The Hostage (AI)

 

"So Jake you are a 19 year old tough guy. You had quite an ordeal. Want to tell us about it?"

"Yeah they took me hostage. They beat me up and tied me up but I escaped after two days. Why do I wear long sleeves...to cover the rope burn scars

: "It started with them beating me. Not just hitting – systematic beating. They'd take turns, one holding me while the other worked me over. Fists, this metal pipe thing, whatever was handy. Broke two of my ribs the first hour. I think they wanted to make sure I knew who was in charge, you know?

"The worst was when they'd put me in this elaborate hogtie. They'd start by binding my wrists behind my back, then weave the rope up my arms to my shoulders, crisscrossing it tight enough to restrict all movement. Then they'd bend my legs back and tie my ankles, connecting everything together with more rope. If I tried to straighten my legs, it would pull my arms up higher behind my back. If I tried to relax my arms, it would dig the rope deeper into my shoulders. It was this sick balance of pain – no matter how I positioned myself, something was getting crushed or stretched beyond what a body should endure. Sometimes they'd leave me like that for hours. My limbs would go completely numb, but somehow they still hurt at the same time.""Want to see the rope burns on my arms? They're hard to look at, I know. But this is what 48 hours of fighting against ropes does to your skin.

[Rolling up sleeves]

"They're all over both arms. See these deep ones around my wrists? That's where they kept the restraints the tightest. And these tracks running up my forearms to my elbows? That's from when they'd weave the rope in this pattern – like a fishnet almost – all the way up to my shoulders.

"The worst ones are these here, near my biceps. That's where the ropes would dig in deepest during the hogtie. When they'd connect my ankles to my wrists and shoulders, all the tension would pull right here. See how the scars are almost purple in some spots? That's where the rope actually cut through multiple layers of skin.

"And check this out – all these patchy areas? That's where the rope ripped all the hair clean off. Even now, months later, nothing grows there anymore. The skin texture is different too – feel how smooth and tight it is compared to the normal skin.

"Some will fade, but a lot of these deeper ones are permanent. Especially these ones that follow the rope pattern. The doctor said the way the rope dug in and cut off circulation for so long caused permanent tissue damage. I've got nerve damage too – sometimes my fingers still go numb or I get this weird tingling sensation running through my arms.

"But honestly, I don't mind the scars that much. Every time I look at them, I remember what I survived. I remember that I was stronger than what they tried to do to me. These scars are proof that they couldn't break me, even with all their ropes and knots and hours of torture.""The worst part wasn't even the pain – it was the fear. Every time they'd come back into the room, I thought, 'This is it. They're gonna kill me now.' One of them kept saying they couldn't leave witnesses. I'd lie there in that hogtie, listening to them argue about what to do with me. Heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

"The room was like an oven during the day. I'd sweat so much that my clothes would be soaked through, which made the ropes shrink and cut in deeper. At night, the sweat would cool and I'd start shivering, couldn't stop my teeth from chattering. The rope burns would sting worse when the sweat got into them.

"They barely gave me any water and no food at all. By the second day, my stomach had stopped growling and just felt like this hollow pit. My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt like sandpaper. The hunger made everything else worse – made me weaker, made it harder to think straight.

"When they got tired of hearing me beg or threaten them, they'd stuff this oily rag in my mouth and wrap tape around my head to keep it in. I couldn't spit it out, couldn't make a sound. The taste was like gasoline and dirt. Made me gag constantly, which is terrifying when you can't breathe right. I'd panic, thinking I was going to choke to death with nobody even watching. Even now, certain smells bring it all back – motor oil, that specific tape adhesive – and I have to fight not to throw up."

"That first night was endless. Every minute felt like an hour. They left me hogtied on this cold concrete floor with just this thin light coming through a crack in the boarded-up window. I could tell when night fell because the room got so dark I couldn't even see my own body. That's when the sounds got louder – every creak, every distant voice, every car passing by. I kept thinking each sound might be someone coming to help, but nobody came.

"I tried counting to keep track of time, but kept losing my place somewhere in the thousands. My shoulders were on fire from being wrenched back for so long. The ropes had cut off circulation to my hands – they were completely numb, but my wrists felt like they were being sliced open with every tiny movement. I'd drift in and out of consciousness, never really sleeping, just exhaustion taking over until pain would jolt me awake again.

"The second day was worse because the hunger and thirst really kicked in. My lips were cracked and bleeding. My thoughts started getting foggy. The guys came in less frequently, and when they did, they seemed more agitated. More reckless. One of them kept saying they needed to 'finish this' and 'clean up.' I knew they were talking about killing me.

