The Hostage 
Frank Matozzo

Francis J. Matozzo has published fiction, non-fiction
and poetry since 1980. His work has appeared in
many small press and genre magazines and book
anthologies. His stories in Borderlands and
Pulphouse were recommended for Stoker awards
by the Horror Writers of America in 1990.
His work has appeared in Happy, Century, Cemetery
Dance, Penthouse, The Smith, Weirdbook, Cavalier,
Cabaret, Just Write, Writer’s Nook, Borderlands 2, and
Best of Pulphouse among others.
©Copyright 2001
Frank Matozzo

You believe I was always this way. I can see it in your eyes. My
life so narrow and meaningless that I resort to this barbaric
behavior, my only means of expression. I know what you think of
me . . . don’t deny it. Aberration, screaming front-page statistic. I
would feel the same in your position
My real name’s James, no harm in telling you that. I lived in
Pennsylvania all my life until a year ago when my world came
apart. I’ve been on the road ever since, stopping in towns like this,
hoping to find my salvation.
Your little slice of suburbia is nothing special. Travel long enough,
all these towns start looking the same. Starbucks, Burger Kings,
Texaco stations. The people lax and vulnerable. And people in your
situation, unique as you may think it is, are mostly the same too.
When your worst nightmare comes down on your neck and that
haze of everyday complacency is blown away everything becomes
crystal clear. The body rules. Your hearing becomes hypersensitive,
your vision focused, the skin tingles with sensation, flesh and nerves
dictating the immediate future.
I’m looking at your arm and wondering about those marks. Far be
it for me to pass judgment. But let me ask you this: have you ever
felt a high as intense as what you’re know feeling?
No, I thought not.
Before I went on the road, I was a family man. It’s true! Husband,
father, homeowner. Acre of lawn I trimmed and manicured every
spring and summer, waving cheerfully to the neighbors as I bagged
leaves. A nice guy, by all reports. And I was a good father. You see
me now and find that hard to believe, but I loved my sons! I ached
for them, worried over every scrapped knee and blister, every
potential danger. Twin boys, angels, with the softest blonde hair and
eyes the color of untouched lakes.
Sorry. Had to get a drink, something caught in my throat. All this
talk. But I’m going to sit right next to you and finish my story. Not
boring you I hope. No? Afraid?
Yes, I know - you don’t like this at all . Probably haven’t listened
to a word I’ve said.
There’s this intriguing dusting of freckles across your nose. And
that beauty mark, it’s beguiling. Now, now, stop shaking. I’m not
here for that. Just listen to my story.
I’ll spare you my wife’s real name from whatever sense of
decency remains in me and simply refer to her as the “Blessed
Virgin”. She was a lank, thin sheaf of repression and frosted hair
that thought sex was the calling card of Satan. All of her energies
were wrapped up in the Church. Organ for Sunday Mass, cooking
for the priests during the week, landscaping the Rectory in the
afternoons. She ran fundraisers and prayer sessions and organized
protests against every evil she imagined: euthanasia, abortion, the
distribution of condoms to teenagers. A good Catholic girl who
hoped that her hard work on earth would reserve a space in
Heaven for herself and maybe her family. Buried behind that
sanctimonious demeanor was a cold destroyer of simple human
love.
Was it any surprise that I sought the comfort of other women?
You probably think that what I’m telling you is just another variation
of the ageless male whine of not getting enough. In part, I guess it
is. I’m honest enough to admit that sex formed a large part of my
life back then. Yet most women I met left me feeling almost as
empty as my saintly wife. What was missing, of course, was love.
Are you laughing at me? Bitch! You think I’m some sort of clown!
Now you’re crying . . . well, what did you expect. I’ll stop. I just
wish you’d give me a chance to explain and leave your cynicism
behind. Stop thinking about yourself, or is that too much to ask?
If you’d been paying attention you would have guessed that I did
find love with another woman. You would have recognized the
inevitable confluence of circumstance and desire and made the
logical assumption.
Adriana was a student of mine. Yes, Professor was another one of
my discarded masks. I taught literature at State College. Adriana
with her crystal blue eyes and long black hair was my most brilliant
pupil. She had an ebullience about her, a passion that burned so
powerfully it was impossible to hide. For whatever reason, and
despite the fact that I was almost twenty years her senior, something
connected between us from the very first day of class. Perhaps the
attraction was because of the age difference. Her father had walked 
out on her family when she was eight years old, a trauma she had
never gotten over, and though she denied it, I know in my heart
that I was something of a father figure.
She adored me. She lavished praise and attention on me and I
lapped it up like a starving dog. She said she wanted to pick my
brain, to have me teach her everything, inside the classroom and
outside. She would meet me in the parking lot after classes and we
would drive to obscure motels. She had a small supple body and an
indefatigably amorous spirit, unencumbered by the slightest hint of
shame. Any guilt she felt, or moral qualms, was assimilated into
pure lust.
