?As they always had. As they always will.?
— From The Neighbours of Silence
The handcuffs tighten around my ankles. Cold. Real.
And yet I keep thinking this is some kind of sick joke.
The chair is bolted to the floor. Whoever is playing this prank on me has gone to a lot of trouble. Who could it be? My friends and I have always played pranks on each other, but no one had ever gone this far.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with one hand. It’s hot in this little room and the humidity is stifling. I’m surrounded by grey walls except for a transparent glass panel set into the wall directly in front of me.
I woke up in this place not too long ago, though I don’t know exactly how long — there are no clocks in the room. The last thing I remember is getting into my car to drive home after a day at work.
I’m still wearing the same clothes, but someone has emptied my pockets of everything.
On the table in front of me, beside the pack of cigarettes with the pink lighter, there are two unopened cartons and a sheet of paper with a few sentences printed on it. Pink. Mara’s favourite colour.
I’ve already read it several times, but I don’t find this joke funny. I tried calling someone to tell them, but no one answered.
I pick up the sheet again.
“You have two choices. Die, or let your daughter die.
Instructions: — you have 6 hours.
— You may only kill yourself by smoking cigarettes.
— If you do not kill yourself, you will be released when the six hours are up.
Good luck.”
This message still strikes me as absurd. Could my daughter be in on the joke? And what would killing yourself with cigarettes even mean?
I smile. Yes, it’s definitely a prank by my friends. I’m always saying I’ll quit smoking and they must have got tired of hearing it.
?Hey! I get it, I get the joke! Very funny, guys. Now let me out, all right?? I shout at the top of my lungs.
No one answers, save for the dying echo of my own words.
I sigh. They’ll want to drag it out a little longer. They’re probably filming me in secret.
Suddenly a light comes on behind the glass panel, illuminating a room that looks identical to the one I’m in.
That room, however, contains only a chair — no table. On the wall behind the chair there’s a screen displaying 6:00.
I raise my eyebrows, intrigued, and lean forward to see whether anyone is inside. Someone enters the room.
I freeze. My mouth goes instantly dry.
A man is tying a little girl to the chair.
That’s my daughter, for fuck’s sake.
?Mara. Hey!? I slam my hands on the table, sending the pink lighter flying. ?Let my daughter go! What do you want? ANSWER ME!?
The man doesn’t seem to hear me, and neither does my daughter. She’s gagged and is being restrained with two handcuffs on the legs of the chair, just like me.
The man is wearing a black bodysuit and a balaclava.
?GUYs, ENOUGH! You’re going too far now, for fuck’s sake! Guys??
No one answers. The man leaves the room, leaving my daughter bound and alone. I watch her and all at once I’m certain this is not a prank. She’s crying, terrified, shaking.
I start shaking too. I try screaming as loud as I can, until my throat burns, but she can’t hear me. From the way she moves her head I think she’s looking at her own reflection. She can’t see me — only I can see her.
I think she’s screaming too, despite the cloth over her mouth, because I can see the veins bulging on her neck.
A puddle forms beneath her chair. She’s wet herself.
This is definitely not a joke. Tears begin to blur my vision. Why?
I can’t think of anything else. That single word fills my mind. I can’t make sense of any of this.
I try again to free myself and pull the chair off the floor, but it’s all useless.
?What do you want?? I shout in fury. No one answers. I look more carefully around the room, searching for something useful, something that might help me, but there’s nothing. I turn back to my daughter, whose face is now completely drenched in tears, and I notice a timer has started. The screen that showed 6:00 now reads 5:50.
I don’t understand what it means.
My eyes fall on the sheet of paper on the table. I grab it and read it again.
No, it can’t be. It’s absurd.
I bend sideways with difficulty and pick up the lighter from the floor beside the chair. I try heating the handcuffs. “Maybe if they get warm they’ll expand and I can get free,” I think desperately.
After a few seconds I put out the flame. It will never work.
I reread the instructions.
“You may only kill yourself by smoking cigarettes.”
What the hell does that even mean? I don’t think it’s even possible. I mean, would I have to smoke until I’m dead? I realise I’m drenched in sweat.
I need a cigarette to calm down. I take the pack in front of me and open it. It’s my brand, and I’m sure that’s no coincidence. I take a cigarette, light it, and draw a deep lungful of smoke.
I close my eyes. Better.
I open them again to look at my daughter and my first thought is that she’s wet herself again, but that’s impossible — there’s a layer of liquid covering the entire floor of her room.
The hand holding the cigarette stops in mid-air. In a flash I understand what’s happening, I understand this is not a prank, I understand I need to stop wasting time.
My daughter’s room is slowly flooding. I don’t think she’s even noticed yet.
Now that countdown takes on its full meaning. Those numbers become the most important numbers I have ever seen in my entire life.
