Left To Die

Had he broken something in the fall? Terror filled him. A childhood spent playing sports, fearful of injuring his spine, flooded his mind. But, as he tried to speak, he found his lips wouldn’t move either. His arms hung limply at his side like wet strands of pasta. He could hear, see, he could feel the dirt trail pressed against his chest and cheek. He could feel the sharp pain now, returning to his side. His senses, if anything, seemed heightened. The magician was twisting his arm, evoking further pain as he tried to roll his prey over.

Enes wanted to resist, but his muscles, his tendons, his limbs didn’t respond. He could feel, but he couldn’t move.

Now fear pumped through him, swelling his system with adrenaline. But the adrenaline only stirred him to more anxiety. The adrenaline wasn’t being used; it had nowhere to go. He was helpless.

He tried to scream, and he could hear the shout, the bloodcurdling screech in his own mind, but there, beneath the moon-laced tree branches, staring up at the dark sky, he heard nothing. His lips remained numb.

He saw a glint of something metal, and then a muttered oath. The magician was shaking his head and murmuring something to himself in a language the young man didn’t understand. The tourist grabbed his victim by the wrists and began to drag him roughly along the trail, toward a darker portion of the park.

“Have you ever heard of the Spade Killer?” said the magician in a low voice, grunting in between the words. “He once created artwork in a park too. Not this one, but close enough. I must thank you for leading me here. It’s fate.”

Enes couldn’t respond. He could feel dirt getting into his shirt though, scraping against his back as he was dragged along the path. Somehow, the sensation was double. The pain in his shoulder sockets worsened, the rash along his back rubbed with dirt and gouging rocks.

He felt himself deposited unceremoniously beneath a dark tree.

Above him, he glimpsed another flash of metal. The magician was holding a small knife. He stared down at the young man, a tender expression on his face. He stooped, still smiling, and removed Enes’s shirt. The college student couldn’t resist; he couldn’t fight.

The magician loosed a shuddering gasp, an orgasmic sound. He studied his victim’s exposed chest. “Where to start?” he said. “Twenty-nine was too old. This park—it’s funny we should be here. Not far from here, in another park, the Spade Killer had his first. She was forty-one, you know? Twenty-three, forty-one. The numbers both add up to five—get it? That’s where he started. He stopped at thirty—imagine that? Forty-one to thirty. The authorities don’t even know all of his tapestries. I picked up where he left off. You’re just a youthful piece to a grand tapestry. I once had a body like yours, you know? I still do. Look.”

The magician lifted his shirt, revealing a trim, pale body, and he seemed to flex his abdomen, trying to press his muscles against his skin. The vanity and the terror of the moment mixed, settling on Enes’s helpless form like a smothering blanket.

“Rock hard,” said the magician, slapping at his abdomen. “And the work,” a long, pale finger traced his cheeks. “Most people can’t tell it’s professional.” He reached up, prodding at his nose and beneath his eyes. He smiled down at the shirtless victim. “This is going to be fun. Please, whatever you do, don’t scream.” He chuckled at this. “Not that you could…”

Then the knife flashed forward, descending toward Enes’s chest.

Voices exploded from behind them.

“You! What are you doing with him!”

The magician froze, a horrified look curling his features, his leering grin morphing to a wide-eyed look of fear.

Hope surged in Enes’s chest. He wanted to cry out, to plead. But the words wouldn’t come.

“It’s nothing,” said the magician, keeping his face forward, refusing to glance back toward the sound of the voices.

Enes thought of the teenagers he’d spotted on the park bench. Perhaps they had noticed him. He’d never much liked teenagers in recent years. They were notorious for leaving glass bottles around the park or vandalizing the statues.

“What are you doing with him?” came an angry voice.

“We’re in love,” retorted the tourist. “Leave us to our privacy!”

“Hear that?” said a second voice. “I told you not to bother them. Pervert.”

The first voice, though, didn’t seem convinced. “He’s not moving. Look at him.”

“It’s fine,” said the magician, still stiff, frozen, staring ahead. “Go away. It’s been a long day for him. This isn’t something your parents would want you to see. It’s a private thing. You’re being rude.”

A couple of voices were snickering now, giggling to each other at the tourist’s words.

Enes felt terror coming back. Hope fading. Would the teenagers leave? The magician was convincing, and had even leaned down to tenderly caress the young man’s chest. The giggling voices seemed convinced.

The sound of dirt scraping beneath shoes reached Enes’s ears. “Sorry, sir!” called one of the teens. “We’re going.”