As so often happens with passion so great, her attachment to me
swiftly turned to obsession. She grew to believe that some day the
two of us would be together. That we would run away, start life
anew. Understand, I never gave her the slightest encouragement in
that direction. In fact, I told her quite explicitly that to think in that
manner was dangerous. I would never leave my children.
My words of caution fell on deaf ears. I occupied her every
thought, to the detriment of everything in her life. Her grades began
to plummet. She would spend all her class time writing endless
rambling notes to me, describing her every thought, ignoring
whatever lectures were being given. She started making phone calls
to my house, cryptic hang-ups if my wife chanced to answer, or
terse whispers of endearment if I picked up. Soon, the sound of the
jangling phone became a thing of terror for me.
The inevitable day came when I told her that it was over, that our
affair had to end.
She broke down. On her knees, with her hands tugging at my
pants, sobbing, she begged me to be with her. I took no pleasure in
breaking up with her. In telling her that I did not want to ever see
her again. A firm break, I felt, would be best for her . . . but what?
You find this boring?
That beauty mark - most inviting. I like it. I can’t stop looking at
it. I like it so much that I’m sitting here wondering what it would
taste like. You wouldn’t mind? No?
Just a quick little slice.
Ah! What a perfect button. Gristly but flavorful.
I have your attention now? Good.
I’m going to just let the blood trickle and finish my story.
I didn’t see or speak to Adriana for almost a month after my
announcement. Then, one day, a phone call at my office. “Meet me
at the park on Sunday.” Her voice calm, not the least bit upset. She
said she wanted to say a proper farewell, that it was ridiculous for
us to feel like enemies. She suggested a time, mid-morning, and I
agreed to meet her, thinking how wonderful it was that she was
acting so mature. 
We never used to meet on Sundays for the simple fact that I
always had the twins during the day because of my wife’s
enslavement to the Church organ. Adriana knew this, so she was
not surprised to see me arrive at the park where we used to
rendezvous with the twins in tow. It was the second or third week
of March and winter clung in the icy air. It was the kind of day I
would never consider taking the children out in. On the other hand,
I felt it would be good for her to see me with them, that it would
fortify her acceptance of our breakup if she saw my obligations in
the flesh.
When I pulled into the driveway she was standing next to her car,
leaning on the fender, arms folded, soft cheeks burnished by the
wind. One look at her watery brown eyes and I knew that the calm
reasonable voice on the phone was an act. But despite her obvious
discomfort, she tried to maintain a degree of casualness. She looked
into the backseat of the car where the twins were squirming in their
car seats.
“So these are the two I’ve heard so much about. Why don’t you
let them stretch their legs?”
I told her I felt it was too cold, but she insisted, and feeling,
magnaminous I let them out and directed them to the wooden
swings. As they toddled off in glee, Adriana leaned her body against
mine. Irritated by her manipulation, I pulled away and demanded to
know why she wanted to meet.
“I have the answer to our problem,” she said, suddenly looking
very subdued and in control.
“You won’t let this go,” I said to her in disgust.
“We don’t have to let this go,” she said, and she kissed me on the
cheek. I looked at her with a sudden feeling of dread.
“You can’t leave your situation because of your children. That’s
what you’ve always said, a hundred times over. Well, I have the
solution.”
I couldn’t at first fathom what she had in her hand. Huge and
ludicrous and black in those slender fingers. I couldn’t digest the
significance. I wanted to burst out laughing with amazement, but I
found myself somehow reduced to a state of immobility.
She didn’t hesitate. The twins were trying to scramble up the
steps of a sliding board. She walked up, point blank, and
methodically fired two shots. The dual explosions shattered the cold
air and I could only watch as both my little boys were propelled
forward in a hideous red mist, the sound of gunfire reverberating to
this day.
Sorry. No matter how many times I tell the story . . .
I wanted to kill myself afterwards. I wanted to rip my heart out
with my bare hands and feed it to rabid dogs. Everything changed.
Adriana was arrested, my wife had a mental breakdown, the twins 
were dead. And I was left in the wake of this self-induced horror, a
zombie among men. My voice, my face in the mirror, the sound of
my own breathing and heartbeat, everything about myself drove me
into paroxysms of rage.
In the end, I ran away. Dropped everything, no explanations, left
it all behind -home, job, name - ran without caring how I lived,
where I ended up.
That’s why I’m here this afternoon. Why I’ve done what I’ve done
these past weeks.
Do you believe me? Do you believe my story?
It’s true. I’ll prove it, I’ll untie you, lay my knife on the bed and
turn my back. I’m going to pray that you’ll be the one. The one
with the right combination of anger and compassion.
Well? Damn you! Enough with the tears.
Do it now, before it’s too late . . .
. . . before I change my mind.