"By afternoon on day two, I was in and out of consciousness more often. The pain had become this constant roar in my head. But something strange happens when you're that desperate – your mind gets incredibly clear about one thing: survival. I realized if I was going to live, it had to be soon, before I got any weaker. That's when I started working systematically on the ropes, using the blood from my wrists to try to create some slipperiness, looking for any weakness in how they'd tied me."

""By late afternoon on day two, they were getting sloppy. Maybe they thought I was too weak to try anything. The big guy – the one who always checked the ropes – told the younger one they needed food. 'He ain't going nowhere,' he said, looking down at me. 'Look at him. Can barely keep his eyes open.'

"They argued about leaving me alone. The younger one wanted to drug me, but they'd run out of whatever they were using. Finally, the big guy just said, 'It's taking too damn long. I'm starving, and he's not getting out of that hogtie. We'll be back in thirty minutes.'

"The second I heard their car pull away, I knew this was it – my only chance. I'd been working on the connection between my ankles and wrists for hours. The blood from my rope burns had made the knots a little slippery, but nowhere near enough. I started thrashing as hard as I could, ignoring the pain tearing through my shoulders.

"I don't know how long I fought against those ropes – felt like hours but was probably just minutes. Finally, I heard this snap. Not the rope breaking, but something in the connection point. Enough that I could extend my legs a few inches. That gave me leverage to roll onto my side, then slam my body weight against the connection point again and again.

"When my legs finally broke free from the hogtie, I nearly passed out from relief. My arms were still bound tight behind my back – wrists to elbows to shoulders, all wrapped in that elaborate pattern. And they'd left the gag in my mouth, secured with duct tape around my head. But my legs were free. That was enough.

"It took me three tries just to stand up. My legs kept buckling – they'd been bent for so long they'd forgotten how to work. I staggered to the door, expecting it to be locked, but they'd gotten cocky. It opened.

"I ran. My upper body was still completely bound, couldn't use my arms at all, couldn't call for help. Just ran as fast as my weak legs could carry me. I had no idea where I was – just that I was surrounded by dense forest with occasional clearings. The sun was setting, casting these long shadows between the trees. Not a person in sight. Just dirt paths, fallen logs, and thick woods stretching in every direction.

"I kept thinking they'd come back any second. Every distant sound made me duck into shadows. I tried screaming through the gag, but all that came out were these muffled grunts. I just kept running, following what looked like an old dirt road, figuring it had to lead somewhere with people.

"After maybe half a mile, the trees opened up and I stumbled into what looked like an old campground. Wooden cabins arranged in rows, a large central building with a sagging roof, a flagpole with no flag. An abandoned Boy Scout camp, from the looks of it. Signs with troop numbers hung crooked on cabin doors. Everything was weathered, broken windows, nature reclaiming the paths.

"I staggered toward what must have been the main lodge, hoping there might be a phone or radio inside. My legs were giving out – they'd been bent in that hogtie for so long they couldn't handle running. Plus, without my arms for balance, I kept veering off course, slamming into trees and cabin walls.

"The lodge door was half-open, swinging slightly in the breeze. Inside was a disaster – overturned furniture, animal droppings, years of dust and cobwebs. What might have once been an office stood open at the back. I stumbled toward it, praying for anything I could use to get free or call for help.

"That's when I heard the engine. They were coming back down the road – must have figured out which way I ran. I froze, heart pounding in my chest. There was nowhere to run, not in my condition. I ducked behind the office desk just as headlights swept across the lodge windows."

1"I crouched behind the desk, trying to control my breathing through my nose since the gag made it impossible to breathe through my mouth. The headlights swept across the windows again, then went dark. Car doors slammed. Two voices – arguing.

"'He couldn't have gone far,' one said. 'Look at this place – perfect to hide a body.'

"'If you hadn't left him alone...' the other started.

"'Shut up and check those cabins. I'll take the main building.'

"Footsteps on the wooden porch, then the creak of the door opening wider. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, moving methodically across the room. I pressed myself against the wall under the desk, making myself as small as possible. The beam swept over the top of the desk, illuminating years of dust except for the fresh smudges where I'd touched it.

"'Someone's been here,' he said, voice closer now. 'Recently.'

"I could see his boots from under the desk – just ten feet away. The flashlight beam lowered, starting to probe under furniture. In seconds, he'd find me. With my arms bound and mouth gagged, I couldn't fight or call for help. So I did the only thing I could – I kicked the desk as hard as possible.

"It crashed forward, slamming into him. He went down, flashlight clattering across the floor. I staggered to my feet and ran, shoulder-first, through a side door I'd noticed earlier. It led to what must have been a kitchen area. Behind me, I heard him cursing, calling for his partner.

