First Day on the Job
Josh sat in the truck, shirtless from hours of sweat in the hot sun, his camo cap pulled low as he took a long drag from his cigarette and chased it with warm Coors Light. The older men seemed to like him well enough. They called him "the kid."
"Left my old man's place," he'd told them that morning, trying to sound casual. "Rich fucker wanted to keep me pampered. I want to work like a real man."
The beer tasted strange, metallic. Josh barely noticed the cigarette slip from his fingers before the world tilted sideways and everything went black.
He woke to rough voices and the taste of cotton in his mouth. The gag cut into the corners of his lips. Josh tried to move and felt the bite of rope across his chest, around his arms pinned behind his back. Coarse manila fibers pressed into his bare skin, the knots positioned just so—tight enough that each breath was work, each movement a choice between air and agony.
The ropes wrapped his torso in a cruel embrace, cutting across his shoulders and circling his biceps. The manila had been wound tight around his forearms too, trapping the dark hair that covered his arms. When he shifted, trying to find relief, the bindings only dug deeper, yanking at the trapped hair, tearing some free with sharp, stinging pulls that made him gasp against the gag.
His wrists, lashed behind him, had already gone numb. Every small movement sent the coarse fibers grinding against his skin, the rope burns spreading like fire across his arms and chest.
"Kid's awake," one of them said.
Through the dim light of the barn, Josh watched the three ranch hands pass a bottle between them. They looked different now—not the weathered workers who'd shared lunch with him, but predators sizing up their catch.
"His daddy's gonna pay good money for this pretty boy," another laughed.
The word "daddy" hit Josh like a physical blow. The last thing he'd said to his father echoed in his skull: Go fuck yourself.
Hour Four
Panic hit like a wave. Josh thrashed against the ropes, his body moving on pure instinct. He threw his weight side to side, trying to loosen the knots, his breath coming in sharp gasps through his nose. The manila bit deeper with each movement, the coarse fibers catching and ripping at the hair on his arms and chest. He could feel individual hairs being torn free, the tiny wounds burning like bee stings across his skin.
Get out, get out, get out.
His arms twisted involuntarily, muscle spasms from the awkward position, and each movement sent fresh agony through his shoulders while the rope scraped away more hair, more skin. The raw patches began to weep, mixing sweat and blood with the coarse manila.
He remembered Tommy's hands on the rope last summer, the careful way his friend always checked the knots before tying him to the oak tree behind the barn. "Just say the word," Tommy would whisper, "and I'll let you loose." There was always an escape, always trust.
This was different. This was forever.
Hour Six
The manila had already begun to chafe. Josh's shoulders burned from being wrenched back, his circulation cut off until his fingers tingled, then went dead. Thirst crept up his throat like sandpaper. The ropes around his arms had worked into the hair follicles, creating a constant low-grade torment. Every breath, every tiny shift sent the fibers grinding against the raw, hairless patches where his skin had been scraped away.
When he tried to call out through the gag, the movement of his chest made the rope across his torso shift, pulling at the trapped hair there too. Tears leaked from his eyes—not from fear now, but from the relentless, grinding pain.
They'd taken their photos—Josh bound and helpless, eyes wide with fear above the dirty rag in his mouth—and now came the waiting.
Hour Eight
Another wave of panic. Josh twisted frantically, his muscles screaming as he fought the restraints. The rope around his chest loosened slightly—just enough to give him hope. He worked at it, rolling his shoulders, trying to slip the bonds, but the movement only made the arm bindings tighter. The manila ground against the raw flesh, each struggle tearing away more hair in clumps, leaving behind angry red welts that burned like fire.
His body betrayed him with involuntary tremors, muscle spasms that jerked his arms against the restraints. Each spasm sent fresh waves of agony as the rope yanked at whatever hair remained, scraping against wounds that had begun to crust over.
"What the hell?"
One of them had returned, bottle in hand. He saw the loosened rope, saw Josh's desperate attempt at freedom, saw the blood on the manila where it had ground against his arms.
"Trying to run away, are we?"
The punch to his ribs drove the air from Josh's lungs. The man retied the ropes tighter, adding another loop around his throat—not enough to strangle, but enough to remind him of his helplessness. The new binding caught more hair, twisted it into the knots.
"Try that again, and we'll make this real unpleasant."
Hour Twelve
Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a hollow ache that seemed to echo in the empty barn. Josh had wet himself twice, the warm shame spreading across his thighs before cooling into humiliation. The ropes had worked deeper into his flesh, grinding away patches of skin on his arms until raw meat showed through. His forearms looked like they'd been scraped with sandpaper, the dark hair torn away in uneven patches.
Even when he tried to stay still, his body refused to cooperate. Involuntary shivers from cold and shock made his arms jerk against the bindings, each movement scraping the rope against the exposed flesh. The pain was constant now, a grinding burn that never let up.
In fitful moments of half-sleep, he dreamed of his father's study—the heavy oak desk, the disappointed silence that followed Josh's latest arrest, the way his father's shoulders sagged when the lawyer called.
You made your choice, his father had said then. Live with it.
Hour Sixteen
Memory flooded back: Danny's basement, the soft cotton rope, the way his friend would always untie him afterward and they'd sit sharing a joint, Josh's skin still marked with the gentle impressions of the bindings. Cotton didn't tear at hair. Cotton didn't scrape flesh raw.
"You like this, don't you?" Danny had said, not judging, just understanding.
Josh had nodded, unable to speak the truth out loud.
But this—this was the nightmare version. The manila was an enemy, designed to hurt, to punish. Every fiber seemed to catch at his arm hair, to find new ways to torment him. His forearms were a patchwork of raw flesh and torn hair, the rope stained dark with his blood.
