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I wake up with a scream lodged in my throat. My lips pry open, but even as panic squeezes my chest, and I start to palpitate—-
Nothing happens.
Time crawls by, but no sound rips free to smash the silence, and my heartbeats gradually slow down as my shock slowly recedes. I wait for panic to regain its hold, but it doesn't, and I eventually realize a startling thing about me: I am not, apparently, a screamer.
And that, I find myself thinking for no reason, is quite dope.
The comforter that has been up to my chin falls away as I push myself up, and relief streams through my veins when I see that I'm still fully clothed.
My head still feels light, my body heavy, but no part of me feels...used.
Nothing aches.
Nothing feels sore.
There isn't anything I feel that would make me suspect I have been raped.
Yet.
Memories begin trickling in, bit after broken bit, but all of them so unforgivingly vivid that it's impossible not to piece them together.
I've been drugged.
And after that—-
Kidnapped.
It takes a moment for the truth of my situation sinks in, and I have my first taste of fear.
Blech.
I'm not sure if it's some strange kind of coping mechanism, but I've just uncovered a second unexpected trait about myself: it's only when my life is on the line, apparently, that my previously unknown ability to speak like my age will come to the fore.
So smashing, Sara!
So brill!
Not.
I feel the urge to laugh and cry. This newly discovered trait of mine is nowhere as helpful as the first, but whatevs. I can't allow myself to be distracted, and I hurriedly swing my feet off the bed and study my surroundings between anxious gulps of breath.
Chill the eff out, Sara!
The room I'm in is small, but every inch of it feels expensive, and my fears, which have been fairly manageable in the past minute, devolve into something just one or two screams away from terror.
I. Am. So. Screwed.
The amount of money spent to decorate this room is more than what I can earn in a year. Kidnappers usually do what they do for ransom money, but since mine obviously has money to burn—-
So, so screwed...
Seriously!
I've always believed in God, but at the same time I've never had to face anything that would test my faith. The bullying I continue to face in school is nasty, but not to the point that it's traumatized me for life.
But this?
Being kidnapped?
And worse, being kidnapped by a man who likely has plans for me the way one would plan to write a script for the next Saw sequel?
I've always been honest with myself about my shameful...predilections. I fantasize constantly about being abducted and forced to submit myself to my captor. But...that's all it was supposed to be.
A fantasy.
Fantasies aren't supposed to turn real, but now that mine has, all I want to do is go home and beg God for forgiveness.
I'm sorry, God!
I'm sorry!
So please...could You help me?
Tears prick my eyes, but I furiously blink them away. Crying will only get me killed, and I have absolutely no plans of dying.
Wariness creeps into my soul when I try the door and find it unlocked. Is that good or bad? I strive to remember what every survivor of Texas Chainsaw Massacre had to do to stay alive, but all I can recall is how the last actress standing usually ends up almost naked by the time post-credits start rolling. Does that mean I should undress—-
Stop being stupid, Sara!
Since internal strategizing is obviously getting me nowhere, I simply push the door open and burst out of my room. I'm ready to battle even zombies if that's what it takes, but instead all I see is a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway, and its anti-climactic emptiness has me tripping over my own feet.
Jesus!
I'm not the type to scream, but right now I can't think of anything more tempting. The tension inside of me is fast reaching boiling point, and I just want to scream everything out. Just scream and scream until whoever it is behind this would finally come out and get on with it...whatever it might turn out to be.
I spy a set of steps at the end of the hallway, but then I notice something else, and I realize something might already be spying on me this very moment. There are four security cameras installed in the hallway, and there are probably more that's hidden. It's just my luck, I think numbly, to have a kidnapper who left nothing to chance.
I feel like throwing up as I begin climbing up the stairs one nerve-wracking step at a time, and my heart is racing so fast it's forced my lungs to keep up and turns the air I exhale into frantic little pants.
A part of me is tempted to turn back and simply curl myself into a ball until I've lost my mind and all of this ceases to be real. But because it's simply not in me to take the coward's way out—-
One step at a time, Sara.
One step at a time.
One step after another.
But when I finally reach the top, I instantly wish I had never made it instead.
This can't be.
I start to sway in my feet, and quickly clutch the handrail to keep myself from falling.
I really thought I could make it.
I really did.
But how can I when my cage turns out to be a big-ass yacht floating in the middle of the ocean?
Sobs start crawling up my throat again, and I wrap my arms tightly around my body when I feel the situation start taking its toll on me. It's so tempting to break down. To just give up, jump overboard, and be done with it.
But I can't.
Not just yet.
And so I focus on what has gotten me this far.
One step at a time.
One breath at a time.
Just one after another.
Tension gradually slackens its grip on my body, and the urge to cry finally disappears. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell myself to focus.
Keep your shit together, Sara Perez!
When I open my eyes again, the first thing I notice is a yellow Post-It stuck on the screen of a wall-mounted monitor. It's easily the same size as the whiteboard in my high school classroom while the four leather recliners before it would make the perfect ad for a home cinema.
If I have any doubts left about how loaded my kidnapper is, then this...this lounge I'm in effectively lays all of my questions to rest. The entire area has the look and feel of a reception lobby of a five-star hotel: it has its own bar in one corner, a small but state-of-the-art kitchen (but no knifes in display), and multiple seating areas.
There are more windows than walls in this place, but for now they're completely wasted on the moon-less evening outside. I can hear the waves roll and crash against the hull, but all I see when I peer outside is the boat's well-lit exterior: a large sun pad on the bow, an outdoor dining area on the stern, and side decks that are only wide enough to allow one-way traffic.
My gaze drifts back to the sticky note, and my stomach starts to churn as I finally make myself read it.
Watch at your own risk.