The cigarette drops when it burns my fingers.
I try to think. I’m not sure about what — my thoughts are tumbling over one another, tangling.
I try to calm down by taking deep breaths.
- I have to accept the reality of what is happening. I must not think about anything else.
I pick up the instruction sheet again. These are the rules of the entire world and nothing else matters.
I read them again, word by word.
I notice with shame that my eyes lingered too long on the last line.
“If you do not kill yourself, you will be released when the six hours are up.”
I swallow.
That is not an option. I have to save Mara at any cost.
I watch her crying. She’s noticed the water in her room and is struggling against the chair, the veins in her neck straining.
I must fulfil a father’s duty.
The screen reads five hours and thirty-five minutes.
How long does it take a person to die from smoking? I had never asked myself that question. I don’t even know if it’s possible.
I look at the cigarettes on the table and remember how sick I felt the first times I tried smoking. I don’t know whether it’s possible to die from smoking, but if it is, it won’t be pleasant — of that I’m certain.
I can’t think about it too much. The faster I get this done, the sooner all of this will be over.
Of all the ways I had ever imagined dying, this was definitely not one of them.
Crying, I take the pack of cigarettes — there are still nineteen left. They certainly won’t be enough to kill me; I’ve smoked far more than that in a single day.
It doesn’t matter. I have to commit to dying. I have to do it for Mara.
I smile at the absurdity of that thought.
I glance up at my daughter to check the water level — it’s still very low, not yet at her ankles.
I take a cigarette and light it without thinking any further. Halfway through I stop and stare at it, realising this can’t possibly work. If I smoke them one at a time I won’t ingest enough nicotine to kill me. I think I’d pass out first. I stub the cigarette out on the tabletop and drop it on the floor.
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I take three cigarettes, put them all in my mouth and light them. I decide to try three first, to see if I can smoke without coughing too much. I take the first drag without coughing. The taste is very strong but not too unpleasant. I don’t smoke them all the way down, to avoid the harsher, hotter flavour of the last bit.
I drop the cigarettes and crush them under my shoe. I look around — the room is already thick with a faint haze. I feel reasonably all right and take three more cigarettes, put them in my mouth and light them.
I watch the timer as I smoke — five hours and fifteen minutes left. I try to drag faster but my lungs are growing heavy and my head spins slightly. I manage to finish the cigarettes without coughing and drop them on the floor. Six cigarettes smoked in just under fifteen minutes.
I run a hand across my forehead and realise I’m sweating. My head is still spinning lightly.
Without hesitating I take four more cigarettes and light them. I keep smoking them as fast as I can, staring at the tabletop, and as I go a certainty grows inside me: this won’t work. My head is spinning too much and my lungs are struggling to breathe. If I keep going like this, after another four or eight cigarettes at most I’ll definitely have blacked out.
I drop the cigarettes and try to think.
The small room is now full of smoke, which does nothing to help my battered lungs. The smoke does not, however, block my view of my daughter’s room. The water has reached her ankles and she’s still crying.
Seeing her like that sends tears down my own cheeks.
The dizziness is easing; I’m slowly recovering. I could desperately use some water — my throat is parched and my mouth is thick with tar.
?Can I have some water?? I try asking, without much hope.
No reply.
The timer reads 4:50.
Time is flying.
I feel a vast despair swelling inside me, washing over me like a wave and sweeping me completely away.
I scream and hammer my fists for I don’t know how long before I come back to myself. Shaking, I decide I have to do something. I take four more cigarettes and smoke them with long, deep drags, pulling all the way down to the filter before hurling them to the floor and erupting into a fit of coughing.
I bury my face in my hands, crying and coughing.
Why is all of this happening?
Have I done something wrong?
I try to think of who might have it in for me, but I can’t find anyone I’ve wronged badly enough to deserve a punishment this inhuman.
With trembling hands I take two more cigarettes. I’m starting to feel genuinely unwell. I light them, and at the first drag I begin to cough. My head aches and a strange nausea sets in. My instinct screams at me to drop the cigarettes, but I don’t listen and keep bringing them to my lips, pulling smoke through the filters.
I drop the cigarettes when they’re barely past halfway and look at my daughter. She seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness — I think the shock of the situation has numbed and exhausted her, and I’m glad for her sake, though she’ll wake up soon and the panic will return in full force.
I have to die quickly.
I reach for two more cigarettes, but they slip from my fingers before they reach my mouth. A terrible wave of vertigo forces my eyes shut.
When I open them I find myself slumped over the table. I lift my head and it takes a moment to remember where I am and why.
?Fuck!? I exclaim, looking at the timer: 4:30.
