Blind, Bound, and Betrayed

To keep customers from running out on the bill, they were going to lock the doors and let the fire rage. Insanity.

It was insane—unthinkable. They cared more about the money than people’s lives. I felt sick just thinking about it, nauseous.

I glared at the owner in hatred. He squirmed under my stare. He snapped, “Don’t look at me like that. You have no idea how vicious people can be. If I go out there and tell them there’s a fire, at least half the customers won’t pay.”

He sounded almost defensive, like he was the victim. I wanted to scream at him, to shake him until he came to his senses. Unreal.

I was about to lose my mind at his twisted logic! I could barely process it.

How could someone be so cold, so greedy? It was like all the worst stories you hear on the news, except now it was happening to me. Right here, right now.

Customers had barely touched their food, the restaurant’s own negligence started the fire, and yet he still expected people to pay for food that was about to be destroyed by flames. Unbelievable.

I pictured the plates sitting on tables, half-eaten, the smell of smoke starting to drift into the dining room. None of it mattered to him—just the cash.

It was the height of insanity. I wanted to grab him and shake him, to make him see what he was doing. Nothing got through.

Yet he insisted everyone pay up—what kind of messed-up morals is that? No conscience. Just greed.

I’d never seen anything like it. It was beyond greed—it was pure, heartless calculation. Chilling.

It was just like that news story out of upstate New York, where a restaurant caught fire and still tricked customers into paying first. I’d seen it a few days ago and thought those owners were scum. Never imagined I’d run into the same thing myself! Figures.

I remembered reading the article, shaking my head at the screen. Now I was living it, and it was a hundred times worse. Sickening.

Just then, the exhaust hood suddenly went silent.

The sudden quiet was jarring. For a second, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. Eerie.

Turns out the fire had burned through its power cable. Done. Dead.

The kitchen lights flickered, and the hood sputtered and died. The smoke thickened instantly, filling the room like a fog. Heavy and suffocating.

It was impossible to breathe. My eyes watered, my throat burned. Every breath felt like swallowing sandpaper. Each gasp hurt.

Now even the owner looked nervous, grabbing a wet rag to cover his mouth and nose. I was even more desperate to find a way to save my family. Time was running out.

He wrapped the rag around his face, eyes darting around the kitchen. I knew I had to act soon—my family had no idea what was happening. The fear was real.

He still had the knife on me. If my mouth wasn’t gagged, I wouldn’t have been afraid—worst case, he’d stab me, but I’d still scream for my family to run. I’d take that risk.

I weighed my options, desperate for any chance to warn them. The knife didn’t scare me as much as the thought of them being trapped upstairs. That was the real terror.

But the real problem was the towel stuffed in my mouth. It was choking me, cutting off my only way to call for help. I tried to work it loose with my tongue, but it was wedged in tight. No luck.

If I reached for it, who knows how many times he could stab me before I got it out? I wouldn’t even be able to shout. The risk was real.

Every second counted. I had to be smart—one wrong move, and it’d be over before I could get a word out. I couldn’t screw this up.

The flames were getting bigger. The owner must have realized it wasn’t safe to stay in the kitchen. He grabbed a rope used to tie flour sacks and tried to bind my hands behind my back. Panic in his eyes.

He yanked the rope off a hook, the fibers rough and stained. His hands shook as he tried to loop it around my wrists, the knife never leaving my side. He was desperate.

But to tie me up, he needed both hands free. He hesitated, glancing between the knife and the rope. I could see the calculation in his eyes. He was weighing his options.

I stared him down, ready—if he let go of the knife for even a second, I’d make my move! I tensed every muscle, waiting for that chance.

But he stared right back, as if he could read my mind. He wasn’t going to give me an opening. Not a chance.

Then he did something I never expected. He lunged for a bowl on the counter, grabbing a handful of bright red chili peppers. For a split second, I didn’t understand what he was doing.

He jammed those chili peppers right into my eyes! The pain was instant, blinding.

Instantly, searing pain exploded in my eyeballs. It was like acid—hot, blinding, unbearable. I tried to pull away, but he held me tight, grinding the peppers in with his thumb.

The burn was instant, a firestorm of pain exploding behind my eyelids. I squeezed them shut, the pain radiating through my skull. I couldn’t see, couldn’t think—just pain, everywhere.

