The Plan Takes Shape

The musty air clawed at my throat, each breath a gritty reminder of where I was. The dim, flickering bulb overhead cast long, dancing shadows that twisted the already grotesque reality into something even more nightmarish. My hands, raw and aching, were clasped behind my back, the rough weave of the burlap sack that had been my prison for what felt like an eternity now a phantom sensation against my skin. Stephon’s words, a chillingly calm pronouncement of William’s fate, still echoed in the hollow chambers of my mind. *One of you can work it off, the other has to die.* And William, my friend, had chosen. He’d chosen himself, and in doing so, had condemned me to this.

Tears, hot and stinging, traced paths through the grime on my cheeks. I tried to stifle the choked sobs that threatened to wrack my lean frame, but they escaped, small, pathetic sounds in the oppressive silence. Stephon, a hulking shadow in the periphery, watched me with an unsettling lack of emotion. He ran a hand over his shaved head, his gaze never leaving my face.

"Look, homie," he’d said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of any sympathy, "if neither of you would have said anything, I would have had you both working for me. But he ratted you out to save his own hide. I can't have that."