I spit on the floor and run a hand through my hair. I don’t feel well — my mind is clouded with smoke. Too much time left, and the mere thought of picking up a cigarette and lighting it brings the nausea surging back. “I don’t know what to do,” I think, staring at Mara. The water has now reached the chair and she’s staring into space, her face streaked with tears.
Part of me is astonished by the sheer quantity of tears she’s managed to produce over these hours.
I shake my head to focus. I force my will to move my arm and reach for a cigarette.
I hold it up and study it carefully. I’m startled to realise I’ve never truly looked at one before. I’ve picked up countless cigarettes over the years but never examined a single one closely. It looks so fragile and small between my fingers, and yet it’s so powerful.
I notice its power only now. I think back on all the times I took a different route to find a shop that sold them, all the times I’d check the pack before heading somewhere to make sure I had enough. The panic that gripped me when only two were left and there wasn’t a tobacconist nearby.
So small and powerful. And so pleasant, so calming.
I blink to clear my head of those thoughts and bring the cigarette to my mouth, flick the lighter, and with a trembling hand move it toward the tip.
I genuinely don’t want to smoke. Every drag is unpleasant and makes the nausea worse.
I manage to finish the cigarette and realise I’m about to lose consciousness again. I pinch my earlobe hard to stay awake.
I’m certain that if I smoke another one I’ll black out for God knows how long.
There has to be another way. Even if I could smoke twenty at once? I abandon the idea immediately — twenty cigarettes won’t fit in my mouth, and I don’t think they’d be enough to kill me anyway. I’d certainly pass out and vomit, but die — I don’t think so.
In a burst of rage I snatch the pack and fling it hard, catching one of the two cartons and knocking it off the table. I haven’t even managed to get through three packs.
I rest my head on the table, trying to calm down. I must clear my mind; I can’t fall apart. I take a couple of deep breaths. The silence of the room helps. As I grow calmer, certain images surface in my mind, forming a memory.
I smile, surprised by it — it had been a long time since it had come back to me, and now that it has I wonder why, because it’s one of my most beautiful memories with Mara, even if I can’t quite explain why.
It was a day a few years ago. I’d stayed home from work to look after Mara because she wasn’t feeling well and her mum had an important meeting.
It was a beautiful day. I can still perfectly picture the sunlight coming through the kitchen window and catching Mara’s blonde hair as she stood there kneading the chocolate-chip biscuit dough. I couldn’t take my eyes off the way the light played in her hair, off her smile.
She was covered in dough up to her elbows, with traces of chocolate all over her T-shirt. I can still hear the sound of her laughter that day. We were being silly, and every now and then she’d break off a bit of raw dough and toss it at me and I had to catch it in my mouth.
I feel the tears on my cheeks. Those biscuits turned out terrible and we laughed about it for ages. When her mum got home we made her eat two of them.
I smile, then snap my eyes open and lift my head from the table.
An idea hits me. That memory… Mara eating the raw biscuit dough.
I stare at the cigarettes. I don’t have to smoke them. I have to eat them. Like the raw dough. Swallow them.
I feel hope stir inside me. Yes — if I eat enough of them, the nicotine should do its work and kill me. I don’t know how many it will take, but that’s no problem — I’ll eat as many as I can.
I take the carton in front of me and tear open all the packs, pulling out every cigarette and laying them on the table.
I look at the carton I knocked off the table — I have no way of reaching it, it’s too far. These will have to do.
The timer reads 4:10.
?Ok, I can do this,? I say, to give myself courage.
I take a cigarette, tear off the filter, tap the tobacco out onto the table and drop what’s left on the floor.
I pause a moment, debating whether to start eating it now or wait until I’ve emptied all of them. I decide to wait, so I can ingest a larger amount in one go.
I begin emptying the cigarettes one by one, as fast as I can. Every now and then I glance up at Mara. She seems to have stopped crying, though her eyes are still red. She moves her legs slowly in the water. I don’t know where this thought comes from, but I hope the water is warm — she hates cold water.
From time to time a doubt surfaces — the doubt that she will be freed even if I carry out what I must do. No one can guarantee it, and if I succeed I’ll never know. I push that doubt to the back of my mind. I have no alternatives. I can only trust what the note says.
When I finally empty the last cigarette I check the timer.
3:40.
It took far longer than I thought. I look back at the tobacco in front of me. It’s a considerable pile — tobacco expands in volume once it’s out of the cigarette.
The nausea from the smoke earlier has almost entirely passed.
I take a pinch of tobacco and put it in my mouth to taste it.
I’m surprised — it’s not unpleasant at all; it might even pass for good.
Once I start eating it I must not stop until it’s all gone. I don’t know how long the nicotine will take to act, but I’ll have to be careful not to vomit, otherwise it will all have been for nothing.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
When I open them I take a large handful of tobacco and put it in my mouth. Yes — it’s not bad at all. I chew it a little, though I have no saliva left because my mouth is so dry, then swallow. I can feel a few strands of tobacco caught between my teeth, but I like the aftertaste.