I howled in pain, but with my mouth gagged, all I could do was make muffled noises. My whole body shook as I fought to breathe through the pain.

The sound was pathetic—half scream, half sob. Blind and helpless, I felt him finally relax—he let go of the knife and moved closer.

My first instinct was to tear the towel from my mouth. I fumbled blindly, clawing at the gag. My fingers slipped, but I was desperate. I had to get it out, no matter what. Nothing else mattered.

I didn’t care if he hit me—he’d dropped the knife, the exhaust hood was dead, I had to scream and let people know about the fire! This was my only shot.

The pain in my eyes was blinding, but adrenaline pushed me on. I knew this was my only chance. No turning back.

I yanked out the towel, but the owner panicked. Before I could shout, he kicked me hard in the mouth! The blow snapped my head back.

His boot connected with my jaw, snapping my head back. I tasted blood and bit down on my tongue, but I forced my mouth open and screamed anyway. I had to. No choice.

I crashed to the floor, pain radiating through my jaw, but I still managed to yell, “Fire!”

I shouted so loud my throat tore. I didn’t care—I had to warn them, had to save my family. Nothing else mattered.

I shouted as loud as I could. The word echoed in my head, bouncing off the walls. Please—let someone hear me.

But the owner was even more desperate. He was like a cornered animal, his eyes wild. He’d do anything to keep control. Anything.

He grabbed a stainless steel bowl used for seasonings and smashed it against the exhaust hood. The clang was deafening, a metal-on-metal shriek that made my ears ring. He kept banging it, again and again, drowning out my cries.

The noise was unbearable, echoing through the kitchen and into my bones. I tried to scream over it, but my voice was lost in the chaos. Nothing got through.

Gasping, I tried to call out, but the owner kept banging the bowl against the hood, and with his other hand, he grabbed a heavy wooden cutting board and hurled it at my stomach!

The board hit me square in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I curled up, gasping, the pain spreading through my whole body. I couldn’t move.

I grunted in pain, my stomach cramping so badly I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe.

It felt like I’d been punched by a heavyweight boxer. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t even cry out. Helpless.

Every time I tried to open my mouth, the stabbing pain in my abdomen forced me to gasp for air instead. Couldn’t get a word out.

My lips moved, but no sound came out—just ragged, shallow breaths. I clutched my stomach, trying to ride out the pain. Nothing else existed.

Real agony steals your voice—you just clutch the pain and wait it out. That’s all I could do.

It was the kind of pain that made everything else fade away—no thoughts, no fear, just raw, physical suffering. I was lost in it.

The owner took advantage, pinning me to the ground, driving his knee into my spine and pressing my arms behind my back. I couldn’t move. The smell of burnt food and sweat overwhelming.

He tied me up. I wanted to fight back so badly, but my stomach was killing me, my eyes burned so much I couldn’t see. Every time I tried to open them, the pain was excruciating! I was trapped.

I struggled, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through my gut and head. I was done.

I could only squeeze them shut, just to get a little relief. Nothing else helped.

I lay there, blind and helpless, tears streaming down my face. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. I was broken.

Once I was tied up, the owner finally relaxed a little. For a second, he looked almost relieved. Like he thought he’d won.

He dragged me toward the kitchen door, carefully cracked it open, shoved me outside, then quickly slipped out himself and slammed it shut. It cut off the worst of the smoke.

Even with the kitchen engulfed in flames, he refused to leave the door wide open, terrified the smoke would alert the customers. His priorities were warped. It was unbelievable—like something out of a nightmare.

At that moment, the owner’s wife came running downstairs. Her face was pale, streaked with sweat and soot. She looked frantic, glancing over her shoulder as she ran.

The owner asked anxiously, “Did everyone pay?” He was still counting bills in his head, even as the fire raged behind him.

She said, “I told them the payment system was updating and made them pay up front. Every table ran their cards except the biggest private room.” She was breathless, pride and panic mixed in her words. She’d pulled off her own little scam, even as the building was about to go up in flames.

The owner grew agitated. “The biggest room didn’t pay? That table—” His words hung in the air, unfinished. I could hear the fire crackling behind the door, and for the first time, I realized just how close we all were to disaster.

And my family was still upstairs.