Matchstick Figures by Tapia M.R

Author:Tapia, M.R. [Tapia, M.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-04-30T00:00:00+00:00

Excerpt from M.R. Tapia’s novella

‘The Die-Fi Experiment’

#chapterone

Never in my most horrific nightmare would I have dreamt I’d be cheering on my own executioner. Never thought I’d have one, either. But, I do, and it hurts.

My head’s in enough pain to make me, a grown man, shed tears. They streak from my eyes, crawling underneath the leather face-strap and past the oxygen hose before tickling the edges of my nose. Those which don't dry and crust from the oxygen blowing at full pressure follow the edges of my lips, my mouth propped open with a metal dental mouth gag as if this were a root canal procedure. It’s not.

It’s hot and damp in here, in my cell. The leather strap running across my face is the width of a weight-lifting belt. My cheeks itch from my sweaty beard irritating my eczema. The strap pressed against my eyebrows and down to the crease under my lower lip. The oxygen hose underneath my nose like an air conditioner with the pressure it shoots out. Two holes in the strap expose my eyes. My nose juts out like a greasy mountain through a triangular hole. My lips, dry and chapped over the mouth gag which juts out over the leather strap, leaving my oral cavity to dry. What's left of my tongue is limp and useless as erectile dysfunction. What’s left of my tongue has crusted over with blood clots. My entire oral orifice excruciatingly numb. My jaw nearing the point of dislocation due to the battle with the mouth gag.

Cramps overrun my jaw as I attempt to suck in any moisture I can get from the tears. The attempt futile, backfiring as I parch my mouth ever farther, if that's even possible. A drought has conquered my mouth as if stuffed with cotton balls.

The leather strap secures my head to a vertical, metal pole behind me, rendering my head motionless. Another leather-feeling strap the width of a regular belt wraps around my neck, dancing back and forth over my Adam's apple with every attempt at a dry swallow. There’s no reaching for it as my hands are bound to the armrests of the rusty, metal chair I sit upon with zip-ties strapped around my wrists. My elbows, also bound in zip-ties making any movement in my arms impossible. Another belt-like strap runs across my waist. I don't mind this one as I can still manage deep breaths. Both legs individually zip-tied strangling tight to the chair’s legs by my thighs and ankles. All my limbs and joints rendered immobile as if I were sitting in an electric chair, this is worse.

Any movement worth mentioning comes from my anxious heart and my scanning eyes. Everything comes in and out of focus. Every nerve ending in my fingers and toes quiver painfully. Sweat all over my body, leaving my clothes damp and sticky.

My clothes are the best American tourist outfit the internet can offer: short-sleeved polo t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. My golf sandals gone, leaving my feet bare and sweaty.

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