Free Set Free by Anthony Bidulka

the rough-hewn plinth. Here the stone was worn smooth, and felt surprisingly cool against the skin. At its center was a slight but noticeable indentation, as if some great weight had lain there for centuries, wearing down the rock face, by happenstance molding it perfectly to fit my body. I didn’t know when I awoke the next morning, comfortably nestled into the depression, that I would sleep there every night thereafter, even when it rained. I didn’t know that I’d found the center of my existence, the one place in hell that I would love.
    There were many things to recommend my spot atop the pedestal. First, it was the rectangle’s highest point. Every king, ruler, lord of every land seeks high ground—preferable for defense and safety from all manner of foe, be it mankind or animal, natural or unnatural. Second, because of its height and nearness to the sky, it gave me the sensation of almost being outside the box. The grate, securely fastened to the top of the structure, ensured the impossibility of freedom, but even being a few feet closer to it was exhilarating. Finally, and most importantly, it was in this magical, mystical spot that, every night, I visited with my daughter.
    Lowering my body into the soft embrace of the welcoming stone, I would close my eyes and Mikki would be there, cuddling up next to me as she often had as a small child. Jenn believed, for everyone’s good, that children should stay out of their parents’ bed. I understood and agreed. I also believed that some rules are meant to be broken when only one of the parents is around.
    On those nights, our routine was unvarying. Mikki would ask what I had written about that day. It was her way of requesting story time. Clever girl. And as it just so happens, telling stories is my specialty. We had our staple favorites that I’d recite if I was tired or not feeling particularly creative, but often I’d just start talking, making things up as I went along. Some of these tall tales were markedly better than others. But her favorite kind, and mine, was when I’d hit on a particularly outrageous, outlandish saga, and just keep chugging along like a stubborn locomotive, any hope of a coherent storyline or rational ending fading further with every passing word. We’d hold out as long as we could, pretending to follow the plot, until one of us could stand it no longer and broke, both of us descending into fits of uncontrollable laughter at the ridiculousness of what had come out of my mouth. None of this helped with adhering to bedtime schedules, but these moments with my daughter are among my most cherished.
    And so, night after night, as the sun fell below the roofline of my rectangle and heat began to seep from the day, I would strain fading muscles to hoist my deteriorated body into my spot. I would close my eyes and await my daughter’s arrival. When she appeared, settling in next to me, I would retell those old stories as I remembered them. Her petite, delicate body would relax in my arms, where she felt safe and protected. I was comforted by the gentle up and down of her shoulders and chest as she breathed easily, without a care in the world. I delighted in the sniggers that burbled up in her whenever I said something especially silly, usually for that express purpose. I smelled the fresh fragrance of berry-scented shampoo in her flaxen hair. I ran my hand over exuberant curls, held back from her face by her favorite pink barrettes.
    Those fucking barrettes.

Chapter 17
 
 
 
    I couldn’t decide if these things were what I wanted, needed, or simply missed. But as the days of my captivity multiplied, their overwhelming desirability grew and took root inside my brain, refusing to budge. Clean clothing. A close shave. Red licorice. Wine. The smell of Jenn’s perfume. Just about anything on a computer screen. The sound of voices. The sound of someone laughing at something I said or wrote. Traffic. Reading. Someone touching me. Hot water.