of you? Now that I’m captured, am I contaminated? Do I have a limit to how many questions I can ask you? I’m trying to keep the gasping out of my voice, but the air in here is stale and cold.

-Yours For However Long

PS. Do you think there could be any purpose to an electronic bird? I know the singing wouldn’t be the same, and their soft little heads wouldn’t be soft anymore. Still..

Maybe they charter in specially burnt materials just for me. I should feel a source of pride that all this pain and suffering is happening just for me, all for me. Me! Who would have thought little old me would be deserving? Every brand new fire has a very bad aura coming off it, the howls of those who died, their choked sobs and lasts breaths, that sort of thing- do you think anybody laughs when being eaten by flames? So the fumes are affecting my sense of emotion. I feel a bit of anxiety about the charred remains that get dragged in here. My mom would have a fit. She would wonder why it is I have been exposed to this horrible stuff and what I did to get myself here, because nobody in their right or wrong mind would choose me to ruin or break or mess up as I was already unsalveagable. But I’m putting words into mothers mouth- isn’t that a rude, rude thing to do?


I’ve explored all the edges to this room, inch by inch. For a cell, it disguises itself as a bedroom quite well. My hand used to be cuffed to the bed, but Tresspass is testing me by taking the cuffs off.

When I first woke up down here, I yelled until my throat was sore. I thought it might help, that it would matter, that the screams would get to somebody. I passed out, and then I looked up, saw the door being pushed open. It wasn’t Tresspass that I saw first; he sent in one of his followers. I looked up into a fat belly, saw a finger with yellowed nails wagging at me like I was a bad student in a principles office. I told him I had to pee. I’m going to pee all over you and this room if you don’t let me go. He scrunched his nose up, as if I was acting inappropriate for the situation, as if we were in Denmark having tea and I’d accosted a waiter.

The smell would be odorous, Mr Tibbit said.

The smell would be.. What the fuck? Yes, of course it would be odorous, that’s what smells are.

He raised his eyebrows at me.
No, that’s how our nose perceives them. Perception is a tricky thing. Your nose receptors actually pick up parts of dead animals or feces every time you smell rotting remains, did you know that? Remember that the next time you take your leak, that your fumes are really going into your head, that the disgusting waste is still entering your sinus passages and going straight to your head.

I ogled Mr Tibbit, took note of my captor. I knew this wasn’t his show to run, for I remembered the feel of Tresspass; the way he commanded a room, even if my memory was full of infrequent flashes, jagged slivers of half a face, a voice, and the ephemeral feel of hands resting on my shoulders before my consciousness was taken from me, as I slipped out of my life.

Would people think I was missing? That I’d had enough of my job? I feared nobody would notice I was gone, not because I didn’t have friends, but because sometimes I didn’t answer my calls. I skipped appointments, then hid from needy friends trying to reach me. The ones that weren’t needy were on the opposite spectrum; so unattached that talking for an hour a month was taking away from their art or their business or their spouse, but they were doing it because our friendship was so important. They tended to call only once or twice a month. If they had been part of my day to day life, they would realize I was missing immediately; but in the situation I had right now, these friends wouldn’t think I was missing unless years went by. So I was hoping that Ignatova, a mathematician who brought me groceries and called me his girlfriend despite the fact that we weren’t physical- “girlfriend” was a title he found important, a delusion I didn’t take the trouble to correct- would realize I was gone. Missing. Taken. Like the movie..

A defense lawyer could say I was protecting Ignatova while the prosecution might say I was lying to get money and gifts, but the truth was far more pedestrian: I didn’t want to have one of those painful talks where I told him I wasn’t his girlfriend and he asked me a thousand answers for clarity’s sake, running with the logic that if he could be so wrong about something so big, where else was he wrong? As much as I liked the fellow and rooted for the underdog, I also found his lack of social skills, his immaturity, denial, and what I considered more than just an Oedipus complex, but a Dead Mother Syndrome, fatal. And annoying.

