Captured

Well, here I am, getting evicted for smoking marijuana inside my apartment. I had to call my parents to make arrangements so I could move back onto their property.

After graduating high school, I moved to the city. The apartment I picked out was a two-bedroom, one-bathroom unit on the ground floor. I chose it for a few reasons: both bedrooms and the bathroom connected directly to the kitchen, and the kitchen itself had a side entrance leading to an alleyway just wide enough to park my Mazda RX-7. I rarely used the front door because I hated my neighborhood. I didn't do cookouts, and I wasn't interested in sitting around talking political crap, so I avoided everyone entirely by slipping out the side.

"How many boxes are left, Nate? I'm sweating like a pig," Jon said, carrying a box labeled Occult.

So now you know my name—or my nickname, anyway. My full name is Nathaniel Cartridge. I'm twenty-four years old and stand at a whopping five-foot-two. I know I'm short, but thanks to my high metabolism, I weigh no more than 147 pounds soaking wet. My hair hangs down to the small of my back because I've never liked having short hair, and I always dye it galaxy blue because I've never cared for my natural color, either.

I met Jon at a dive bar in the city, and we clicked immediately. He's a lot taller than me and constantly looks down at me, which works out fine since he's also six years older. People mistook us for a couple every time we went out together, mostly because of how androgynous I looked.

"Let me do a quick walkthrough and see what's left," I answered.

I started my walkthrough in the living room, where all the windows looked out onto the street. I couldn't take the furniture with me, so the two couches were staying behind: a black loveseat and a standard tan sofa. The eggshell-colored bookshelf lining the wall nearest the TV stood completely bare. The TV itself sat on a grayish stand that only reached my thighs. I was taking the TV, of course—it was mine, after all. I'd arranged the couches to face the television, with a brown wooden coffee table centered between them.

From there, I moved into the short hallway separating the living room from the kitchen. Since it was barely a hallway at all, I'd always called it an archway. Standing beneath it, I turned back to face what was about to become my old living room and took it all in. With the faded brown carpeting, the room looked utterly barren. No stray boxes remained, and none were tucked behind the furniture.

I headed toward the first bedroom on my left, passing a beautiful china cabinet along the way. I opened the door and stepped into the space I'd converted into an office. I didn't actually need an office, but that's what I called it because it was where I made all my spicy content. I'd labeled the boxes Office so Jon wouldn't find out what I did for extra cash.

I considered myself an adult entertainer. I put on a show and did things on camera for other people's viewing pleasure. While Jon carried boxes from the living room, I hauled everything from this room myself.

The room was compact, but I'd made it work. The extra bed helped with content creation and livestreams, and the back closet held all my cosplay outfits. You'd be surprised what I could pull off. Aside from the mattress leaning against the green carpet, the room was cleared out.

I pulled the door shut behind me and moved on to my bedroom. It was larger than the office, though still smaller than the living room. Walking across the green carpet, I checked the dresser, a black six-drawer chest. Opening each drawer one by one confirmed that I hadn't missed a single thing.

Beside the bed stood a nightstand that used to hold my lamp and alarm clock. The bed frame itself was pushed tight against the far corner wall. I checked the closet and spotted three remaining boxes tucked inside. Other than that, the room was cleared.

"I still have three boxes in here!" I called out to Jon.

Gathering them up, I carried the boxes into the kitchen, pulled the bedroom door shut, and set them alongside the growing pile. That left only one space to inspect: the bathroom.

Right inside the doorway sat the combination shower and tub. To the right stood a double-sink vanity—a lifesaver whenever someone stayed over. Looking under the counter, I stumbled across a fresh stack of towels I'd forgotten to pack. There were eight in all.

The sinks looked stripped and hollow without my makeup and oral hygiene supplies. Jon had asked me once why I had so much makeup, but I could never bring myself to tell him it was for my spicy page.

With the towels in hand, I popped open the medicine cabinet above the toilet. Completely empty, right on cue.

During my time in the city, I'd started seriously contemplating hormone replacement therapy. I felt far more comfortable presenting and going out as a woman, but I'd gone out of my way to hide that from Jon.

I stepped out of the bathroom, pulled the door shut, and walked over to the stack of flattened cardboard. Grabbing a smaller box, I folded the flaps into shape, tucked the towels inside, taped the top, and grabbed a Sharpie to scrawl Bathroom across the front.

