Proposition

I don’t know what to do anymore, and I’m honestly tired of trying. I can hardly remember a time where this wasn’t my life, and I find it even harder to imagine a future where it’s all finally over. I just want to be done, to be free of this and get on with the rest of my life—the rest of my story. But he won’t let me.

I can feel him, you know? Every time I close my eyes, every time I finally drift off to sleep, every time a dark thought pops into my head; he’s there. His face inches towards me from the shadows of my mind, and at first i think the darkness has come alive. The black twists and tightens into something almost recognizable, but not quite. In those moments, I only have the sense that he’s about to appear—I can’t actually see him or anything that looks like him. 

Then his eyes open. Floating, white orbs in the darkness, stark and stupid like a child’s. His lips uncurl next, and I’m hypnotized by their bloody coating. The eyes repel me, and the vibrant, red lips invite me, and the light reflecting from both reveals the truth of my visitor. He is not a friend, he is not my internal voice. He is both my captor and my invader, and I fear that he will be with me even when this ends. 

“Hey, Joe, whattya know?” He exclaims in an exaggerated mobster accent. He leaned closer and tilted his head forward, revealing his staw hat and yarn dreadlocks.

I stared uncertainly at the floating head before me. Was he another hallucination? Or was he the real thing? 

“How long have I been here?” I asked, to test it.

“Three years, seven months, six days, and two hours.” He astutely replied. I scanned his face for signs of the truth, and was dismayed to see that was all I found. His face didn’t twitch, his gaze didn’t break from my own, and his head hadn’t fidgeted in anyway—if Minstrel was lying, his body didn’t seem to know. Still, it was enough to confirm that for better or worse, I was dealing with the real Minstrel and not a hallucination. 

“What do you want?” I hissed at him, egged on by the embers of frustration which had begun to warm in the pit of my chest. 

I heard the sound of a whip crack, and my blood went cold. My back still ached from the wounds he’d already inflicted. I felt the heat that was in my chest go to my wounds instead, and tears began to fall down my face as the burning returned in the worst way. 

“Now, now, Alfred,” Minstrel began, using the name he’d bestowed upon me. “Do not forget your place.” 

Though enraged, I feared another beating. I wasn’t sure whether Minstrel thought he was going to break me, or was convinced that he already had. Either way, I couldn’t show any signs of my defiance, not until it was time for me to finally strike back. I bit down on my tongue and locked eyes with him.

Minstrel took another step forward—he was even closer now. I could see his shirt and choke on his cologne. I bit down on my tongue harder and resisted the urge to reach forward and break his neck. I could never have accomplished that anyway—my arms and legs were bound in a small, plastic chair.

“My dear Alfred, the noblest of my servants, I must call on your assistance once more. It is a task which will inconvenience you, but I know your true nature and trust that you will do everything necessary to assist me.”

I didn’t reply, and he chuckled at me.

“Okay then,” he said as he scratched his head. “Let me put it another way: If you don’t help me, then what’s either a banjo, a shotgun, or a copy of Fantastic Four #52 is going where the sun don’t shine!” 

He cackled at his own threat. In all the time I’d been there, I never managed to get used to it. His chortle didn’t just rattle or ring in my ears, it scraped and skinned them as the vibrations traveled through the canals towards my eardrum. It was an awful sensation that always seemed to last a second longer than I’d pray it would.

“What do you want!” I snapped at him, hoping that would get him to stop.

Surprisingly, it did. Minstrel whipped his head down to face me, and for a moment he only looked at me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for in my face, but I was sure determined not to give it to him—I kept my expression as blank and purposeless as I could manage. Still, he smiled wide and nodded to himself, as if my stoicism was the answer he sought the entire time. 

“You’ll do.” He said. Before I could ask what he meant, he reached into the collar of his shirt then pulled out what, in the dim light, looked like a phone case, with the word ‘Fido’ inscribed on it.

Minstrel’s next words were different. He dropped my exonym, but also the goofy voice. Delivering highly refined speech in an equally high voice, he prompted me, “Tell me, something, Mr. Grant. Would you like to be a part of a once in a life-time business opportunity?”