I try to eat it all as quickly as possible. I swallow the last mouthful of tobacco and smile. I’ve done it. My daughter is safe. I think the quantity should be enough to kill me. I’m afraid it won’t be a pleasant death — but that doesn’t matter now.
What matters is that Mara is safe.
The timer shows three hours and fifteen minutes remaining. Has the water stopped? Has someone seen what I’ve done? Yes — someone is certainly watching. Bastard. Or bastards. The water probably won’t stop until I’m dead. How long will that take?
I drift into my thoughts, flicking the pink lighter on and off. I think back on my life — what I’ve done, what I’ll never get to do.
I’m surprised to find that I feel satisfied with my life. I always lived thinking I still had this or that to do, that I hadn’t yet reached my real goals, but now, looking back, I realise I achieved quite a lot.
I had many wonderful experiences and met extraordinary people. It’s been good. A strange relief washes over me, a strange calm. I notice something else too — I can’t quite make it out. I look down and see that my right hand is trembling slightly.
I feel something like a drop in blood pressure and a faint dizziness.
I think the nicotine is taking effect.
I look at the timer: 2:40.
A wave of heat passes through my stomach.
Then the world tilts. The vertigo crashes over me like a wave and I grip the table with both hands, my knuckles white. The nausea rises violently, acidic. A cramp twists my stomach and forces me to double over.
The pain is so severe I can’t think of anything else.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Slowly the cramp eases. I open my eyes. The table is wet with my sweat. My heart hammers in my chest.
It was terrible. My hands are shaking violently.
I have no time to recover. The second wave hits me harder than the first. The trembling starts in my hands and spreads through my entire body. Uncontrollable. Violent. Spittle runs from my mouth. My entire abdomen contracts in a brutal spasm that tears a groan from me.
Everything goes blurry.
I’m about to lose consciousness when my body begins to convulse. It isn’t me. It’s the poison taking over.
The chair slams against the floor.
My teeth clatter violently.
Then darkness.
My eyes open with difficulty. Every breath is a rattle. I lost consciousness. The convulsions. My head pulses as if someone is splitting my skull from the inside. I push myself up from the table. I vomit. It’s everywhere — on the table, on my shirt, in my hair. I bring a hand to my face and my fingers come away filthy.
My vision is blurred. I rub my eyes trying to focus. My tongue… I’ve bitten my tongue. The blood mingles with my saliva. The metallic taste floods my mouth.
I spit on the floor a couple of times. I can see small balls of tobacco in the vomit. Then a thought manages to cut through the fog.
I’m not dead. The thought passes through me like a blade. I raise my eyes to the window.
Time stops. My brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. It can’t be real. It can’t be real. It can’t be real.
The water fills her room completely.
The timer shows 0:00.
Mara is floating, motionless.
Her blonde hair drifts gently in the water like seaweed. Her eyes half-closed. Her lips slightly parted. She looks as though she’s sleeping. She looks as though she’s about to wake up.
But she will never wake up again.
Mara is dead.
Something inside me shatters. I want to scream, I want to rise and destroy everything, I want to kill, but I cannot move. I can barely breathe. I want to look away but I can’t. I feel my brain burning this image into my memory, every detail.
I want to tell it to stop, to close my eyes and erase everything, but I already know I will never forget this image, I will never forget what I am looking at.
I don’t know how much time passes before I manage to look away.
I wipe my tears with my arm and then notice there is something on the table, in a dry corner, away from the vomit. It looks like a note with something on top of it.
I stretch to reach it. On top of the note there is a key. I lurch forward, insert the key in the handcuffs, hear the click of release, and in an instant I’m free.
I get up, shove the table aside, and run toward the glass panel, but after two steps I fall to the floor and begin to shake. I’m not well and my thoughts and movements feel very slow. I bite my lip and the pain brings me back slightly. I think the nicotine poisoning is still running its course and I need medical attention.
I drag myself back and try to get to my feet with the help of the chair and reach for the note to read it.
I try to hold back but I can’t, and I begin to laugh — quietly at first, then more and more uncontrollably, tears streaming from my eyes. While I laugh until I nearly vomit again, I hear a sound from the door behind the chair, and it swings open, remaining ajar. I fold the note and read it one more time.
“You are alive. It is not your fault. Enjoy the rest of your life.”
I fold it and slip it into my trouser pocket, then try to stand. A violent cramp bends me double. I have to brace myself against the door to keep from falling. Behind it is a dark corridor that disappears into nothing. I spit blood on the floor. The metallic taste fills my mouth.
I take one step forward, then another.
My legs are trembling, but I keep walking.
I leave the room behind me without looking back.