"I burst through the back door into the night. The second guy was halfway across the compound, his flashlight beam swinging toward me. I veered left, diving between two cabins. With my arms still bound tightly behind me, I couldn't use them to steady myself. I slammed into the wall of the second cabin, pain shooting through my shoulder, but kept moving.

"'He's behind the cabins!' one shouted. 'Cut him off at the lake!'

"Lake? I had no idea where I was going, just running on instinct. I zigzagged between three more cabins before emerging into a clearing. Ahead was a dark expanse that had to be the lake they'd mentioned. To my right, a trail disappeared into the woods. To my left, a larger building – maybe a mess hall. Flashlight beams bobbed behind me, closing in fast.

"I chose the mess hall, crashing through its doors. Inside was a long room with overturned tables and benches scattered everywhere. The place was an obstacle course, and with no arms to balance or help me navigate, I kept stumbling. Behind me, the door slammed open.

"'Nowhere to run now,' the bigger guy said, breathing hard. 'You're just making it worse for yourself.'

"I backed away, desperately looking for another exit. There had to be a kitchen door, like in the main lodge. I edged backward, keeping my eyes on the flashlight.

"'The other door's locked,' he said, as if reading my mind. 'Been abandoned for years. We checked this whole place out before bringing you here.'

"I backed into a wall. No other doors. No windows big enough to dive through. He was right – nowhere to run. The second guy appeared in the doorway behind him.

"'Got him?' he asked.

"'Yeah. Get the rope from the car. Extra this time. He's not getting loose again.'

"The moment the second guy turned to leave, I made my move. I charged forward, head down, straight at the big guy. He wasn't expecting it – thought I was trapped and defeated. My head connected with his stomach and he doubled over. I kept pushing, driving him backward until we both fell, him on his back, me on top of him.

"I rolled off and scrambled to my feet, dashing for the door before he could recover. The second guy was halfway to their car. He turned at the sound, raising his flashlight. I veered away from him, running blindly into the woods alongside the camp's main path. Branches whipped at my face – I couldn't raise my arms to protect myself. I tripped on a root and went down hard, unable to break my fall with my bound arms."

"I lay there face-down in the dirt, the wind knocked out of me. Behind me, I could hear shouting, flashlight beams scanning the trees. I forced myself to my knees, then to my feet, stumbling forward deeper into the woods. The moon had risen, casting just enough light to make out shapes, but not enough to see the ground clearly. I kept tripping over roots and rocks.

"After maybe fifty yards of blind running, I slammed into something solid – metal. The impact knocked me back onto the ground. As I struggled to get up again, I realized what I'd hit: an old pickup truck. It was half-hidden under a tarp and branches, like someone had tried to conceal it. Moss grew up the sides, and one of the tires was flat. It had been here a long time.

"I heard voices getting closer and ducked behind the truck. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure they'd hear it. I pressed myself against the rear tire, trying to make myself as small as possible. Their flashlight beams swept through the trees, coming closer.

"That's when I felt it – something sharp against my bound wrists. I shifted slightly, feeling behind me with my fingers. There was a jagged piece of metal sticking out from the truck's undercarriage – maybe part of the exhaust system that had broken off. I immediately started rubbing the ropes against it, working blindly.

"'He can't have gone far,' one of them shouted, much closer now. 'Not tied up like that.'

"I kept sawing the ropes against the metal, ignoring the pain as it cut into my skin along with the ropes. The metal was rusty, creating a rough edge like a dull saw. Each movement sent shooting pain through my already raw wrists, but I didn't stop. I could feel the rope fibers starting to fray.

"Their flashlights swept within twenty feet of the truck. I froze, pressed against the tire, hardly daring to breathe through my nose. One of them was so close I could hear his heavy breathing.

"'Check the trail toward the lake again,' the distant one called. 'He might've doubled back.'

"'I'm telling you, he's in these woods somewhere,' the closer one responded, but his footsteps moved away, back toward the camp.

"The moment they were far enough away, I went back to work on the ropes. The metal piece had a sharp enough edge that it was actually cutting through the fibers. After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, I felt the tension in my shoulders release slightly. The main rope connecting my upper arms had been weakened enough to break.

"With that connection severed, I had more mobility to work on the bindings around my wrists. I contorted my body, positioning myself so I could use the metal piece more effectively. The strain on my shoulders was excruciating after being bound for so long, but the possibility of freedom gave me strength I didn't know I had.

"Eventually, I managed to create enough slack to slip one hand free. The moment I did, I tore at the gag, ripping the tape from my face and spitting out the oily rag that had been stuffed in my mouth. The fresh air rushing into my lungs made me dizzy.