My toiletries were already sealed in another small box. Between living alone and paying fifteen hundred dollars a month in rent, I'd never accumulated much clutter.

I did one final, meticulous sweep through the kitchen, checking the fridge, pantry, and every single cabinet.

Nada.

With only ten boxes left to load, I was officially moved out.

Jon stepped back inside after loading the truck, wiping his forehead.

"You think there's enough room for your toolbox?"

"Pretty sure. Why do you think I had you rent the biggest truck on the lot?" I shot back.

We kept up a steady banter over the next half hour as we cleared out the final remnants of my city life. Once the last box was secured in the back, I walked around to the rear of the building, headed up the exterior steps, and dropped the apartment keys through the landlord's mail slot.

With everything loaded, Jon hopped into the cab of the moving truck while I slid into the driver's seat of my RX-7. Together, we headed across town toward the city's automotive district.

On the west side of town sat my workplace: Otaku Motors.

I'd worked at the garage for five years. My boss, Chuck, stood five feet even and was round around the middle. He'd taken a gamble on me the day I walked in looking for work, and I'd made damn sure he never regretted it.

I busted my ass day in and day out to prove I deserved the spot, and within a couple of years, I was part of the Otaku family. People love to say a workplace feels like family, but when Chuck invited me to their private New Year's gathering during my second year there, I knew it wasn't just talk.

So, when I had to call Chuck to give my two weeks' notice, he immediately asked what was wrong. I had to confess that I'd been evicted. He understood, of course, and even offered me a place to stay until I got back on my feet. I turned him down because I was feeling homesick anyway, and he made me promise that if I ever moved back to the city, my job would be waiting for me.

My two weeks' notice had already passed, and today was my final day at the shop.

After the twenty-two-minute drive across town, I pulled into the lot of the nineteen-hundred-square-foot shop. The front sign was decked out in anime characters—Chuck was a massive manga collector. The front office took up nearly half the floor plan, complete with a waiting area stocked with gaming consoles for younger customers.

I rounded the building toward the back, where seven massive bay doors opened onto the lot. Pulling into my regular space, I killed the engine, hopped out, and headed inside.

The familiar sting of brake cleaner and gasoline hit my nose before I even crossed the threshold. Brake cleaner has that sharp, unmistakable chemical bite. Breathe in enough of it, and your head starts spinning.

From across the shop, an impact wrench rattled rhythmically—the good old "ugga-dugga" soundtrack of a busy garage. Everyone was deep in work as I made my way toward the stairs leading up to the employee lounge perched above the reception desk.

"Let's pause right there for a moment, Rayah," Emily interrupted.

Emily was thirty-nine years old and stood around five-foot-five. Whenever she wore her long black hair down, it cascaded all the way to her toned rear. She was well-endowed up top, rivaled only by my own double-Ds. She had a fair Caucasian complexion with subtle Latina features and striking, multicolored eyes. When I'd first asked about them, she'd explained that they were the result of a rare genetic condition. She was curvy in all the right places while still maintaining a neat gap between her thighs.

"If the whole point is for me to explain what happened before I was abducted ten years ago, why are you stopping me?" I asked, looking up at her.

"I stopped you for three reasons. First, please get up onto the couch. You're kneeling on the floor again. Second, how did you actually feel walking away from your apartment? And third, put down the energy drink. It's making your hands tremble." Emily practically hissed that last part.

Her office had the polished aesthetic of the high-end suites you see wealthy therapists using on TV. Her desk sat in front of a wide bay window, holding her laptop and flanked by tall shelves packed with psychology texts. Behind the desk stood the standard black leather therapist's chair. Across from it sat a plush tan couch.

The only truly unsettling details in the entire room were the pair of heavy eye bolts anchored into the ceiling beams and—I shit you not—coils of rope hanging neatly against the wall opposite the bookshelves.

The office occupied part of a colonial two-story house nestled on five acres out in the countryside. Emily charged top dollar for her work with specialized trauma cases like mine. My boyfriend, Jean, had recommended her since she was an old family friend. He'd mentioned that she'd specifically requested to take my case after overhearing him describe my recurring night terrors.

