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Spinning away, I grabbed at the next knob. That opened onto a small closet. Drab gray clothes, several outfits worth, hung over a stack of simple white undergarments on a shelf. They matched the panties and tank top I was wearing when I’d awoken. I didn’t want to think about how I’d gotten changed into them. What the fuck was going on? Was this a prison? They wouldn’t have injected me with a sedative to take me to prison.
They might for a psych prison. Maybe? I couldn’t ask anyone or even search the internet to see.
The only other door in the room was on the far wall. My feet slapped on the concrete floor, and I nearly slammed myself into the door as I grabbed and turned the knob. It held fast. Little grunts of concentration and panic sprouted from me as I kept twisting at the handle. No matter what I did, it stayed locked tight.
I was a caged animal. All rational thought evaporated as my fists slammed into the locked door.
“Help!” My voice screeched out in a hysterical bark. “Please, please help me.” The last word trailed off into a hiccupping sob.
I sagged against the door, and my legs gave out slowly until I sank on my knees on the floor. The door was more solid than I’d guessed it would be. Thick heavy wood that I could never break down, no matter what I tried.
My mind wanted to cave in on itself. It took everything I had not to faint. If nothing else, I had to stay conscious in case my abductor returned.
My therapist had given me a few tools to use if I ever found myself in one of my panic attacks. This certainly qualified. Thinking of those, I took deep steady breaths, fighting hyperventilation. Once my breathing settled, my mind worked a little better. There was a problem with calming down, though. The terror had shredded the carefully constructed walls I’d erected in my subconscious. Things I’d been trying to block out for years bubbled up, more intense and visceral than they had been.
Memories of my mother and father trading me to strangers for meth, oxy, and cash. My teeth squeaked as I ground them together, remembering big sweaty men ripping my clothes off and bending me over the bed. I was only nine years old and howled as they raped me. All while my parents lay in the living room high out of their minds.
My watch was missing, but I still traced the infinity symbol on my wrist. It helped ground me and helped push the awful memories out of my head, which was good. If I let myself think about my little sister, I might truly lose it.
After calming myself enough to get back on my feet, I double-checked the room again. My first circuit had been panic-fueled chaos. Maybe something would give me a hint as to where I truly was. I surveyed the room with a steadier eye.
The area directly around the bed looked like the kind of bedroom I’d always dreamed of. A huge plush bed with a thick comforter and high-end sheets and pillows. It didn’t look like a prison bed. Or a psych ward.
The thought didn’t comfort me.
A heavy wool carpet lay beneath the bed, but the rest of the floor was polished wood.
The bathroom was even nicer than my first inspection. Like something in a high-end hotel, complete with expensive soap and shampoo.
The closet was as boring as ever. Blah gray sweatshirts and sweatpants, the same color shirts and shorts, and white underwear and socks. Nothing else. There were no tags on any of it. The same went for the sheets, blankets, and pillows on the bed. No hints whatsoever of where I was.
With nothing else to do and still fighting panic, I sat back on the bed. My mind tried to replay the memories of the night before, but everything was fuzzy and distorted. I remembered the black figure, but not much else. The last vivid memory I had was working at the diner. I was sure I’d walked home, but anything that may have happened on the trip was clouded.
The figure had taken me in the hallway outside the apartment, but had he grabbed me as I got home, or had I been in the hall for something else? Whatever drug they’d given me had almost totally erased my memories from last night.
Don’t panic. Panic won’t help.
I ran through my breathing again and looked around, trying to land on anything that might be of assistance.
The only thing on the decoratively papered walls was a single clock above the locked door. Almost nine. I had no clue if it was morning or night. How long had I slept?
When the clock struck the top of the hour, an alarm sounded a single deep and threatening bong that reverberated through the room. I jumped, my heart rate spiking again. A voice came next, echoing out of whatever invisible speaker the alarm had rung.
The voice was male, emotionless and monotone. “Miss Belrose, your door will be unlocked for one hour. You are expected at breakfast to meet your housemates. Exit your room and proceed left. Take the first right and continue until you arrive at the cafeteria.”
Again the bong alarm, followed by a rather loud metallic click of the hand-carved wooden door unlocking. I stared at it in fear. All I’d wanted a few minutes ago was for that damn door to open. Now it looked like the gateway to hell.
Why was I being offered breakfast? Was this an actual prison? Some weird holding facility? The house-share industry gone insane? I tried not to laugh, because what I was feeling wasn’t humor. It was panic doing its best to bubble up.
Wait, housemates? There were other people being held captive. I racked my brain for what I could’ve done to end up here, but I hadn’t done anything. All I had time for was work, sleep, and therapy. I’d never done anything bad enough to end up in prison.
All the shit other people had done to me and they walked free. Why was I here? It was all so unfair. The thought of my past was almost enough to break me again.
To stave off the terror, I stayed put and stared at the door, waiting to see if anyone came in. A guard or something.
Instead, the voice returned. “Miss Belrose, it is in your best interests to do as you are told. This is your last warning. Go to breakfast.” He was the same voice as before, still monotone, but there was a threatening undercurrent to him now.
A chill danced up my spine. Whoever he was, he was willing to kidnap and imprison innocent people or help someone else do it. God only knew what he’d do if I made him angry.