With Dead Mother Syndrome, the child believes they were only an extension of the mother, and that their own inner lives are dependent on their mother. The child feels he or she doesn’t have permission to exist. Ignatova loves me because I am not “in love” with him- since he does not feel obliged by my feelings, he is free to feel.

Ignatova will try to check in on me. But when he doesn’t get a response, he might have a nervous breakdown, thinking that I never want to speak to him again. However, there is a chance, however small, that he will realize this has nothing to do with him, and call the police.

I’m guessing my captors have a four or five day head start, a large lead by the time someone realizes I wasn’t not answering the buzzer and ignoring all calls. Maybe they have more time, I don’t know. It’s possible somebody saw me get grabbed. That part of this nightmare I don’t remember.

Mr. Tibbits front teeth were crooked and uneven, and the rest were like twisted blades. His two front teeth were especially ragged. His own teeth were an invasion on his gums. He spoke quietly in monotone, but it just made the discrepancies even more irregular. His face was lean, his body fat in all the wrong places. His teeth spoke of viciousness, but his voice was soothing. It made me nervous to watch him. He reminded me of my mental patients back at Mt. Sinai… I keep waking up, thinking I need to get to Cup of Joes, get my coffee and leave for work. Then I realize where I am, and I scrape another stick into the wall, trying to keep time.

Maybe Mr Tibbit was doing this job so he could afford an orthodontist.

Mr Tibbit eyed me cautiously. Then he threw me chains, the ones I’ve seen in movies where guys are on death row. He had me cuff my feet together, then shuffle with him into the bathroom. Unlike the movies, there was no window for me to break, no vent for me to climb through.

He talks about philosophy, as if we were on a college campus together. Am I some kind of social experiment? He’s very wound up, and I know he hasn’t been laid in a long time. I don’t need to worry about STD’s, but I do need to worry about him, I think. He uses so much restraint in his life, and how we’re in a place where the rules don’t matter. Or do they?

I see his trench coat, his dorky crooked glasses. His small eyes. The tufts of hair he has left on his head are so yellow, and look so soft. They are plopped onto his head. His footsteps are very different than Tresspass. Tresspass walks in a solid, precise way, while Mr. Tibbit has an over-eager gait.

So this is how it’s going to be, I say.
Yes, he says.
And don’t you have a job, or a family, or a place to be? Or are you here because there is no place for you to be. Because whether I want to or not, I need you. I need you for my food, for my water, for the medicine I take back home.
He looks weary.
Would you like some coffee?

The coffee cup is white with a small crack in the side. I finger it nervously.
Am I going to die?

Not today, Mr Tibbit says.

He’s in high spirits about how I’m part of some large plan.

Mr Tibbit has been fed lies about my past. Lies that make him feel I’m his rescue project. However, he doesn’t seem like the sort of man that would kowtow to anyone but his own ideals. I’m impressed by his loyalty to the Tresspass Killer.

The coffee has something in it, I can tell. Tell me what it is, sir.. I feel woozy but light, light but slow, slow and more slow.

I feel like Hansel. Or was it Gretel? How come both of them have six letters in their name? My birthday is six six you know. I wonder if it is a sign. Mister…

Oh! I forgot already. Bear with me! Okay, so the connection to Hansel and Gretel. Unbearably funny. I can’t wait to tell you Mister.

You’ll be soo tickled. It’s like- when that witch- put her finger into the cage. Or was it Gretel? Somebody was tricking somebody else. There was a cage. A ratty old cage.

Fairy tales have magic endings. A finger sticking in or out. Who’s finger? Funny thing here, my memory has been fried since I got here. Little things I had no trouble remembering are not coming to me so easily. The categories feel as if they have been pried wide open. But as for the finger, I had such a clear thought, I wondered- excuse my french- I mean that I wonder what odors my pores omit, like you said, Mister Tibbit. Do they send out little radioactive messages of fear from their glands? If I leave my mucus behind but die and nobody ever finds my body, will some unwitting person enter this place, brush against the fermented mucus, and feel a sense of dread and loss they can’t shake?

