Paper letters scotch-taped across the window of the van say only the lord will set you
FREE. Technically I wasn’t kidnapped. I chose to get in the van. Kidnapping is when you get
taken away by force. When they shut the door I tried to remember if the E’s had serifs on them
or if they were, as they say, sans serif—just in case I should get a chance to text my ex-
girlfriend an SOS so she can call the Laguna Niguel police. ACAB, she’d say. I’m making an
exception, she’d say.
The cops will ask questions of her, of themselves, and of my Mother. They will not be
savvy enough to revive my cleared history. They will assume it is cleansed of hours of PornHub
and XHamster, and that will be wrong. Well, there is that...but only as a tangent from my chats
with MOAB_Didion that if printed would stretch over my bones again and again to mummify my
corpse. Didion is for Joan. MOAB for Mother Of All Bombs. MD (the nickname I gave her) said
she’s 5’9 and loves Taking Back Sunday and is a 32C. At the group home in Moab, the city in
Utah where she says they are taking me, she has a skylight. “We can look at stars and talk
about plans.” MD and I fell in love on Formspring after messaging about my 11th grade coding
class. She responded “LMFAO ;)” when I told her about Mr. Halferty banning me from flying
FlightSimulator planes into buildings. People were still sensitive about 9/11 and voting NO on
Prop 8. At least in California.
She asked if I knew any electrical wiring. I asked if she would send me nudes. MD
explained the wires would be in a pipe meant for a Mormon compound in Salt Lake. “A religious
jihad but for white people,” she said. I doubted anyone would object except my high school
principal who was in one of those “But-I’m-A-Mormon” commercials. MD sent a flash photo of
herself in an H&M bra. “In Utah, you get to see my nipples.”
But now, pipes strapped to my chest and wires around my stomach, I think the plan was
different all along. She’s not even 5’9. There probably won’t even be a skylight in her room.
What even was her favorite Taking Back Sunday song?
My head stops spinning when the tires do too. A man hand, big and chaffed and not like I
imagined, shoves me out of the van. Pebbles cut up my skinny jeans. The asphalt smells and
the tires whine before I finally get my blindfold off. Being a Boy Scout never helped anyone.
There are numbers ticking down on my chest I didn’t see until now. I think to myself, only the
lord will set me free.
Paper letters scotch-taped across the window of the van say only the lord will set you FREE. Technically I wasn’t kidnapped. I chose to get in the van. Kidnapping is when you get taken away by force. When they shut the door I tried to remember if the E’s had serifs on them or if they were, as they say, sans serif—just in case I should get a chance to text my ex- girlfriend an SOS so she can call the Laguna Niguel police. ACAB, she’d say. I’m making an exception, she’d say. The cops will ask questions of her, of themselves, and of my Mother. They will not be savvy enough to revive my cleared history. They will assume it is cleansed of hours of PornHub and XHamster, and that will be wrong. Well, there is that...but only as a tangent from my chats with MOAB_Didion that if printed would stretch over my bones again and again to mummify my corpse. Didion is for Joan. MOAB for Mother Of All Bombs. MD (the nickname I gave her) said she’s 5’9 and loves Taking Back Sunday and is a 32C. At the group home in Moab, the city in Utah where she says they are taking me, she has a skylight. “We can look at stars and talk about plans.” MD and I fell in love on Formspring after messaging about my 11th grade coding class. She responded “LMFAO ;)” when I told her about Mr. Halferty banning me from flying FlightSimulator planes into buildings. People were still sensitive about 9/11 and voting NO on Prop 8. At least in California. She asked if I knew any electrical wiring. I asked if she would send me nudes. MD explained the wires would be in a pipe meant for a Mormon compound in Salt Lake. “A religious jihad but for white people,” she said. I doubted anyone would object except my high school principal who was in one of those “But-I’m-A-Mormon” commercials. MD sent a flash photo of herself in an H&M bra. “In Utah, you get to see my nipples.” But now, pipes strapped to my chest and wires around my stomach, I think the plan was different all along. She’s not even 5’9. There probably won’t even be a skylight in her room. What even was her favorite Taking Back Sunday song? My head stops spinning when the tires do too. A man hand, big and chaffed and not like I imagined, shoves me out of the van. Pebbles cut up my skinny jeans. The asphalt smells and the tires whine before I finally get my blindfold off. Being a Boy Scout never helped anyone. There are numbers ticking down on my chest I didn’t see until now. I think to myself, only the lord will set me free.
