Patryk Abramczyk should have been shackled to the concrete wall in his basement. Instead, he sat in the dining room of a crippled cruise ship. His wife Becky sat across from him, dressed to the nines, despite not showering for a week. Her eyes shimmered on the razor thin breaking point of tears. Patryk admired her strength. Becky’s inflexible nature tried him, at times. Today, eating peanut butter on white bread in their formal attire, it provided stability on the otherwise stormy ocean. As she had said, “The jazz combo still comes out and plays every night. They play the part. We should, too.”
Patryk took a bite out of his sandwich. The bread tasted as dry as cured concrete. The earthy smell of peanut butter momentarily pushed aside the heady aroma of Becky’s favorite perfume. Patryk wasn’t sure if she wore a bit too much out of self-consciousness, or if the change had begun. So many of the symptoms–the heat, the skin tension, the grinding teeth–were indicators of stress. Becky was his rock. When he prepared for a particularly difficult part, she stood by him. When the change was particularly hard, Becky would sit in a chair across the room from where he convulsed in shackles, singing “The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar–”
“Excuse me, Mr. Abram?” (more…)