I close them, yet it’s no darker. I feel warm. My legs and arms seem bare, but I can feel them, and move them. Damn! Just barely. I’m tied up. His...handiwork, again. I am on something soft, like a bed or a cot. Flat on my back, arms overhead, tied together, legs tied together and stretched out straight. Both arms and legs are tied to something else as well, immobile. I hear his breathing beside me in the dark. He is here, next to me. I smell him and his evil intent. “Hello Melissa,” he. I locked the car and headed down the street. It was just about nine o'clock. A hot Central Valley sundowner dried the sweat that was popping out all over me. I had only been in the Pump House once to check it out for tonight's escapade. One entered looking down the long wooden bar which faced shelves of liquor with nothing fancier than Johnny Walker Red or Bacardi Rum. Behind the bottles was a tall faded mirror. Small wooden tables lined the street wall which contained only one frosted glass. More

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