All of this keeps bringing me back to the looming question: why was I taken?

The creepiest thing, and I hate to admit this to you: I have moments of calm. And maybe that has to do with my background. But the kind of background I’m talking about isn’t open to just any kidnapper. And it probably has nothing to do with why I was taken here anyway, if there is a reason.
If there was a good reason, does that make a difference? What if the person thought they had a good reason. What about to a jury, would it make a difference? Well don’t stammer, c’mon- of course it would then you dummy!
Shouldn’t I be more unhinged? Like the doors in here that I wish would open.
But maybe I’m crazy?
Something I always hated is how psychiatrists convince other people of truths, like, like, the one where you aren’t your best judge of your own objectivity. And who is? They are? That’s a bad one, really bad, like what are their credentials, a bunch of years looking at textbooks of peoples brains and reading Freud or whoever? They really don’t have any credentials is the thing. So just assume with me for a momemnt they are all scammers, but like scammers who have been scammed themselves, they believe so much in the con, some of them don’t know they have been scammed. Believing it would bring suspicion to their world view, and they don’t have any credentials without their world view.

There are many smells in here, but the settled rot is the worst. Next time I have to tell you about the Tresspass Killer’s chair. I’m not much of a things person, as you probably noticed, as I haven’t spent any time describing what little I know of the surroundings. That’s because I’m always escaping into my mind. My mind, like any mind, is as good a place as any to escape, but the problem with escaping is returning to the senseless reality in front of you is unavoidable. And the greater the stretch between your reality and the place you are escaping to- well, I can’t assure a good outcome.
BUt I should, I am talking about my well-being here, too.

I can’t think anymore, I am so drained. I promise to describe some things about this place later, And then onto some more details about the Tresspass Killer and his dogs, the ones who have no expression on their faces and won’t utter a word to me. And I should talk about the rags I’m wearing and what exactly the reality is here, but as you might have guessed from what I’ve said so far, I don’t want to talk about that stuff so don’t dare push me!


But I really need to escape. This place is killing me- no pun intended.


You’ve left me here with my memories for days. Oh fuck. I hate it. I’m fixated on a smile from the Grimm. Snakishly, his beady eyes open just enough to feign surprise, but I can see the rise of disintegration hastening its desires. He doesn’t sound anything like the villains I’ve coaxed out of my imagination- for comparison purposes only, mind you.

The evil gremlins I know had lots of chest hair and serious expressions that brought death, demise, and famon to mind. Threats were made with a simple twist of the head. You, on the other hand, have a grin pasted on your face, and it’s scarier than any of the poses I raid from my mind. Slightly off-centered, a dimple on one cheek, as if to suggest that handsonmess and desiring me are not incompatible. But surely you must hate the disparity. What is it that made you long for somebody so plain? What does my plainess arouse in you? Did you think you could transform me? Am I related in some way to a history you had. You are the only site I see, and I find every detail excrutiating. The way your left arm hangs flaccidly while your elbow juts out. Your compact body.


[I try my best never to sleep. It’s good this way. I can’t let my brain hold what it’s seen for future use- with all I’ve seen, I might go crazy. I need to use loss of sleep as my incinerator. ] —sleep dep? oxygen loss? traumatized by something seen recently? a new cellmate? GIVE T.K a follower based on D.T

