He was careless. So I escaped without hesitation. I passed the pig sty where he muscled my husband over its high fence. I had never seen nor had known pigs to eat human flesh. But I did see it. He had me there, bound so tight to where I'm not even sure how I remained conscious. But I witnessed what I presumed to be herbivorous creatures swarm over a man—the love of my life—and tear into him. I do not blame them—those poor creatures. They were emaciated and surely trained.

Sherman, as he revealed himself to be, had done this before. God knows how many times. How many times did he use his little slice of rural heaven to capitalize off the lost and tired? Mark and I were on the way to a friend's wedding in another state. We thought it'd be good cause for a not-so-extravagant road trip.

Sherman probably orchestrated the flat. The rubber bursting as it did—and where it did—was a bit too convenient. He carried himself as a big oaf; a gap-toothed rube. But that bastard knew what he was doing.

I got to the open road. I felt the dirt under my bare feet change into asphalt. I couldn't see anything; nothing but the porch light on Sherman's squalid one bedroom from afar. I shuffled through the darkness, hoping that'd I see headlights coming from either side of me. That's when I heard the dogs. Sherman had two hounds that served as his alarm system. I suppose it was too much to ask that I escape scotch-free.

North, west, south…. I had no idea where to go or where I was, in fact, going. The barks became louder and louder. A light finally flickered in the distance, but I knew it was not of anyone else but my captor. He probably used the clothes he tore from my body as fuel for their sniffers. At the moment I wore a gown. He said it was his mother's. It hanged all the way down past my ankles. I won't forget his eyes as he made me put it on. It seemed to bring him more joy to see me wear his mother's ill-fitted garb than it did to watch my naked body.

A nip at my ankle that I would've preferred to be a snake or even a scorpion came upon me. But, no: it was the hound pressing his teeth into my flesh.

"Whoa, there, boy," said Sherman. He patted the canine on its side and shined the light directly into my eyes. "Amy, sweetheart," he said, "where ya off too?"

I said nothing. All that came from me were winces of pain from the bite that surely broke skin. Sherman bent down to lift me from the earth. "Now, you got momma's gown all dirty. We gon' have to have punish you for that."

I walked back with Sherman like a lamb to slaughter. And it dawned on me: He allowed me to leave. He wanted me to taste freedom so that he may have the joy of taking it away. I was wrong. He wasn't careless.

He walked me down a flight of steps which led to the basement, my home. He laughed and giggled on the way down. "Girl, you are a feisty one, ain't ya?"

I braced myself every time he was near me in darkness. I was certain he'd attempt to force himself upon me. But he hadn't tried yet. He seemed to derive more pleasure from treating me as a plaything of all other sorts: lick his boots, taste his piss, stand still so he can slice his initials into my side. (I hadn't mentioned these things had I? Perhaps I didn't want your pity.)

"Now, see, I was saving this for when you were really bad," said Sherman, rustling through a bunch of tools and miscellaneous items. "Here we go." He pulled out a whip that had barbs on its fringes.

"Take off momma's gown."

"Kill me," I said. I said it without fear. I simply wanted to bring this psychopath no more joy.

"Kill you, huh?" Sherman played with the whip. "Girly, you gonna be here for a long, long time."

He kept me unbound at times like this. He almost dared me to lunge at him or try to grab a sharp object of some kind. He was quick. I would know, seeing as how I've tried before. There was a glass jar, though, on the shelf next to me. Before he realized where my peripheral vision lied, I knocked it over. I quickly picked up the biggest shard of glass I could see. He leaped towards me but I held the shard so close to my neck he had to pause.

"You piece of shit, I'll do it. I'll slit my throat and you'll be without your human toy." Sherman clenched the whip good and tight. He seemed uncertain as to whether or not I had the gall to remove myself from this world. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I did. But it felt good to even remotely take away his power. As I pressed the glass closer to my neck, a sense of relief came over me. It seemed even rational.

Sherman slowly bent down and placed the whip on the floor. He took in a deep breath and brushed his hair back with both his grimy hands. "Look here, darling. You just gonna make this tougher for yourself. I'll admit it, I'll admit it: I've been a bit harsh with ya. I just likes ya is all. You put that there glass down. I ain't gonna punish ya for dirtying up momma's dress."

