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Gagged and Bound
| Open Poetry #36 |
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Gagged and Bound |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa 
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GAGGED AND BOUND This is a suite of 3 poems all on the same subject. Although the first poem is long, the other two are very short. That Friday (29 October 2000) 5 December 2000 I didn’t go to work that Friday. I was tied up. And gagged and my fingers were turning blue and my ankles and wrists and mouth hurt because the bonds were too tight. They tightened them when I asked them to loosen them. And my throat was dry, so dry so very, very dry - sore too from their hands around my mouth and throat when they were smothering my screams. And my head hurt from when they inadvertently banged it against the wall. One of the three was actually quite nice. He said, “Cool” when I asked them not to break anything, when one, probably he, dropped what may have been a drawer. He didn’t drop anything after that, although minutes later he had the knife at my throat saying he was getting tired of me. They said they would untie me before they left and they didn’t. But they didn’t hurt me any more than they needed to. I have never trained as a burglar but presumably they are taught to frighten their victims in order to get on with their job properly. They did that very well - the frightening part, I mean. I duly was frightened, very frightened, terrified, quite frankly. The other part of their job they couldn’t do very well. As I kept telling them there weren’t any possessions of value to do it to. Previous burglars and my financial situation had seen to that. People ask me what I thought about. I remember wishing that they would hurry up and finish and go. I remember thinking that time was dragging. I remember thinking how dry my throat was. I remembered wondering what the time was and how long they had been there and when they were going. Couldn’t they see there was nothing to take? They took my son’s old watch - I kept it in my handbag because the strap was broken. He lent it to me because I didn’t have a watch. I remember trying to recall my car registration number and I did. I remember replaying several possible scenarios in my head. I remember wishing that they would go. I remember thinking how very, very dry my throat was. When they asked me where my son’s gun was, I told them the truth - that we both hate guns and don’t have any and that my son doesn’t live here any more, anyway. When they asked me which computer worked, I told them the truth, but said they would benefit more from being taught by me how to use it than from stealing it. They answered yet again, “SHUT UP” and stuck more tape around my mouth and head, and yet more tightly every time I spoke, until what I said was inaudible anyway. My October visitors eventually departed with R16.67 each and a third each of a torch, an old cheap watch, a ripped off printer plug, the padlock on my front door burglar guard gate - without the key and two handfuls of worthless old coins that my son had collected and treasured from childhood and was keeping for his children and hadn’t yet taken to his home. They didn’t announce their departure formally. How rude that was. When I thought they had gone I counted to 1000 (faster than I ever have) and struggled to my feet. You would be surprised how difficult that is in a confined corner at the end of a passage with furniture and what appears to be all your household possessions spilled around you. I knocked over a broken kettle they hadn’t taken and hoped they really had gone and didn’t hear the crash. I jumped down the passage. I remember puffing and struggling to get my feet off the ground with each jump and wondering if I would make it. I remember trying to think clearly. I jumped first to the back door then the front and locked them both with difficulty as only my fingertips stuck out of my bonds. Then it was puff puff puff - no time to rest - back down the passage where I set off the alarm and hid in the passage far from the window. When the alarm stopped I set it off again. Then I wondered how my rescuers would know I was there. So I opened the curtains that my visitors had closed. I opened them just enough to jump into view of my rescuers. When the first reached the window, his name was the same as my son’s - probably still is, why would he change it just because he has passed my window? - I jumped into view and then towards the front door which again with difficulty I opened. For the first time, I pulled down part of my gag and said, “ND 252-655, gold Datsun Pulsar”. He in turn, repeated my greeting, but not to me. He said it into his radio, and added my name, as though I didn’t know it. Then another rescuer said my car was in my garage. I probably didn’t look any different externally when he said that. I wonder if they thought I looked different internally. Cars and a motor bike, security officers, policemen and a policewoman and the public arrived and did their bit and more and eventually left. And so began that Friday. My October visitors gained little. I gained a million ridiculous fears that I am teaching to develop into caution, but the learning curve is slow, but fortunately I will never be a palm tree, a building nor a racist. My October Visitors 11 December 2000 I wonder who you are, my visitors. Are you callous, and did I read your shreds of human kindness incorrectly? What are your names? And what schools did you go to? What games did you play when you were children and what music do you listen to now? How long have you known each other and why do you work together and did you learn the trade or did you just pick it up for yourselves? Do you want a real job and can’t get one? Is burgling really as easy as we all imagine? Back to Normality 1 January 2001 Today I am going to pretend to be normal. I am going to behave as I would have before that Friday. I am going to hang up the washing and I am going to weed the garden without my finger on the button of my remote control panic device. However, it will be the back garden. And the device will be in my pocket. Well, I did tell you that I was only pretending, didn’t I? - Owl |
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| © Copyright 2005 Diana van den Berg - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Kethry Member Rara Avis
since 2000-07-29
Posts 9082Victoria Australia |
The first poem is incredibly vivid. The refrain of I think of how very dry my throat is helps to keep it in the moment. It must have been a terrible experience, wondering if you were going to die and yet finding it in your heart to give humanity. It well written and despite its lenght I found myself being hungry for more and read the second and third without pause. I like the way the next two poems are muted by time. I hope you continue to heal until your pretending becomes real. Here in the midst of my lonely abyss, a single joy I find...your presence in my mind. Unknown |
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whiskey
since 1999-12-28
Posts 1278Australia |
What a horrible expierence, im sorry you had to endure that. This piece is written so well, although it was long I couldnt stop reading it. |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Owl....I applaud your courage and your ability to write about it....a good way to heal I think. I see how you could be afraid of many things in the after math...even going outside. The writing was so well done!  |
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littlewing Member Rara Avis
since 2003-03-02
Posts 9655New York |
Diana? I applaud you and what amazing insight you have from this for you see? You can heal . . . This entire chunk I swear I could have written it myself: Today I am going to pretend to be normal. I am going to behave as I would have before that Friday. I am going to hang up the washing and I am going to weed the garden without my finger on the button of my remote control panic device. proud of you and so terribly sorry you had to go through this but happy to see you speak OF it. |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
Thank you so very much, Kethry, whiskey, Martie and littlewing. Yes, it took me a while to heal, perhaps 6 months or even a year to heal completely. However, I was very lucky not to have been harmed physically at all, except for minor bruises. I could have been stabbed, shot (if they had had guns, which “they” often do, but none of my 3 attackers on this occasion – nor on the other 2 occasions this year - did), raped or murdered. I was lucky indeed. Thanks for thinking I am courageous. The funny thing about courage is that you have to feel fear, otherwise it isn’t courage, but foolhardiness. So, I suppose I could say before my first attack, I was foolhardy, but now I am cautious, and I hope, brave. However, what I find far more difficult to contend with is emotional attacks and alienation (not from this or the other two attacks) but from so-called friends, and family, especially my late parents – often just little things, but often not. Quite frankly, I don’t think the difference in “little” or “big” makes any difference in the bigger picture. They are all hurtful. I try to fix things and be courageous about what I can't, but I am not sure whether I succeed in either. What a wonderful haven this poetry forum is with all you wonderful, kind, sensitive people in it! And it doesn’t follow that all poetry forums are like this one. This one is very special. - Owl |
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