And there our captor lay, an amorphous heap on a low cot in this damp room. He always slept with his gun, you know, his revolver, his finger resting on the trigger. I was bound hand and foot, quite defenseless, you know. During the day he would beat us and prod us and kick us and spit on our faces incessantly. Yes, us. Did I not tell you of the others? Oh yes, there were several captives, to be sure.
I knew them, not by names, but by their manacled shapes and their strained cries. Our captor scarcely knew if our mothers had remembered to name any of us, for he applied disgraceful epithets liberally, varying them from one day to the next. One captive, quite close to me, appeared in the poorly lit room in the shape of a shark. He lay almost prostrate I suppose, shackled very awkwardly indeed, but he did look decidedly like the silhouette of a shark.
Well now reader, I’ve something to tell you. You needn’t pity me reader, you see, something remarkable–at once remarkable and tragic–happened just now. Our captor is no more. I awoke from my sleep only five or so moments ago to the sound of our captor’s voice. He was dreaming you see. His dream must have been dreadfully terrifying, for he was shouting in his sleep. I sat scrutinizing his dark form, when suddenly his revolver sounded off.
Our captor’s body jolted violently, and then ceased to move. No more frightened cries. Since then, I have been sitting here in this dark, damp dungeon quietly contemplating my new-found liberty.