Hour Twenty
Desperation drove him to try again. Josh had noticed the post he was tied to had a slight give—old wood, maybe rotted at the base. He threw his weight against it, over and over, ignoring the way the ropes sawed into his chest, ignoring how each impact sent the arm bindings grinding against his raw flesh like coarse sandpaper.
His body shook with involuntary spasms from the pain, each tremor making the manila work deeper into the wounds on his arms. He could feel warm blood trickling down to his wrists.
The wood creaked. Hope flared in his chest.
Then footsteps.
"Goddamn it, kid."
This time they used a chain, wrapping it around the ropes at his chest, padlocking it behind the post. The extra weight made every breath a struggle, and pressed the arm bindings even tighter against his torn flesh.
"You're making this harder on yourself," one of them said, but Josh could hear the amusement in his voice. They were enjoying this. "Look at that mess you made."
Josh looked down and saw the dark stains where his blood had soaked into the manila, the way the rope had become matted with torn hair and pieces of skin.
Hour Twenty-Four
The hallucinations began slowly. Josh saw his father standing in the barn doorway, just watching, arms crossed. Sometimes the old man would shake his head and walk away. Other times he'd step closer, his face shifting between concern and disgust.
"Should've stayed home, boy," dream-father said. "Should've been grateful for what you had."
Josh tried to respond, to explain, but the gag turned his words into animal sounds. The movement made his chest rope shift, catching more chest hair, tearing it free. His father faded like smoke.
The ranch hands returned to check on him, laughing at the smell, at the way he'd soiled himself. One of them kicked dirt over the wet straw.
"Your daddy's thinking it over," they said. "Hope you're worth whatever he decides."
Hour Thirty-Six
Delirium set in like a fever. Josh's body had begun to shut down—his kidneys aching, his muscles cramping from dehydration. The rope burns had opened into raw wounds that wept clear fluid. His arms were barely recognizable, the dark hair torn away in patches, the skin underneath scraped to bleeding meat.
Involuntary muscle spasms wracked his body now, beyond his control. Each spasm jerked his arms against the restraints, the manila finding new flesh to scrape, new hair to tear. The pain had become his entire world.
He dreamed of being eight years old, tied to a post in this same barn after breaking his father's favorite rifle. The memory felt different now—not punishment, but preparation. His father had untied him at dawn, Josh sobbing his apologies, meaning every word.
"Sometimes we have to learn the hard way," his father had said, helping him to his feet.
But that was before the drugs, before the arrests, before Josh had learned to hate everything his father represented.
Hour Forty
One last desperate attempt. Josh had been working at the chain for hours, using the metal links to saw at the rope beneath. His wrists were raw and bleeding, but he felt something give. The constant grinding had worn through some of the manila fibers.
Freedom was inches away when they caught him.
"You just don't learn, do you?"
The beating was methodical, brutal. They used fists and boots, avoiding his face—couldn't damage the merchandise—but working over his ribs, his kidneys, his already-tortured shoulders. Each blow sent his body jerking against the restraints, the movement scraping fresh agony from his rope-torn arms.
When they finished, Josh could barely breathe. The ropes felt like they were cutting him in half, and his arms were raw hamburger where the manila had ground away skin and hair.
Hour Forty-Eight
Josh had given up struggling. The ropes had won, working so deep into his flesh he could no longer tell where the manila ended and his skin began. His arms were barely recognizable—hairless patches of raw meat separated by islands of torn, matted hair still trapped in the bindings. His shoulders had dislocated, hanging at wrong angles that sent lightning through his chest with every heartbeat.
Even his involuntary shivers had mostly stopped. His body was shutting down, too weak to fight anymore.
He'll tell them to go fuck themselves, Josh thought as consciousness drifted in and out. Leave me here to die like I deserve.
In his fevered mind, he began to rehearse his own death. He imagined them tightening the ropes until his ribs cracked, imagined suffocating slowly as the bindings crushed his chest. Sometimes he pictured them using the rope around his neck, his vision going black as his father's voice echoed: You made your choice, boy.
The fantasies became more elaborate, more detailed. He saw himself convulsing against the restraints, his body betraying him one final time as life left him bound and helpless. In his darkest moments, he wondered if this was justice—if the ropes that once brought him secret pleasure were meant to be his executioner.
But buried beneath the terror and self-punishment, an older memory surfaced: his father's hands showing him the boundaries of their land when Josh was small, the patient voice explaining which trails were safe, which led to danger. The love in those moments, before Josh had learned to push it away.
I'm sorry, Josh whispered into the gag, though no one could hear. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
When they found him in the tool shed—unconscious, rope-burned, dumped like refuse—his father was the first through the door. Deep purple bruises circled Josh's torso where the ropes had cut into flesh. His wrists were swollen, his shoulders still twisted at an unnatural angle. His arms were the worst—patches of raw flesh where the manila had scraped away skin and hair, the wounds weeping blood and clear fluid.
Josh's brothers hung back as the old man knelt beside the still form of his son, taking in the rope burns, the chain marks, the evidence of prolonged suffering.
Josh's eyes fluttered open to see his father's face above him, older than he remembered, creased with worry and something that looked like relief.
"I'm sorry," Josh whispered, his voice raw.
His father's hand found his cheek, gentle despite the calluses. "I'm sorry too, son."
Three months later, Josh stood in the same barn where he'd been held, but now he wore the foreman's badge his father had given him. The rope burns had faded to thin white scars across his chest—reminders he carried beneath his work shirts. His arms still showed faint marks where hair had never grown back properly. The ropes were gone, but the understanding between father and son—forged in darkness—remained.
