Jimmie’s
The blindfold came off so fast I almost forgot how to blink.
For a few seconds, I squinted, disoriented as the dim twilight crept into the room through a narrow, cracked window, barely illuminating the space I was dumped in. A flickering bulb overhead sputtered like it had a vendetta against stability, on, off, a buzz, then dim. Honestly, it was less of a lightbulb and more like a nervous breakdown on a wire.
My hands were still tied tightly in front of me, itching, raw, and numb at the same time. The rope was too tight. My wrists were screaming, and I was ninety-nine per cent sure that if I lived through this, I’d develop some dramatic fear of twine. Maybe even yarn. No one warned me that k********g came with a whole trauma package and potential knit-phobia.
The room I say “r
