The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

When she reached the door, something poked under her foot, making her wince. She bent down and picked up the object. It felt like a tiny lump of wood.

Not sure from where it had chipped off, she closed the door. But she couldn’t lock it. The place where the deadbolt used to be was now hollow.

“You’re blind?” Someone laughed behind her. Then she heard a strong hum, like her son’s trimmer, only louder. As the sound neared her, she got a whiff of something she hadn’t smelled for a very long time.

“It’s you,” she said.

“It’s you who?”

“Bugsy.”

He chuckled. “I forgot how it feels to be called by my Christian name. No one dares to these days.” The hum travelled to her right and Bugsy’s voice came from there. He would be in a motorized wheelchair, she’d guessed. “But you can call me anything you want. Our experience has created a powerful bond, hasn’t it?”

“Violating a woman isn’t bonding. It’s cowardice.”

“But you still remember me.”

“I can never forget that day. My son became blind because of you.”

“Really?” Bugsy asked.

“That is a part of my life I’d prefer not to reminisce,” she said. “Why did you break into my house?”

“Thirteen thousand six hundred and fifty-three,” Bugsy said. “That’s how many days I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“What moment?”

“Rome?” Bugsy called. “Bring it here.”

Iris remembered who Rome was. That guy with white-blonde hair and bushy brows who had helped Bugsy abduct her.

“You know what Rome’s got in his hands?” Bugsy asked. “A photo of you and someone with blue eyes that I’ve been thinking about every hour of those thirteen thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.”

Ryatt?

An evil incarnate like Bugsy did not deserve to even see the shadow of an angel like her son.

Bugsy rolled closer to her. “Who is he?”

“M-my son, why?”

Her question was met with silence, so Iris asked again, “Why?”

“Did you say I made him blind?” Bugsy asked.

“You did, inadvertently.”

“But somehow you got his sight again? Transplantation?”

Why were all these people suddenly questioning her about Ryatt’s eyes? What had he done?

Bugsy tsk-tsked. “You should have let him stay blind.”

“W-what?” Iris was confounded. “Why do you say horrible things like this?”

“I don’t wanna beat around the bush. Your sonny boy is the most wanted bank robber in our country. Far surpassed me in evil and infamy, murdering dozens.”

Iris had to repeat the words in her mind to make sense of them. The implication was preposterous; they were mistaken. She said, “I think you got the wrong address.”

Bugsy giggled. “Oh, you poor bitch.”

Iris stiffened. “Get out!”

“Let’s make a deal. You know where your son is working, don’t you? Call that organization, and if they say he is employed there, we’ll pay for your door and leave. How about that?”

Iris thought it through. Finding that she no other option, she walked purposefully over to the phone and dialed Ryatt’s football team.

But it said the number did not exist.

She frowned. From the drawer, she recovered her cellphone.

Unlocking it with her fingerprint, she said, “Ok Google.” When the phone chimed, she put the mic near her mouth. “Floridan Crocs.”

Once the results were loaded, the Text-To-Speech function began reading what was on the screen. As it iterated the phone number of Floridan Crocs, she memorized it. This was not the number Ryatt had given her.

Putting the uneasiness aside, she dialed Floridan Crocs from her landline.

The answering machine advised her to call between 10:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.

As she placed the receiver back, the hum of the wheelchair moved towards her.

Bugsy said, “Tell us where he is. We’ll bring him here and you can ask him yourself.”

“I’ll never tell you anything about him.”

“We’ll see.” As the wheelchair receded, Bugsy shouted. “Dry drown the broad!”

She jumped to dial 911, but two pairs of hands caught her arms and pulled her away. Grasping her wrists, they dragged her across the floor, to the kitchen.

They freed her left wrist, letting her hang by her right, her shoulder bone threatening to rip out of the socket. But she would never scream or cry or beg.

Silverware and cutlery fell from the dining table.

One of the two hands holding her right wrist grabbed her left. Then someone else got her ankles. She was lifted off the floor and dropped onto the hardwood.

Her ankles were clasped by a pair of strong hands, so were her wrists. The dining table tilted, sloping downwards, and they placed something under the legs to make it stay like that. Iris would have slid headfirst onto the floor if it weren’t for the hands holding her feet.

As she reminded herself not to be afraid, a wet cloth was wrapped around her face.

“Last chance, Granny,” the person pressing the cloth against her face said. “It’s a CIA torture technique. Trust me, you won’t be a fan.”

When Iris lay motionless and unresponsive, he said, “Have it your way.”

Her face was then doused with water. She reckoned that someone was pouring it over the cloth. At first, she didn’t feel anything, except it was cold. But due to the decline of the table, the water flowed into her nose.

Her head jerked involuntarily when it was impossible to breathe. She struggled to remove the cloth, but she couldn’t move even an inch. As seconds passed, water turned acidic, burning her nostrils and airway.

Writhing in agony, she reminded herself not to cry or scream. When she felt her consciousness slip, the cloth was yanked from her face. She gasped deeply, greedily sucking in air. Never before had she appreciated sweet, sweet oxygen so much.

“We have gallons more where that came from,” Bugsy said. “Tell us where your little nigger is.”

Iris