I caught Tresspass Killer in a lie yesterday… He claimed to have a partner who works at a movie theater in downtown Seattle, Pacific Place. He went on about how this film I was in was so much better than any other film being made, but there’s no camera on down here in his murky dungeon. I felt more courageous than usual. “What’s his name? His occupation? His age? His sexual preference? Is he good in bed? Better than you are? Is he the one who is running this thing?” He ordered me to stop laughing but I couldn’t. The ridiculousness of the situation hit me and when I looked at him he seemed dreadfully out of sync. I could see a nose-hair peeking out. His normally tailored suits looked downright silly, he was just such a simpleton, so damn pathetic, how did somebody like him get a gig holding me hostage? He really didn’t have any power for he was helpless to his needs, especially his need to own me. While I continued laughing hysterically, he pushed me against the wall and railed at me with his ashtray. The world stopped for a second, the wind in my head roared, wisps of blood ran down my forehead. I looked at him accusingly. Then I felt inexplicably tired. I wanted to crawl into his arms and give him the permission he so desired for what he was doing, but luckily repulsion  won out. Anyway, who knows what would have happened if I had returned his affection? Maybe that’s what he is waiting for.. After I do that, I’m gone.

The stitches he put in look crisp. He says they will dissolve. I feel like even the stitches must serve some greater purpose to his plan- like maybe they have another chemical in them. I know I’m getting paranoid.

It’s taken me a long time to be able to read him, to get a feel for when he’s lying about something, and even then I can’t break it down very well. I might sense a deception but the deception isn’t what I think it is. Kinesthetic analysis is not my strong suit. But I’ve always been someone that charismatic types fixate on- romantically, that is. Until I walk away, or I stop being useful. It’s true, I’ve never actually been in a boarded up room before. Dull wood in crisscrosses pinning back the doors. Not very stylish.

My fear is their juice. Trying to get me to do things that made me uncomfortable? An easy catch. I’m glad my insecurities were finally entertainment for somebody. Gives Tresspass Kill the rise: he’s so turned on by my discomfort, but I’m getting better at reading him. It’s a gut feeling, a feeling that he’s angry that when I turn him on, for he has to give up some control when he wants something from me. He sees it as a concession worth making, but it irritates him nonetheless.

He doesn’t realize his rabid need for information could turn out to be a weakness, too. He’s caught up in erradicating what- not who- gives him the power. So fixated on his expectation for control. Couldn’t relax enough to catch the tell. The switch. The bait.

What’s the difference in my implanted information versus my real information? Interpretration is a bitch for a mistres. How much of a gap can I afford? Every inch further is a sign of my committment. He can’t know that my committment isn’t fully vested in his word.

They all try to build insurance policies; asking for things that I wouldn’t give anybody else, testing my trust until I give them more and more.

How long until I have nothing left to give? Never, I decide.

I wonder where his need to reel people in like fish comes from but history isn’t as important as his signals, for my Tresspass Killers elusiveness is more than enough material to build a profile from.

He wants to believe his talent in manipulation is boundless, that he can get me to do anything he wants.

I give him that feeling. Me!

Here. Take it. Ramm it down my throat, sweetheart.

He’s primed to turn anybody into their robot. But I have more than enough power to spare.

He tells me about his lost students. The ones society whispers about. People on SSI, unhappy wives, girls who feel trapped. He takes note of their condition, feigns interest in their angers and sorrow. “They aren’t a challenge,” he whispers to me.

Those girls turned the fastest. They were looking for somebody, anybody, that desperate need for reassurance that they weren’t the only disaffected youth wandering the streets. The kids that went around wearing masks of indifference, expressions that said “I dont need authority” didn’t realize they had bullseyes on their backs. They wanted somebody “rebellious” to lead them around with a leash like mommy or daddy had for so many years. If they were neglected, then Tresspass Killer had been deserted.

If they were beaten, he’d been butchered. So on.

The noose is very tight.

I know what he wants. He wants to build a Family that bends only to his rules, far away from any outside control. Kids are another marker in his scheme.

He loves to see how far he can take a mother away from her kids.For a mother who stares blankly while the baby cries will eventually give up the baby for his reassurance.

Snap that ambillical cord. Kids are so malleable.

I went in. I had to make-believe. I had to change. I had to become self-destructive. I had to suspend disbelief. I had to make a glass curtain.

And now, I need a hammer.

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