Bird in a Cage

She awoke lying on her back, and slowly began to become aware of her surroundings. Rain was pouring down outside, bouncing off the corrugated iron roof she could see high above her, supported by ugly concrete columns. She deduced that she must be in one of the old abandoned warehouses dotted through the deprived parts of the city. But how? And why? There was a dull ache in her head, her body hurt all over. She could feel a length of rough rope binding her wrists together. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good.

Dragging herself off of the cold floor, she noticed that the ground was covered in deep red stains, and dusted with old rubble and bits of broken glass.

"Fuck," she cursed aloud, "this isn't good at all."

As she tried to stand, she slammed her head against something, a metallic ring reverberating around the seemingly empty building. She was in a cage. How had it taken her so long to notice? Panicking, she pulled at the bars, beginning to hyperventilate.

"Fuck, help, someone please, fuck!" she screamed with a raspy, dry breath. She tried to remember how she got here, was she on a night out? She looked at her outfit: yes, a strappy black dress, tight against her curves and breasts, showing off Her tattooed arms... but her heels were missing. She remembered putting it on and heading out. She remembered it getting plenty of attention, plenty of drinks... a muscled man with a stubbly face and a purple shirt... What did he say his name was? She also realised her jewellery was missing, and her bag.

Racking her brain, she tried to remember anything that had happened. All she could remember was leaving the club early and taking a short cut to the taxi rank. Was it a fun night? Why did she leave early again and why did she go alone? Fuck. Fuck fuck.

She glanced around her tiny cage, hunting for something to cut her wrists free of break the door off the cage. There was only broken glass and...those dark brown stains...

"Fuck it the glass will do," she told herself.

She reached out the bars to the nearest big shard and clasped it in her thin fingers. It was sharp and jagged, almost impossible to hold without it slicing into her. But it worked, sawing back and forth, it sliced through the old rope easily, freeing her hands. But, as she looked down at them, they were dripping with blood.

A neat slit along four fingers dripped blood down onto her scarred thighs. Panicking, she tried to wrap it in the fabric of her dress, but the fabric was too tight to go round her hand. No... no... helplessness started to seep in when she heard a cackle from the gloom.

"Oh little one, look at the mess you're making."

She stared out but couldn't see anyone in the gloom, so she wiped her hand on her dress quickly, clasping the bars with both hands and pressing her pretty, dolled up face against them to see better, her glasses clanking off the metal.

"Let me out, please," she begged, trying the sympathy act, "I'll pay you, my parents will pay you, please, I'll do anything," she heard another cackle, deep and low.

"Oh little bird," he steps out the gloom, "I know you will."

Oh shit. It was him.

Everyone in the city knew that face by now. It seemed he was on TV almost every week these days, normally for murdering whole bunches of people. In an instant she recoiled away from him, groaning as she slammed into the bars on the opposite side of the tiny cage.

"Tsk tsk tsk. Careful, little bird. You'll hurt yourself flapping around like that." As he stepped into a shaft of light she could see he was in his trademark 3-piece suit, hands tucked messily into the pockets. "What's the matter? Are you afraid of little old me?"

She'd heard the stories, the killings, the creative and extravagant murders from the flamboyant, dangerous and well dressed don of the docks. No one knew anything about him, not really, he'd just appeared one day, never to be forgotten. She looked at his pale face, his trademark red grin dramatically up his face, he had eyeliner neatly under his eyes and his black hair was loose but pulled back. As He stepped forward, she noticed how elaborate his suit really was. The navy fabric was pinstriped with golden threads, a crisp white shirt beneath it all.

Her mind raced and she couldn't speak, why was she here? Why her? It didn't seem his style to prey on individual women, certainly not broke ones like her.His plans were usually on a much grader scale. Unles... The papers had mentioned an increase in disappearances of young women but the police put it down to petty criminals, they'd never been able to link the crimes together. She was too busy thinking to realise he was kneeling by her cage, eyeing her up. For all he was cheery, she knew he was dangerous and could switch in an instant.

"What do you want with me?" Her voice was but a shaky whisper. She leaned back against the bars as far as she could, trying to get away from him. Her hand was still leaking blood from the glass cut, it was dripping near his feet but he seemed unphased. Her body ached.