I didn't realize it, but tears streamed down my face. Why? Why couldn't I end my life even now? He would eventually kill me. The escalation of torture would only go higher. Why?

"There ya go, Amy. You can do it. I can see that you don't want this, honey pie."

A bit a blood spilled out my neck. God, if I could just push it a little deeper.

Before I knew it, Sherman was grabbing my wrist. Like I said, he was quick for a big man. He peeled my fingers back. The glass fell. So did I.

"You stupid bitch," he said, snarling at me. "That's your ass. You want to defy me?"

He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me towards where the whip lay. "Take off momma's gown." Sherman picked up the whip and cracked it. "Now!"

I felt myself starting to zone out. The pain would come soon. Then darkness. Then tears. Then sleep—the closest thing I had to death. Just whip me, I thought. Just kill me.

Sherman readied himself but stopped. The roar of an engine popped outside. It made a racket.

"Come here," said Sherman. I didn't move. So Sherman just pulled me back to my corner, tied me up and gagged me. "Don't make no trouble." He wagged his finger at me.

You may wonder why I didn't yell for help when I had the chance. I had. Many of time. I'm sure I pulled a vocal muscle of some sort once or twice. From the basement nothing could be heard. There was no hope for me on that front. People stopped by enough to where it made me wonder "why us?" Why me and my husband and not the fellow who was up there now? I think Sherman made money by selling pigs or something. Maybe he had to keep that façade up. I don't know. I'm tired.

Ah, yes. Sherman was a big galoot, indeed. The howl of my motorbike stirred him out of his den. He came to me, eager and sincere, reaching his hand out to me like a good neighbor would.

"How ya doing, sir? You lost?" he asked.

"Yeah, I missed the interstate at some point," I told him. "My GPS doesn't work out here."

Sherman slid his thumbs under his overalls. "That sounds about, right. I get folks lost here all the time. I reckon myself a good navigator, though. I can point you in the right direction."

He was good. Not better than some I've come across. But he was good for some hick out in the country. "Perfect," I said. "But can I trouble you for some water, sir? I've been on my bike for hours. Really, it would be great if I could sit stationary for a bit."

For a split second, I sensed the unease in Sherman. No one else would have picked up on it. But I could.

"Sure, son. You're welcome to come in. I don't get many guests." Sherman led me towards the house. "What's your name, son?"

"Todd," I said. Yes, that's my real name. Usually, I don't give these guys fake names. I've learned I'm a bad actor for the most part.

"Todd? Alright, then. I'm Harry. Nice to meet you."

(Sherman you little liar. See that? He lied to me.) His hounds wouldn't shut up. I couldn't wait to shut them up myself. They were guilty by association as far as I was concerned.

We got into the kitchen and I sat down. He took a glass out the sink—it looked dirty—and ran the faucet. "My oh my, seeing you in the light makes me realize you're just a kid. You ain't sound like one."

I smiled. I guess one could say I was a kid. I'm sixteen. I've got a deep voice for a sixteen-year-old. But that's largely due to my New Orleanian upbringing. Most guys I know, myself included, tend to have unconscious affectations that become deeply engrained. You have to be "hard" where I'm from. A part of that is your voice. I see it as an asset, actually.

"I'm old enough," I said with a smile. I wanted to do him so bad. Right here. Right now. I could feel the pain of a woman some weeks ago, right here in this kitchen, whom Sherman did the dastardly deed of squeezing the life out of. Her cries came as clear to me as Sherman's pathetic voice. Sherman… you are amazing.

"What brings you out here?" he asked. He folded his arms and stayed standing in front the sink.

"I'm coming back from a friend's wedding."

There it was again. The microsecond of flinched face; a reaction attempted to be contained.

"Ain't you kind of young to be riding to weddings? Whose wedding was it? You got family getting hitched?"

The big galoot's unease stabbed me in my diaphragm. His mind was raced with any kind of connection between me and his hostage. The air was thick with hidden hostility. Amy must have told him that she and her husband were headed to the wedding. I wasn't sure if he knew that. I was hoping he did. I want him to want me as much as I want him.

