Cruel Justice

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“IT’S DARK IN HERE, Daddy.”

The boy doesn’t know how long he has been in the closet, tied to this chair. He doesn’t know what time it is, or even what day it is. He knows he is hungry. And thirsty. And scared.

Very, very scared.

“Please, Daddy. I don’t like it in the dark.”

The ropes chafe against his wrists and burn his skin. His legs and groin are sore and sticky. He doesn’t know how many times he has wet himself. He’s been in here so long.

“Daddy? Mommy? Please help me.”

He knows they are out there. Daddy is listening, laughing maybe. Mommy is out there, too. She won’t laugh, but she won’t do anything. She never does. She pretends she doesn’t hear, pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening. But she knows.

He rocks back and forth, straining against the ropes. “Please, Daddy! I can’t stand it in here. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll—”

The door opens. The sudden brightness is blinding. The boy scrunches his eyes closed, then slowly opens them as he adjusts to the light.

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