The magician's basement was no more glamorous than my own.
Old couches, an untouched television.
One corner, however, holds some curiosities.
Loaded dice, trick decks, handkerchiefs.
Handcuffs, matches, rope, knives.

But his handcuffs hold no illusion, only my thin wrists.
They are hard and cold like any other pair
digging in, no escape.

There was no magic.

He offers to show me a trick.
How easy, I think now, it must be
to fool a seven year old girl.

I was tricked.

He told me once that magicians love the dark.
The black, he said, keeps their secrets hidden.
He told me to close my eyes,
and when I could finally open them,
there was no more light.

He hid me in the dark with the rest of his secrets, the rest of his tricks.

K.A.