By Bikermike
I must say that I can look back to what happened to me some six years ago with a degree of fondness and if I am honest, more than a soupçon of a sense of security. Strangely enough, I can remember verbatim the early conversations we had in the first few days of my captivity. Whether it was because of the shock of something terrible and new I have no idea. The following six years I remained as this guy’s captive seemed like a blur of memory; akin, I suppose to what some might refer to as “institutionalisation.”
I was eighteen and was hitch-hiking home from the city centre one night in the pouring rain. I cannot remember the type of vehicle that stopped; perhaps a Range Rover. The driver – I suppose in his forties and of stocky but muscular build reached over to let me into the passenger’s door. ‘Where are you off to, mate?’ he enquired. I explained that I lived a further ten miles up this particular road and would thankfully appreciate a lift, given the horrible weather. I climbed in and put on the seat-belt.
I can remember the guy rummaging in his glove compartment and pulled out a small box of what I supposed were peppermints: something like “Tic-Tacs.” ‘Here! Have a mint, mate, it’ll warm you up!’ he said as he shook two into my hand. I thought the taste was a bit odd – pepperminty but also bitter.
