The inside of my neighbor Walt's basement is a scary place to be if you don't know the trade. It's my favorite training day of the week. It's escape day. I spend a lot of time following fake leads on a fake hunt so Walt can fake trap me in his basement. Or, I guess he really traps me, since I'm sailor-knotted to a chair, which is also bolted to the floor in the middle of Walt's basement. He took my knife and put it just out of reach. I literally have to wiggle my way out of this one today, since I broke rule number one: always have back-up.

It's well into my second hour when his granddaughter, Angela, stumbles into the basement. I don't know if she's a part of it or not so I keep an eye on her while I get the last few knots loosened. It's not until I break out of my confines and reach for my knife that I realize two things. One, she isn't a part of the game, and two, I'm holding a knife in attack position in her basement. It doesn't help that I look like a deranged psycho killer, since Walt's 'leads' were in the freshly mud filled woods behind the pond.

I throw the knife at the wall behind her head and pull her body into mine, covering her mouth before she begins screaming. She kicks, a lot. With more force than I thought was humanly possible. It seemed like a good idea to tell her what was going on before she pressed the panic button under the third step, but I couldn't get her under control. Just when I thought I had her subsidized, she would bite me or jerk her body this way and that. I finally reached for the toolbox. I pulled out a syringe and popped the white cover with my teeth. Sedatives. Why didn't I think of that first. I hold the syringe between my teeth and I pull her backward. She lands on top of me. I wrap my legs on hers to stop her from kicking and loop my arms under hers, resting my hands on her head. She settles down and begins to scream sob until I take the syringe from my mouth.

The door to the basement opens and Walt appears. I have the needle against Angela's jugular, but I haven't applied pressure yet. Walt takes the syringe from my hand and I release Angela. She jumps up and runs into Walt's open arms. I sit up watching and waiting. Walt calms Angela down and pulls out two more chairs. Angela is confused and exasperated and she can't comprehend what is happening. I return to my escapee chair and wait for Walt to explain. He doesn't.
"Uh, Walt....why are we just sitting here?" I ask. The silence was getting too uncomfortable for my taste. I was returned with more silence from Walt which was more unsettling. Suddenly Angela shocks us all by uncontrollable laughter. I look at Walt, who's looking at Angela, who is now crying from laughing so hard.

Finally we are let in on the joke. "I'm sorry." Angela giggles, then she clears her throat and gets more serious. "Brighton, man oh man have you changed. I really can't believe that's you in there. I used to beat you up for your beach toys when we were little."

"Key words being used to." I said, angrily. "Don't pretend like you weren't just afraid for you life Angie. I grew up. You can't beat me up anymore. Welcome to Grants Pass, the big leagues season." I was getting bitter about the situation which is honestly not good for anyone. I got up and walked past her chair. She stood and grabbed my arm from behind.

I don't know if what happened next was cockiness, or pure instinct but I whipped around, grabbed her arm, and pinned her to the wall. In slow motion it would have looked like a dance. I held her there for what felt like centuries, trying hard to communicate my power over her. I start hating myself for every bit of monster thats coming out of me at this moment. How could I pin her against the wall watching fear take over her eyes? How could I be so power hungry? How could I treat her as some kind of victim?

"Is it just me or is it hot in here?" She asks.

"I think it's just you." I grunt.

"A punk like you would say that." She says too matter-of-fact for me to just get over. I can feel myself slipping back into beast mode. I lean into her hard, and stare deeply into her eyes. I pull my knife from the wall behind her effortlessly. I place it directly on her neck and I can feel her pulse rising every second it rests there. She starts to lean into me. Maybe to kiss me, or maybe to whisper into my ear. I won’t ever know.

"If you ever call me a punk again, my knife will be put to great use slitting your throat. Then I'll watch every ounce of your life escape you as you bleed out on the floor, sweetheart." I say. There is nothing left to do, I think, then to fold up my knife and leave, so that is precisely what I do. I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away, grinning. I even chuckle when I hear Walt say, "I don't know what to tell you, Hun. Don't call Brighton a punk."

The walk home is refreshing. A month ago I would’ve just killed her. I think I’m turning over a new leaf.