90 Degrees (Short Story)

90 Degrees

The heat was sweltering and Jon gasped. As the sweat rolled down from his forehead to his chin he looked up from his dirty work boots and his thick, black jeans. He set down his grimy, rusted hammer and removed his old, faded work gloves.  A bird chirped from over his shoulder. Its sound was sweet, rhythmic, melodic. Jon let his eyes unfocus as he gave himself a momentary respite. He became entranced with the chirping and fantasized that he was the bird. He saw what the bird saw; he felt what the bird felt. The feeling was freedom, the type only a winged creature could have. As his wings unfurled he knew that no place was off limits, that each moment held infinite journeys and endless possibilities.

A sound from inside the house shook his mind from its slumberous musings. The sound was caused by a clink on a metal counter. The clink was caused by the downward motion of a hexagonal glass, the cause of which emanated from a pearl-cuffed hand. The hand, delicate and manicured belonged to the slender frame of a pernicious little prick, a nemesis in black. His name was Dick Rollins and he was the captor to which Jon’s life owed it’s shackles. Dick picked up a bottle of green mouth wash, the kind that stings. He poured it into the glass, smelling it as if it was a fine wine. Jon looked on in disgust.

“Ok Sweetie poo, I must make haste lest I miss my flight to Tokyo.”

The woman, a beautiful blonde, tried to hide her frown beneath a porcelain smile.

“Of course dear, we wouldn’t want that.”

“I’ll be sure to pick you up a trinket or two to make up for my extended absence.”

“Of course,” she muttered again. The response was automatic as if robotically programmed.  “And how long will it be this time?”

“Three weeks darling.” She tried not to smile, but her lips curled into a grin nonetheless.  “Okay.” The words came out through the grin like a ventriloquist.

From the outside, Jon kept everything professional, picking up his hammer and swinging away at a stubborn nail that just wouldn’t budge. Inside though, he salivated like a dog who just hit maturity. Three Weeks. It did not matter what had happened before, nor did it matter what happened after. For Jon, these periods were clouded; they were of no relevance. The sun shone brightly on these next 21 days though, 21 days that were starting in five, four, three, two, one. The door slammed shut, Dick walked out the front door. It had begun. 

Jon threw down his hammer and grabbed the door knob. He hesitated for a moment, breathed in, briefly considered what he was about to do. He twisted the knob a full 90 degrees and entered. The air conditioned room hit him like a greeting from an alien world, and Jon felt different, new, more powerful.

The blonde woman offered him a cold water. He saw but he did not hear. He grabbed her left arm. His dirt ridden hand contrasting with her pure white like the first fumes of city exhausts on new snow. She screams. It is loud and Jon doesn’t like it. He rips off her shirt and gags her with it, then uses some rope in his pocket to tie up her hands against the metal bar above the kitchen counter used for hanging towels. He has dreamt of this. Finally he feels like a bird. Anything is possible.

Jon surges with disgust over that villain, Dick, her husband. The way he holds her. The way he kisses her. The way he speaks to her. The way he fucks her; always dignified, always gentle: always weak. This is a slut that needs to be ravaged by a real man. The fact that Dick doesn’t abuse her is a crime not just against her, it is a crime against all men who wish they could and know they should. For 21 days Jon will have that chance. He will fuck Dick’s wife. He will eat Dick’s food. He will watch Dick’s TV and shit in Dick’s toilet. For 21 days Jon will right the wrong that he has witnessed for the past year working for them.

A garage door opens but Jon does not hear. His body is there but he is not. The car door opens and closes. Two polished black shoes click clack their way to the door. It opens and shuts. “I’ve got to stop forgetting my briefs all the time,” Dick mutters. “Mind’s probably going to mush from the alcohol in my mouth wash.” He is such a straight edge that he is almost a cliché of himself.

He sees Jon. Jon sees only his new wings; he is blinded by the newfound power. Dick is no longer Dick: international businessman. He has devolved into a past version of himself, an ancestor who roamed the forests and hunted large animals to protect his cave. Thinking stops. Instinct begins.  Dick approaches from the back, pulls out a taser from a secret compartment under his right sock. Jon turns. His eyes bulge. He drops.

Jon’s eyes open. At first it’s hard to see in the darkness. He feels the damp, mildewed air seep into his nostrils, thick like a viscous liquid. He tries to move but there are heavy bear shackles on his four limbs. He squirms and tries to escape but he’s stuck. The cuffs rip into his skin and fresh blood trickles down his arms and legs, dripping onto the floor. They form small pools and in them a figure emerges. It’s Dick, except now he’s different. He has a look that could kill. He produces a medical light from his forehead and shines it into Jon’s face. He then reaches to his left and flicks on single dim bulb over head. The light reveals that Jon is trapped in a claustrophobic stainless steel room. He lies on a medical table.  Jon looks up horrified and Dick just smiles.

“We’ve been waiting for you to break in for a year now, all of us have.”  He gestures behind him to a group of three men and two women wearing lab coats with writing tablets in their hands. The blonde woman smiled her smirk, this time wider than before.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jon screamed. He wriggles more and the blood begins to flow faster.

“Stop moving so much or you won’t have any more blood left for us to examine,” Dick snaps. He reaches to his right and presses play on the camcorder. The sound of a power drill fills the room.

“For experiment 1A we will observe how the subject responds without anesthesia.”