I sipped the water. It tasted awful. "They're not really family. I got to know them through a friend of a friend."

Sherman… I'm sorry… Harry nodded his head. "Well that sound's lovely, young man. It's interesting to see a fella as young as yourself going miles and miles for somethin' like a wedding. You kids today all seem to be mostly stuck on your pads and your monitors."

"Yes, most definitely," I replied. "It was a lovely affair—that is for sure. I just wish my friends Amy and Mark could've been there. I know the bride and groom through them in the first place. And they just didn't show up. A lot of people are worried about 'em."

There it was. I felt it to the marrow. He was ready. Looking at him, he was cool, calm, and collect. But his effort of neutrality could not fool the quaking of my soul.

"I hear that, boy. That sounds awful." Sherman exhaled. "Well, I'm gonna go and take me a piss real quick."

I smiled and gave a nod.

Ladies and gentlemen: while Sherman goes and takes his piss, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Todd Winchester. No, I do not know Amy. Nor do I know her husband. What I do know, however, are people. I know them more than humanly possible. I do not have much time to explain myself. But know this: People like Sherman are my life's work. They are what bring me out of bed in the morning. And helping people like Amy is merely a byproduct. You see, while those such as Sherman get off on preying on the weak, I get my jollies off of preying on the strong. The helpless do not interest me. The predator, however, does.

"Hey, Todd, can you come over here in the bedroom and help me lift something right quick."

"Sure, no problem," I said. Such a poor excuse. But I'll indulge him.

Each step I made creaked. The house was relatively small. And the hallway which separated the kitchen from the bedrooms was unlit. "Where are you, Sherman?"

He gave no answer. He waited like that spider that coats itself in dirt then strikes at the opportune time. I didn't call out to him again. There was one room at the end of the hallway lit by a standalone lamp which was clearly the bedroom. I wanted to play his game more. I wanted him to want me.

I stepped into the bedroom. A mattress lay on the floor. Some clothes were tossed about. He couldn't hide in here if he tried. There it was. From behind. A chokehold. Sherman, the statuesque farmer, lifted me from the floor and began to squeeze the life out of me. Much like he did that poor woman.

He made no articulations. He only grunted. I felt his belly on my back; his breath circling to my nostrils. He wanted me. And now, I wanted him.

I weighed my options. A head-butt could reach his mouth. Or I could, perhaps, deliver a heel to his groin. I chose the head-butt. His positioning was not clever enough, you see. He gave my head swivel room—not much room, but enough room. I popped my head back and felt his teeth connect to the back of my head. His grip loosened considerably. He screeched in pain.

I pulled out a pocket knife I kept in my back pocket. "What the hell are you doing, boy?" asked Sherman. "Who the hell are you?"

I know where his shock derived. He saw what they all see: The devilish pleasure in my face; the smile that perhaps only belonged to a father of a newborn or a graduate whom all odds were against.

"Harry." I said in a low whisper. Sherman back-stepped into the kitchen, out of the dark hallway. I preferred to duel in the light, anyway. His reasoning, though, was made clear. He pulled open a kitchen drawer and took out a knife much bigger than my own.

"You don't know who you messing with, boy. You should've called the police if you tryna do some hero crap. That girl ain't gonna be saved by the likes of you."

"Harry," I said again. My eyes were wider now. I couldn't help but show my excitement.

"What?" he finally replied.

"I'm going to gut you."

And there it was—this time, for more than a microsecond. Sherman let fear creep in. He could see my salivation. And I meant it ladies and gentlemen. I was going to gut Sherman. I did gut, Sherman. I had to revel in it for a moment. I had to take my time. I immobilized him, you see. First with quick jabs of knife to his eyes. Then with focused kicks to the side of his knee caps. I had to hear him cry out before I could feel happy about granting him relief; before he no longer brought me pleasure, only disdain.

I gutted him, alright. And I decided to let the dogs live when they came in and walked over his corpse. I suppose they aren't so bad.

God, I feel good.

And now, I suppose I'll release Amy from her hell.