Jean was tall and muscular. He worked as a field specialist for an archaeological firm that was called in during major excavations, which kept him traveling for most of the summer.

I climbed onto the couch, carefully smoothing down my pink kimono so the fabric wouldn't bunch beneath me. One of my former captors had been a wealthy older Japanese man who adhered strictly to traditional customs. As far as owners went, he'd been relatively decent, and he'd personally gifted me this kimono.

"When I left the apartment, I felt depressed," I admitted quietly.

"And what's wrong with me kneeling? During my first year of conditioning, I was forced to kneel until my knees went numb. It became second nature."

I couldn't hide the edge of irritation in my voice, even knowing full well how much work we had ahead of us. Rolling my eyes, I caught sight of Emily's outfit. Her blouse and shorts were matching shades of pink, mirroring my kimono. Her shirt lacked the cute little otters printed across mine, but the coordination was comical nonetheless.

I looked like a bimbo at an impromptu Barbie convention.

I tipped back the last swig of canned caffeine and set the empty tin down on the side table.

"There. Happy? No more energy drink," I said, giving the empty can an exaggerated shake.

Emily's lips thinned in annoyance. Pissed off, she looked like an angry little baby chick.

Subconsciously, my fingers found the stuffed otter resting against my bag. I took him everywhere with me. His name was Jerry.

"Can I keep going?" I asked, softening my tone.

"Go right ahead," Emily said, offering a tight smile that set my teeth on edge.

Now, where was I?

Right—reaching the top of the stairs.

Chuck and his wife, Faye, were standing beside a folding table, talking quietly.

"Hey, guys! I'm here to grab my final check and load up my box," I called out.

The shop floor suddenly went dead silent. It felt jarring, especially after hearing the impact wrenches hammering away just moments earlier.

"Hey, kid, your check's right here—and we've got something else for you, too," Chuck said, waving me forward.

I took my time crossing the room toward the table. The second I reached it, a chorus of voices roared, "Surprise!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin, stumbling backward and hitting the floor. While Chuck had kept my attention, the rest of the techs had slipped quietly up the back stairs. I hadn't had the slightest inkling they were putting together a farewell party.

A spread of pizza and soda covered the table behind Chuck, along with a platter of grilled fish. My stomach couldn't handle greasy food. I stuck strictly to poultry and seafood, and I was violently lactose intolerant. Absolutely no dairy for me. Even a hint of lactose caused gas so catastrophic that, back in high school, I literally cleared an entire classroom.

Pushing myself up from the floor, I walked over to Chuck and Faye. Both were beaming, their eyes welling with tears. Seeing them get misty made my own throat tighten. I guess I'd left a bigger mark on the shop than I'd realized.

"Here's your check, kiddo," Chuck said, pressing an envelope into my hand.

I took it, immediately noticing that it felt significantly thicker than usual. I raised an eyebrow at them both.

"A little something extra to say thank you for everything you've done for us over the years," Faye said warmly.

"Thank you. Both of you."

I pulled them each into a tight hug.

Turning around, I saw Tyler and JR waiting to say their goodbyes while Scott and the rest of the crew headed back down to the bays. Tyler was tall, lanky, and all limbs. Both he and JR grinned at me. The send-off had clearly been a joint effort.

I'd planned to leave the garage in time to reach my parents' place around seven and be unpacked by eight, especially since Jon had to make the return trip that night. But the farewell party was already stretching longer than I'd anticipated.

I sank into one of the lounge armchairs and loaded up a plate with the fish Chuck and Faye had brought. We spent the next hour reminiscing about my five years at the shop, laughing over the legendary screw-ups I'd never live down.

Eventually, Tyler and JR swapped out with Scott and Cassie so they could say their farewells. Cassie was the only woman turning wrenches in the shop, and we'd gotten along great.

It took nearly three hours of swapping stories and packing up before I was truly ready to hit the road. My rolling toolbox was already secured in the truck; all that was left was to slide behind the wheel of my RX-7 and turn the key.

I took one last look around, saying my goodbyes to everyone. When it was Faye's turn, she leaned in and whispered in my ear.

"When are you going to post more fan content? Cassie and I wanna know."

My heart sank into my stomach.

They both knew what I did for extra money. I answered the only way I could.