"What do I want with you? C'mon now, do you really think I don't know who you are? What you've been doing? I've seen you snooping around here on the old pier with your friend and your cameras. It seems you've been looking for me. And now... You've found me." His voice had suddenly dropped an octave and switched instantly from playful to raw evil.

"No! What? No! I just came down here with him to take photos for my Instagram!" She insisted, wide eyed and terrified. "I like the aesthetic. Please, I'm not spying on you or anything, I promise!"

"You like the aesthetic? Why, I'm flattered! I have been... Dolling the place up a bit." With a laugh he grabbed the head of an old fairground ornament in the shape of a giant child's doll. "But I don't buy it. Why would a pretty girl like you come down here for a photo shoot, right where all those other girls have been going missing?"

"I guess... I guess I just never thought it would happen to me. I was careful, I always brought someone with me... I guess I was wrong. Wait that was you, who made those people disappear?"

"Alllll the questions! Are you sure you're not a cop?" He laughed with an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes.

"No! No I'm not!" She insisted, darting forwards and grasping the bars. "You've gotta believe me, I'm not a cop, a journalist, a spy. I'm a nobody."

"A nobody?! You're not a nobody, little bird! In fact, it says here that you're... Ms -" In his hands she could see her own phone, somehow unlocked, showing her Instagram page. "I especially like... This one." Tilting the phone towards her, he showed a photo of her in a low cut top, posing outside the old pier, which she guessed she was probably tied up deep in the bowls of right now. "You know... Why don't we have a photo shoot right now? Get her out of there!"

As he tucked her phone back into his suit pocket, a pair of burly henchmen appeared out of the shadows and one reached down, unlatching her cage, before reaching in and hauling her out. 'How long have they been stood there for?' she wondered, not daring to struggle as they dragged her to her feet.

"Don't just hold onto her like that!" He barked, and the henchmen released her, scurrying away back into the shadows. "What's she gonna do anyway, run away?" He laughed maniacally, as if her running away was some kind of sick joke. She had no intention of moving, she was frozen to the spot by fear, legs pulled together and arms tight across her chest. "C'mon, that's no way to pose for a photo with a biggest celebrity. Spread your wings, little bird."

Timidly, she unfurled her arms and let them fall by her sides, revealing the cut of her dress and the shape of her full breasts beneath. His eyes lit up as she did, but not at the shape of her body - rather at the cut on her hand, still dripping with blood.

"Oh, is that still bleeding? Let me see that."

"There was some broken glass... " She whimpered, showing him her wounded, shaking hand.

Running his finger over the cut, he let the blood soak into his white skin until the red was dripping from it, before taking the finger to his lips and licking it. Closing her eyes tight, she recoiled in horror but the grip on her wrist was tight. Again she felt his hand grace over hers, acid fingers exploring the open wound, lapping up the claret spilling from it, leaving a burning sting behind, making her wince and whimper. Before his grip slid up her arm, over her shoulder, and settled again on her cheeks, pulling her face towards him.

"Open your eyes." He snarled, "we can't have a pretty picture with your eyes closed. Now..." His dripping finger found its way to your lips, mixing your lipstick with blood, and smudging it up your cheeks. "Smile."

He snapped a few photos of them together, her lips caked in her own blood and his manic smile on show. She was trying her best to convince him she wasn't a threat to him, or that she was worth keeping alive long enough for her to hatch a plan. He was obviously vain, snapping photos of himself with his victim, he probably loved seeing himself on the news. She doubted that he was kidnapping nobodies like ehr for the publicity though. No, he must have had something else in mind. She prayed that it wasn't what she feared, but his hand resting on her round behind told her all that she needed to know.

"Ugh, you look scared," her thoughts were suddenly halted as she looked at him, tears welling in her eyes. He snarled, "stop looking like that, little bird, I haven't done anything yet." He grabbed her arm and wretched her to the floor, her bare knees hitting the concrete so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

"Please," she begged, "just let me go, I'll never come here again and I won't tell anyone and-"

He was laughing, manically, crazily, back to smiling like a deranged Cheshire cat. He wiped a fake tear from his eye and stood in front of her, smirking.

