================================================= NOTICE: Deslea's URL is now http://www.deslea.com, or http://fiction.deslea.com. Email address is now deslea@deslea.com. This information supercedes all other information in this file. ================================================= Fiction: Kidnapped (Humour) - Deslea R. Judd This piece was written in 1994 by the author for personal entertainment. It is copyright and may not be used or distributed (except for the purposes of private entertainment) without my written permission. When first I came to, after the struggle and the sudden jab of the needle, it occurred to me that I was not the only one to suffer in this way. There were others contained, just as I. Rows and rows of them, imprisoned behind bars like a jail for the innocent. The others were of all kinds. There was nothing common to us all, not colour or sex or breeding. But we were mostly young, and we all had families who would pay for our return. Strangely enough, it was one of the family, in my case, who had conspired to bring me here. I had sensed something different in her voice, something purposeful and determined as she called my name. On an instinct which I had not stopped to question, I'd fled. But she had caught me from behind and bundled me into the car. She had driven all around town, finally pulling up in a laneway and dragging me into a sparsely furnished room with a pretty, but somehow tired-looking girl at a desk. "Miss Harris?" the girl had said. "Is this Thomas?" At her assent, the girl had continued, "Lloyd will be with you in a minute. He'll make all the arrangements." She'd gazed at me with a gentle smile, and I'd had the feeling she hated all of this. But - there was something sinister about the word arrangements. My mistress. My very own Sophie. When I thought of all the wonderful times we'd shared, the idea of her doing this to me seemed incomprehensible. The days in the sun. The nights, snuggled together on her bed. How could she? Why? Why? All this and more I had silently demanded of her as we sat and waited for this man Lloyd. He had finally emerged from an office and invited Sophie to bring me in. It had been horrible. He'd manhandled me uncaringly, and when my struggles drew blood, he sank a needle deep into my flesh. When I had woken, I'd found myself in this prison. I looked around me, taking stock of my surroundings. It was, I supposed, not that bad for a cell. There was a toilet and a bed and it was moderately clean. But no food for some reason. The others had food, but it seemed that I and a couple of the others were to be denied it. Why? I wondered. To drive us into submission? It wouldn't work, of that I was confident. There was a noise at the end of the corridor. The white door opened, and a rather large woman in a white tunic dress and flat white shoes strode in purposefully. She yelled something to the pretty young girl who'd smiled at me when I came in. I gathered her name was Fiona and she was new to all this. She told Fiona off for crying. Fiona quailed. "Mrs Crombie, she was such a sweet little thing. How can I not cry when she's dead?" Mrs Crombie was stern. "You have to get a grip on your emotions, Fiona. It's very sad, but these things happen in this business. You have to learn not to take it so personally." She turned on her heel and left. Fiona blew her nose rather loudly, finally whispering, "I'm not sure if I can." She rocked mournfully in her chair. Another of the people, a young man dressed - like Fiona and Mrs Crombie - in white, came up to her and said not unkindly, "It's okay. You'll get used to it. "Will I?" I tuned out then, ignoring the rest of the conversation. I retreated to the back of the cell in horror as I turned over the exchange and its implications in my mind. Someone had died. These people were playing for keeps. The hours dragged slowly. None of the other prisoners, I noticed, spoke to one another. Most slept or stared into space. A few sang to themselves. It struck me as a terribly downtrodden group, unable to so much as share their trauma. No-one tried to escape, so far as I knew, except when their cells were actually opened for some reason. Then, temptation took control and they would without fail lash out or scratch at their captors in a bid for freedom, knowing it was useless, for they would be caught before they reached the door. I prided myself on having more dignity than that. I wanted to get out, but I was going to do it with my brains. None of this pointless scuffle for me. But when Mrs Crombie came and opened the door to my cell, some instinct took over me and betrayed me in this conviction. Before I knew it, I was struggling and leaping free. She chased after me, yelling something about being hurt. I ran for the door. Fiona beat me to it, and she was grinning uncontrollably. I thought it was because Mrs Crombie was hurt and hoped for a fleeting second that she would, in gratitude, let me go. But she produced a needle, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and sank it into me. "Sorry, Thomas." This time, when I woke up, I felt shocking. I didn't just feel sluggish like I had before. I felt nauseous and my body wouldn't obey me when I willed it to do something. I watched stupidly as I endeavoured to stretch my leg and it remained bent. I wasn't actually paralysed, just mentally and physically exhausted. But something was different. My entire lower torso felt strange. The skin there was pale pink, as though exposed to the air for the very first time, and there was some kind of cut that had been stitched. I wondered what they had done to me, and how they had managed to treat me. But I couldn't remember. They had put food in the cell - perhaps to assist me in my recovery. Perhaps my torture was to be postponed until I was well once more. The idea of food was enough to make me sick, however, and I turned my back on it and slept fitfully. The next thing I knew, Fiona stood outside my cell. "Thomas?" she said. "I have a surprise for you." She stood aside, and a familiar voice called my name. Sophie. What did she want? I thought bitterly. I looked up at her, then closed my eyes once more. She wouldn't take the hint. "Thomas!" she squealed. "Thomas, darling, it's so good to see you!" Fiona unlocked the door and opened it, but I was too tired to run. I didn't even stir, except to open my eyes again. Sophie continued, "Oh, Thomas, you poor dear. You don't understand any of this, do you? But sweetheart, I want you to know that I did this for you - for us! Let me explain." She explained, and I still didn't really understand. Much of it was over my head. But it was clear that in her mind, what she had done was quite justifiable and completely for my own good. She appeared quite confident that I had not been in any danger at any time. I wanted to tell her about the one who had died, but somehow I couldn't find the words. She knew about me hurting Mrs Crombie, though; she found that highly amusing and laughed with Fiona at the fact. I turned away bitterly, still not really convinced. Sophie held me against her then. I couldn't find the strength to pull away, and she hugged me with great tenderness. "Come on, darling. I have a beautiful meal waiting at home. Come with me and we'll put all this behind us." In my mind, I wanted to protest, but instinct was stronger. I cuddled up against her. She kissed me and took me to the room where I had met Fiona the previous day, asking as we went, "What do I owe you?" Fiona went to a computer and tapped a few keys. "Well, the initial consultation was $30, the first sedative was $25, the anaesthetic was $65, and food and board was $10. And the actual desexing was $30. All up, you're up for $160." She patted my head. "You know, Miss Harris, you really have the most beautiful cat." Sophie smiled. "Indeed I do." Laughing, she carried me out and closed the door.