Constriction

Constriction

Martin couldn't fight any longer. He knew exactly what was happening. The life was being slowly squeezed out of him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He gasped for air in the dark closet. Black spots danced before his eyes, and his bones creaked and shattered against the mass. Blood filled his trachea and pooled around his tongue. No one would find him here--he knew that.
As he took his last breath, he remembered his last days:
Martin was a professional thief. But he was very particular about the people from whom he stole: rich tycoons, snooty heiresses, distracted stockbrokers. New York City was teeming with them, and the metropolis's eight-million-population gave him just the cover to slip away. The police weren't concerned about stolen necklaces or watches when there were murder cases that needed to be solved, no matter how many times Martin's victims pleaded. Martin was stealthy. He'd sneak into the house in the middle of the night, disarm the system, if any, and took anything that was small and light.
He'd grown up poor. His mother scraped every cent she had to send him to the only private school in his hometown--a proud advocate of how education bred success. He was constantly the butt of viciously insulting jokes among his classmates, all of them wealthier than he. The heartless and obnoxious were the only sides he saw of the financially blessed. Martin had been taught to forgive, but as he got older, that side of him--the side that yearned for bitter, blatant retribution--grew as well. It filled him, consumed him, controlled him like a puppet. And Martin liked it, to the point where he allowed himself to depend on that feeling. He moved to New York City the day after he graduated from high school and set about seeking out the rich and planning the first of what were to be many successful heists. What he stole and didn't particularly like, he sold to the highest bidder among the shady characters that dwelled in the city's large underbelly. He kept what he loved. Sometimes, Martin thought of it as a game, one in which he always won. Burglary was not only his life's work. It was his life.
For weeks, Martin had been following a young Chinese woman named Xiang Su, who had moved a few weeks earlier to New York City so she could run that sector of her parents' international business. From what Martin could see, she was extremely and unnaturally spoilt. Every morning, he watched her get out of her limousine and head off to work donning the finest clothes and jewelry, flanked by two bodyguards, Martin imagined the many ways he could have his fun at her expense.
Xiang Su's Manhattan mansion was filled with various artifacts flown in from all over the world. Within the three weeks that she arrived in New York, Martin could see moving men on the street wheeling in crates, while Xiang Su yelled and pointed. Due to the value of her property, her home was under constant guard. To Martin, this just made the game much more interesting. He still managed to pinch a few things over the course of a week. His dingy apartment was stocked with intricate hand-carved knives, smooth clay kylikes and beautiful Navajo rugs. Xiang Su was stupefied. Martin loved to see her upset about the stolen objects, stomping around her home screaming at her guards in Mandarin.
Because none of his victims had ever seen Martin, he often spent time around the houses from which he stole without fear. That day, however, was different. In the afternoon, he noticed men lifting a giant wooden box up the stone steps and through Xiang Su's front doors.
Martin smiled to himself--there would be something new to steal.
But Xiang Su was also smiling.
It was the first strange thing he noticed. Why would she be smiling? Martin thought again: perhaps the content of the box was not a priceless artifact but some sort of security system. The smile returned to his face. Unless Xiang Su had cameras--which she didn't--there would be no way to stop him.
That evening, Martin left his apartment and walked the thirty blocks to Xiang Su's mansion. He avoided taxis due to the possibility of identification. He dressed in jeans and a light T-shirt. He carried with him a gym bag with tools, and cloth to wrap the items in. He crossed East 80th Street and stared up at Xiang Su's mansion. It was six stories high and made of sandstone, with tall black windowpanes. Martin walked around to the side and opened the back gate. He tiptoed up the deck and peered through the first-floor window. The second strange thing he noticed was that there were no guards patrolling the hallways. Xiang Su's house was a goldmine, and tonight, there was no one to protect it from people like Martin. Surprised at his luck, he slid the window open and crawled in. The third strange thing Martin noticed was the house's temperature. Despite the stagnant summer air, the house was unusually hot. Martin hadn't taken two steps before he felt sweat trickling down his back.
He ascended the stairs to the third floor and turned the corner to Xiang Su's steamy walk-in closet, which was separate from her bedroom. There were still no guards. In fact, it seemed as if house was completely empty. The silence made him nervous, but still he pressed on. Martin made his way through the aisles of designer clothes, shoes and purses, and found the woman's custom-made, red jewelry box. Putting his flashlight between his teeth, Martin opened the box. As soon as he did, he heard a series of sharp beeps, and a white cloud streamed out from the box and into Martin's face. It made his skin tingly, but had no scent. He panicked. Maybe the new shipment was some sort of burglar alarm system! Martin froze, listening for a siren, but heard nothing. Not trusting the silence anymore, he grabbed the first thing he saw--a diamond choker--and left the closet.
After spending a few seconds to calm his racing heart, Martin tiptoed down the landing, clutching the unexpectedly light necklace in his hand. When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard a soft, hissing sound. He couldn't tell where it was coming from, so he assumed it was the vents that caused the place to be so sweltering. He wiped his forehead, still shaken, and was about to leave when something caught his eye. On a pedestal, in the far corner of the room was a small mirror. It was an ornate masterpiece: frame made of gilded jacaranda wood and studded with ivory and pearls. It was the most beautiful thing Martin had seen. Maybe this was what Xiang Su had ordered that day.
He walked up to it, eyes shining, and stared into its smooth glass surface.
But his face was not the only one he saw.
Behind him, dangling from a ceiling crossbeam was a long, white-and-black snake.
Martin screamed, grabbed the mirror, and stepped to the side, seconds before the snake snapped forward. He fumbled with his flashlight, and he heard the hissing sound again, coming from behind him. He swung his flashlight along the floor. A long brown snake was slithering along the mat towards his feet, gaining speed. Martin ran, shining his flashlight along every surface. There were snakes everywhere: along the backs of couches, wrapped around railings, chair legs and chandeliers, and gliding along the floor. They lashed out at his legs, his arms, and his face. Someone had clearly let them out, and it was as if they were attracted to his scent. How is this happening? Martin thought. But he couldn't focus enough to find the answer. The situation filled his mind with stark and egregious fear.
Tripping over kraits and mambas, he pulled open a closet door and stepped inside. The space was cramped; Martin took a moment to catch his breath. He checked his watch. It was a little after two in the morning. He'd have to escape soon, or he'd be stuck. His heart pounded in his chest. He still had the necklace and the mirror, and the money he'd get from the latter would surely sustain his needs for weeks. He wouldn't need to steal for a while. The optimism reassured him, but not for long--suddenly, he felt something slide slowly across his feet. His heart crawled into his throat. He reached for the doorknob, and heard the lock click from the outside. Someone had shut him in.
"No!" Martin yelled.
He banged his fists against the door. He screamed and cursed. Even so, he felt a cold mass climbing steadily up his body, squeezing slowly. He tried to move, but the massive python only pressed tighter against him. After about ten minutes or so, he stopped struggling. It finally dawned on him what exactly had happened that night. Martin couldn't fight any longer. He knew exactly what was happening. The life was being slowly squeezed out of him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He gasped for air in the dark closet. Black spots danced before his eyes, and his bones creaked and shattered against the weight. Blood filled his trachea and pooled around his tongue.
No one would find him here--he knew that.
As he took his last breath, he heard Xiang Su's laughter from the other side of the door.