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Refer to the FAY Index page for a chronological list of posts and their shortlinks: http://wp.me/P2DnTA-ko

Today I sit crouched in the corner, my nerves causing me to tremble and shiver, I whimper as though I am crying, but there are no tears.  Each moment that sanity escapes me is the only time at all when I am able  to feel free.

A tape recorder is pushed through my feed hole.  There is a note on it that says, “PLAY ME”.  So I press play and it has Fay’s voice.  This is what she says:

“Hello Daddy.  I love you.  Where are you Daddy?  I miss you.  Please come back.  Don’t stay away.  I’m sad without you.  I love you Daddy.”

This has been recorded over and over again.  I hear it and break down and cry.  I cry harder than I’ve ever cried before.  I actually haven’t cried since before my mother died.  After the accident, my most profound emotions froze, and for the rest of my days I have been unable to express them.  I am honest and sensitive, but I never cry.  So now I cry twenty-three years worth of tears, loud tears.  My sweet Fay.  I grab hold of the tape recorder and embrace it, squeezing it as if it is Fay.

“Oh Fay.”  I cry.  “My baby.”

Then a rage surges through my veins, rage built upon fury causing me to tremble, making me incapable of holding my body steady from the tumult of this anger.

“NOOooooo!”  I shout.  “Goddamn you!  GODDAMN YOU!  Ffaaaaay!  No! nooo! no.”

I hold the tape recorder and focus on her innocent plea, “Please come back.  Don’t stay away.  I’m sad without you.  I love you Daddy.”

“I love you too Fay.”

I play it consistently throughout the night, never letting go of it as I tuck myself in the corner of my cell.  Eventually, the batteries begin to go.  Her voice becomes deeper, slower.  Soon it is bizarre and sounds almost evil.  So evil, it doesn’t even sound like her anymore and it scares me, so I stop it.

I curl up tucked in the corner with my hands over my head.  I’ve never felt so powerless.  So little like a man.  It must be three days now and I don’t move from that position.  And I don’t drink the water.  My throat nearly closes in on itself and sticks together.  I feel myself dying, or at the very least, disconnecting both physically and mentally.

On the fourth morning, I lift my head, stand slowly, and stretch myself carefully.  My body is rather tight and cramped.  I cannot stop trembling.  I am weary.  I haven’t slept at all these past few nights.  How could I sleep when I know they have my daughter.

to be continued…