"You lot always beg so easy," he chuckled, "the last girl even offered herself up so I would let her go, I was impressed at you at first, it took you..." he stared at his watch, "15 minutes before you did," he tutted, "you're not going anywhere, little bird, you're my fancy tonight, my..." he paused for dramatic effect, "my plaything."

He watched her eyes dart around the warehouse. He knew she'd try and run soon, how much fun! "You aren't getting out of this alive, they never do," he kneeled and grasped her chin, his bloody fingers smearing her own blood on her face, "even the clown Prince needs a woman even now and then. And my WHAT a woman you are! Look at you! Those eyes, those tits, oh, I'm in love!" He swooned dramatically around her, hands on his heart. Suddenly he pressed his foot onto her back and she fell flat to the floor with a thud. "You know the last girl I brought here was this little blonde athlete type. So of course she thought she could run away, as if a silver medal in the county 400m hurdles would do her any good in a locked warehouse! So needless to say, I didn't get to play with that one for very long before she got smashed up. But, by the smell of wine on you, I'd say you were already hammered when you arrived!" He chuckled loudly at his own joke, and she was glad that the pressure of the foot on her back was relieved when he did. But the weight pressed her down once more when his monologue resumed. "So I think I'm going to get to play with you for a lonngg time. So, whaddaya say, little bird? Care to join me?"

She didn't respond, she couldn't, all the breath was getting pushed out of her with every press of his shiny black shoes.

"It gets so boring living here with all these witless goons," he grumbled, "I mean I don't mind a hunk every now and then but god I wouldn't touch these guys with a poll sometimes. I'd probably catch something... So I decided to go and find myself a woman's touch." He smirked and released his foot, kneeling by head as she turned to face him. "You reek of alcohol and shame, little bird. What's the matter, boyfriend leave you? You're all alone, aren't you? I doubt anyone's even looking for you! Silly girl!" He got close and she whimpered but didn't move, he smiled, "but I want you, so you don't have a say otherwise."

He stood up and barked some names and his henchmen came forward, both burley knuckleheads who only knew how to follow orders.

"Let's get our little bird somewhere more comfortable." He clicked his fingers and the men placed her upright, a black bag over her head and handcuffs on her wrists, "This is going to be soooo much fun," WHACK! She was out like a light.

When she came back around, she found herself tied to a chair with her legs spread. Handcuffs dug hard into her wrists and ankles, cutting the skin whenever she struggled too hard. Her hand, at least, was wrapped in a crude bandage and the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

Looking around the sparse room, it was almost exactly what she had expected it to be like. Dirty Windows looked out over the pier, the rain slamming against them in a deafening cacophony. Flickering industrial lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the dilapidated furniture and flaking paint on the walls. Clearly he hadn't managed to kidnap a good painter-decorator yet... In the center of the room, between two metal pedestals used as nightstands, was a metal-framed bed, with surprisingly nice looking sheets. And on it, was the man himself, flicking through her phone, muttering to himself. "Boring... Boring... No... Ooh, I like that one... Boring..."

Suddenly the phone was cast aside as he realised she was awake. "Rise and shine, little bird," he grinned, throwing the phone carelessly down on the bed. "How's your head? I hope those brutes didn't make too much of a mess of you." His monologue continued as he stood up, not giving her a chance to answer his question. The answer would have been "not good" though, not that he cared.

"They're so rough! No class! I mean seriously, what does it take to get a henchman with a bit of dexterity around here?" He let out a grumbling sigh before his whole demeanor changed as he turned his attention solely to her.

"Now I was going to get you out of that dress, but mummy always said it was rude to unwrap your presents until everyone was present. I don't know why I still listen to that old hag, she's been dead for years, but ANYWAY... You're awake now. So the party can begin."

A pen knife flicked out in his hand, the sound of the blade locking into place audible above the increasingly loud rain. She gulped deeply and pulled at her restraints, her head feeling somewhat swollen and still a little woozy. Her hand stung and her wrists were already getting cut up from her struggling.

"You know," he smiled, removing his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, "your phone is full of delicious little secrets." Her face flushed and he laughed, walking so he could stand in front of her, "you're a little sicko aren't you? Like meeee," he sang, "all those pretty boys messaging you with all those dirty messages." He placed the blade gently on her face and she stared at him with frightened eyes. "You like it a little rough, don't you, you fucked up little whore.?"

