You are forty-seven years old

and you have back trouble, and you do not bend easily, and the edge of your belt buckle jabs at your belly like a dull blade

and you are desperately tired, but too scared of death to sleep

and your feet, which are the only things you've been allowed to look at for hours now, are tingling so madly from lack of circulation that you ache for permission to stamp them

but the bearded man is a cruel bastard, and has more than once punished frivolous requests with violent beatings

and so you grimace, and you press your head further than you thought possible into the empty space between your knees, and you look at your shoes, which are resting on carpet sticky from dried blood, and you listen hopelessly for the sound of another murder

but at the moment, no one is dying loud enough for you to hear them.