I cringe. “No …!” What is he doing? “Let go — that hurts!” I try to pull my wrist out of his grip, which just makes him squeeze even harder. He twists it backward, pulling me off the chair, down to the floor as if he is trying to crush me under the strong torque of his arm. There’s a good chance he can. My knee hits the cold tile of the floor, and it hurts, as well. “Ow! What are you doing?! Get off me!”

He throws his head back and laughs, a laugh as though holding me down is the easiest thing in the world, my pain and terror merely entertainment to him. He twists my arm again, winds up, and cranks it again, and again. There’s a popping sound coming from the socket. My screams empty out of me as the sleeve of my kimono, my skin, and my entire arm rips away from my shoulder, like dough. The man raises my detached limb into the air, tilts his head back, and lets the blood and dangling pieces of meat tumble into his open mouth.

“Ooh. Mmm. Salty and sweet. And caramel. Wasn’t expectin’ that. I need more. I need more.”

Automatically I begin to scramble away with my good arm, but he plants a firm, heavy foot right down on my stomach, pinning me. Kneeling, he grabs the glass of water and pours it on my face. When I open my mouth to scream for help, the tiny trickle of water feels like a gushing faucet emptying into my throat. I am drowning. He is laughing. I have to do something.

My feet kick out and my one hand swipes the air in a fit of fear. My clawed fingers connect with his face, and I can feel the sick sensation of my nails right on his eye. With a yelp he reels back and releases me. I crawl away fast until I can get to my feet. I vomit up all that water. Then, I run straight for the stage. If I can just hop up there, I’ll be out of his reach. I plant one foot against the board to boost myself up and swing one leg over. I’m almost there.

Without turning, I can feel the man’s pain as he clutches his eye and feels blood trickling down his face. It’s like watching a movie, watching myself. He lets out an anguished cry, which becomes a deafening bleating sound. I somehow know it is not the blood he minds — it reminds him he is alive — it is the fact that I’m getting away. He will not let me get away, not this time. His rows of sharp, wide teeth sport fangs and tusks as he wriggles out of his clothes and gets down on all fours. He charges at the stage, knocking over tables in his way, and leaps at my outstretched leg.

I’m too late.