She didn't reply, frozen in place by fear.

"I wonder... Will all those boys miss you? Will they come looking for you? I doubt it. They'll just move onto whoever fucks them next. But me? Well, I'll enjoy you for the rest of your life." His eyes narrowed as he leant in extra close, close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her face. "It's up to you how long that is."

She flinched and turned her head to the side, snapping her eyes shut and a single pathetic tear ran down her face, taking mascara with it. She could feel his breath, his voice reverberating in her head. He laughed loudly and flung his head back, clearly amused. She didn't look at him as he began whistling "pop goes the weasel" as he placed the sharp blade in the seams of her dress, pulling the cotton with it.

"I also read your emails from the hospital, you little basket case, full of nasty thoughts and dangerous impulses, aren't you?" The blade carefully slid down revealing her black lace bra, his green eyes widening, "is Dr Blake still a useless piece of shit? He never helped me much hehe."

"No he.. err... Wasn't the best..." She stuttered nervously, in disbelief that she had something in common with this monster.

"Not the best?! The man was stealing a living! And he had the cheek to say that *I* was the criminal!" His chuckling distracted her from the fact his knife had reached the bottom of his dress, the fabric falling away completely to reveal the matching set of lacy underwear beneath.

"And from the look of those scars... You're almost as crazy as I am." He smiled a sick, knowing smile as he looked at the collection of old wounds that criss-crossed her stomach and thighs.

She blushed even further, turning her face down at her chest as his white fingers traced her scars, some white...most still red and angry looking. He smirked and his hands went from her thighs, all the way up, to her face which he roughly cupped in his hands and forced her to look at him.

"Oh little bird, there's no shame in being crazy, I mean, look at me." He grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth, "I'm fucking nuts and I'm doing okay, aren't I?"

She stared at him, mortified. She wasn't like him, not at all, not even close. She felt sick, bile rising in her throat as he eyed up her figure. She wanted to be engulfed by the ground, wanted to scream and shout, but she couldn't. She couldn't even run when she was in the warehouse and now there was no chance.

He could tell she was battling her own thoughts, he began to hum as he flicked the blade shut and slotted it in his pants pocket. He liked her like this: humiliated, vulnerable, scared.

He began to feel at her chest, cupping a breast in each hand and watching her closely as he did. She was tense, her eyes welling up, and he felt the urge to slap her but didn't. Yet. He pulled down the lace, exposing her subtle nipple, perked and perfect, and ran his thumbs over it.

"Please..." she whimpered, not wanting to be touched, "don't do this..."

"Why not? Not a fan of foreplay? Fine." Instantly his hand shot down her body, sliding into her lacy underwear in one movement.

"No, no!" She pleaded "that's worse..."

"God! Make up your mind! Women... 'Not this, not that, not the other', can never make up their minds about what they want but they always seem to know what they DON'T want, amiright?" Withdrawing his hand from her underwear, he placed it again on her face and rubbed her cheek with a pale thumb.

She stared him down, this was madness but why was he being so polite, so gentle? Not at all how she imagined him.

He smiled, almost sweetly, and pinched her cheek.

"Ah she's silent again, I guess I'll make the decision for you," he roughly undid the cuffs and hauled her up, swinging her almost comically and throwing her on the bed. The bed was soft but the landing took the air out of her, her curled brown hair tumbling dramatically around her. She groaned and looked up at him, closing her legs tightly and putting her hands over chest.

"Oh c'mon now," he smiled and started removing his orange shirt, slowly, button by button, "and don't you dare think of running for that door, little bird," his white chest was revealed, slim but toned, littered with battle scars and bruises that were black and blue. "If you run, I'll let the goons have you."

"Don't do this... Please..." She begged, scurrying away over the bed, doing her best to cover every bit of her body.

"What, are you afraid of these scars? They're no worse than what you've got!"

His words wrenched at her guts, drawing tears. "You're wrong! Mine aren't that bad! Mine are nothing like that! Mine are just from sex getting out of hand, or self harming with scissors... Not like... God knows what yours are."