Waiting

As I wait for a stranger to knock on my door, my stomach twists painfully. Is it fear or rage that makes me tremble? Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I clinch the perfectly folded paper in my fist.

I don't need to reread its soul-searing contents.

Plain white paper.

Blood-red ink.

Sporadic teardrops, long since dried, produce vibrant shades of pink where blood-red ink once flowed into them. My anguish; painted in watercolors.

Elegant handwriting. One precisely written character cascading into the next. Ink chaining letters into words. Words into sentences. Sentences into a prison that binds me more thoroughly than physical chains.

It starts with a meticulously detailed explanation of what would happen to the people I cared about if I didn't trade my future for theirs. Which is worse? The sadist rape and torture described in detail, or that the writer knew so many personal details of their lives, including how each one could be easily captured?

Then comes their devils bargain.

Either submit to having each of the horrors described done to me, along with anything else they desired, or the people I loved would disappear one at a time.

At the end of the letter, a few final lines describe the nature of my prison.

When I arrive, welcome me with an enthusiastic hug and kiss. Play the perfect host, and give me a tour of my new house, saving the master bedroom for last.

As far as anyone else is concerned, I am your betrothed.

Never beg, no matter how I torment you.
Never resist, no matter how brutally I rape you.

I look forward to our wedding night.