"It might be a week before I get settled in, but keep an eye out for updates."

I laughed nervously and left.

As I walked down the steps for the last time, a flood of memories hit me. They were moments I'd never forget from my years working there.

There was Tyler getting his shirt caught on a fender during my first week, JR setting a car on fire, and even the anime marathon sleepovers in the employee lounge.

Those were the days.

Chuck hadn't needed to ask if I liked watching anime. He'd found out I could speak semi-fluent Japanese when we got a new transmission jack from Japan. The instructions were in Japanese, and no one knew how to put the thing together.

I took the initiative and gave it a shot. Within minutes, the jack was assembled.

Chuck was awestruck by how quickly I'd accomplished the task. He even asked how I'd figured it out.

"I read the instructions," was all I told him.

Afterward, we had a conversation about a new position.

I became the person responsible for picking out and ordering the parts and tools we needed from Japan. It was mainly for the JDM vehicles that couldn't use American-made parts.

I reminisced about all the fun times I'd had in the shop. It was surprising how, when leaving a place for the last time, you could be hit with years' worth of memorable moments in just a few minutes.

Once I reached the bottom of the steps, the memories kept coming.

I crossed the vehicle bay that used to be my workstation. I remembered getting transmission oil all over myself while replacing an oil pan. The stain had been a decent size, and it had taken hours to clean up that mess. Everyone laughed at me for that rookie mistake.

Then I saw the bloodstain from when I'd been cracked on the head by a brake caliper.

How, you may ask?

Easy. It happened before I had a caliper hook.

When I removed the piston part of the assembly, I placed it on the lower control arm. I hadn't noticed it starting to fall when I bent down to pick up the rotor. When I stood up, the caliper finally fell and nailed me on the left side of my forehead.

I still carried the scar to this day.

Chuck freaked out when he saw the blood running down my face. I smiled, bandaged myself, and got back to work.

Cheers to having a hard head.

Everyone thought I'd cracked my skull open with how much blood there was. It was total chaos. I'd never seen someone freak out so badly. I even explained that it looked worse than it was.

I'm glad Chuck let me finish my day, but after I clocked out, he personally escorted me to the nearby hospital for X-rays, just to be safe. I managed to keep the printout as proof that he'd overreacted.

Plus, no stitches were needed.

I finally reached the threshold of the shop. One more step, and I'd be in the parking lot.

I started to take that step but froze when I heard someone running toward me.

Sue, the daughter of Chuck and Faye, tackled me.

She was my age and my biggest supporter. When I'd come in for my interview, she'd recognized me from my adult page. After the initial shock and embarrassment, we'd become very close friends. I got most of my content ideas from her.

Sue was pale as milk and a few inches taller than her dad. She'd even dyed her hair like mine. We'd coordinate our outfits and hair colors for the holidays.

This time, her hair was silver, matching her stunningly silver eyes. I was still boggled by how silver they were.

"I'm gonna miss you so much, Natey Waighty," Sue said, tears in her eyes.

I had no choice but to give her a reassuring hug.

"I'll miss you too."

It took a few minutes for her to release me. I had to fight to struggle free.

I swear everyone in the shop thought she and I were dating or were going to date.

I finally managed to pull away, took the steps, and closed the distance between me and my car.

"Take care, Sue!" I called back.

"You too, Nate. See you again someday," she replied.

Once she'd learned I spoke Japanese, she'd begged me to teach her. So I had, and she'd gotten so good that we could have full conversations in the language together. Her pronunciation had been amazing right out of the gate, making the lessons easier.

It wasn't until later that she told me she had the gift of tongues.

After our emotional parting and a promise to text her every day, I finally made it to the car. Jon had told me he'd managed to load up the toolbox as I drew closer.

I opened the car door and paused.

Then I turned around and yelled to everyone that I hoped to see them again someday.

I hopped into my car, buckled up, and started the engine.

My throat tightened, and my eyes started to water.

I would not cry, I repeated like a mantra.

I would not cr—

I cried.

I was going to miss working here.

I let myself have a good cry. Once I collected myself, I put the car in gear and drove off.

My phone chimed with Sue's ringtone. She'd texted me a crying emoji as I pulled away.

I would remember the promise I'd made to visit for every event the crew held.

I knew I'd see them again one day soon.