I snap my head to attention from a dead sleep
and for an instant, I cannot figure out
where I am
or what I am doing.
Then the pain hits like a runaway train
with memory dragged kicking and screaming
I must have passed out when they broke the third finger
I don't know which is worse
the sheer agony of feeling my bone snap
the sharp, nauseating sound it makes
or the pulse of sheer, blistering terror
that precedes both.
God, look at what they've done to my hand.
I will never be beautiful again.
Then one of their faces is mere inches from mine
that strike me like a hot punch
"where is it?",
they want to know.
Fuck me, I wish I knew.
I'd trade my mother to escape this dungeon
with only the damage already done.
They fall silent, then the big one reaches over
to pin my wrist with one hand
squeeze my fourth finger with the other.
I cannot hear myself think over the sound
of my own blubbering.
As he begins to bend my finger back
I can't help but think
"I hope I come up with something to tell them
before they move to my face.”
Photo by William F. Santos