"That's when I noticed something else about the truck – despite its abandoned appearance, the cab wasn't completely empty. Through the dirty window, I could see shapes inside. I tried the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened with a rusty creak. The interior smelled of mold and dead leaves, but on the passenger seat was a forgotten backpack.

"With shaking hands, I unzipped it, finding a moldy first aid kit, some rotten granola bars, and – my heart nearly stopped – a flare gun with two flares. The kind boaters and hikers carry for emergencies. It had been abandoned here, maybe by the camp staff or hikers, for who knows how long. But those flares – they were my chance."1"I examined the flare gun in the dim moonlight. It was old but seemed intact. The two flares were in a plastic case, protected from the elements. My hands were shaking – partly from adrenaline, partly from the pain of circulation returning to my fingers after being bound for so long. I loaded one of the flares, praying it would still work after years of abandonment.

"The voices were getting closer again. They'd switched tactics, methodically sweeping the woods in a pattern. I knew I had one shot at this. If the flare failed or if no one saw it, I was done for. And even if it worked, I had to survive long enough for help to arrive.

"I crawled to the other side of the truck, trying to put more distance between myself and their voices. The ground sloped upward ahead of me. Perfect. If I could get to higher ground, the flare would be visible from farther away. I staggered uphill, one hand clutching the flare gun, the other pushing off trees to keep my balance.

"After about fifty yards, I reached a small clearing at the top of the rise. Below, I could see the entire camp layout – the cabins, the mess hall, the lake beyond. And two flashlight beams sweeping the woods, coming in my direction. It was now or never.

"I pointed the flare gun straight up and pulled the trigger. For a terrible second, nothing happened. Then WHOOSH – the flare shot skyward with a high-pitched whistle, blazing bright red against the black sky. It illuminated everything around me in this eerie crimson glow, like the whole forest was on fire.

"'THERE HE IS!' One of them shouted. Both flashlight beams swung toward me.

"I didn't wait to see more. I turned and ran down the other side of the rise, away from them, away from the camp. The flare was still burning overhead, casting enough light for me to see where I was going. I pushed myself harder than I thought possible, my legs somehow finding strength I didn't know I had left.

"Behind me, I heard them crashing through the underbrush. They were faster than me, uninjured, not weakened by two days of captivity. But I had something they didn't – absolute desperation.

"The flare started to fade as I reached what looked like an old service road cutting through the forest. Left or right? I chose right, simply because it seemed to head downhill. Gravity would help me move faster.

"I'd gone maybe a quarter mile when I heard the most beautiful sound imaginable – a siren in the distance. The flare had worked. Someone had seen it and called for help. But the siren was still far away, and my captors were close behind.

"The service road curved around a bend, and suddenly there was light ahead – not moonlight, but the warm yellow glow of electric lights. As I staggered closer, I saw it was a small ranger station or maintenance building. There was a truck parked outside, and through the windows, I could see movement inside. People!

"I tried to call out, but my voice was a rasp after two days with minimal water and hours with that gag. I stumbled toward the building, waving my arms frantically.

"The door opened. A man in a park service uniform stepped out, followed by another. They seemed confused, taking in my battered appearance, the blood and rope burns on my wrists.

"'Help,' I managed to croak out. 'They're coming.'

"That's when headlights appeared on the service road behind me. My captors had reached their car and were driving toward us. The park rangers must have seen the panic in my eyes.

"'Inside. Now,' one said, pulling me toward the building while the other reached for his radio.

"Minutes later, the place was surrounded by sheriff's vehicles, lights flashing through the trees. Deputies with guns drawn. An ambulance with paramedics who wrapped me in blankets, gave me water, treated my wounds. I watched through the ambulance doors as my captors were handcuffed and placed in separate patrol cars.

"I found out later that this part of the forest was scheduled for a controlled burn in the morning. The rangers were doing a final check of the area when they saw my flare. If I'd been found just a day later, the evidence would have been destroyed in the fire. The abandoned camp, the truck with my blood on it, everything – gone. Even my captors admitted later they'd chosen the location because it was slated to burn.

"Sometimes I still dream about that flare lighting up the night sky. How something abandoned and forgotten for years was exactly what I needed at the perfect moment. From hogtied with no hope to setting off a signal that saved my life – all in the space of a few hours. I shouldn't have survived. But here I am, rope burns and all."

"People sometimes ask if I'm embarrassed by these scars. If I try to hide them."

[Rolls up sleeves, revealing the rope burn patterns wrapping around his arms]

"I look at them every day."

[Looks down at the scars, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his face]

"They're not reminders of what happened to me. They're reminders of what I survived."

[He stands and walks toward the door, leaving the interview with his sleeves still rolled up, the rope burns visible for all to see]