My hands are shaking as I open the envelope and unfold the letter, which is printed on plain white paper. No fancy font, no signature. Black words on a white page.
Dear Amy,
Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to hurt you. You don’t know it, but you need me. If you do as I ask, you will only be here a week. If not—well, I know you are a smart girl. In a week you will be free to go back to your life, if you still want to. There are clean clothes in the baskets. With any luck, you will be out of here before you need to do laundry. I hope the food is to your liking. The lights go on and off automatically. So does the heat and air conditioning.
Your task is this: Every day, write a short essay (one page, single-spaced) on one of the Seven Deadly Sins and the part it has played in your life. In case you have forgotten, the seven deadly sins are lust, greed, gluttony, sloth, envy, wrath and pride. Paper and pens are in a drawer in the kitchen. When you have finished each essay, please “mail” it through the slot in the door. The door is reinforced steel, so you will only hurt yourself if you try to break it down. The apartment is soundproofed; screaming will not help you. Please take this assignment seriously, and do not submit more than one essay per day.
I look forward to reading your first essay.
Of course, there is no signature. I look up from the letter and stare at the door. I hadn’t noticed the slot before. It’s tiny, about the size of two cigarettes laid end to end. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I cling to the words I don’t want to hurt you, but the terror is coming—I can feel it in my bone marrow. And in my bowels. I throw the letter down on the table and lurch to the bathroom. There is no laxative like fear. My entire body is sweating, as if I have run a marathon. Then I start to shake, and I sit sobbing on the toilet. I am a prisoner. My prison is a white room with no windows. And I have to write my way out. I hate writing.
When my guts stop cramping, I splash my face with cold water and dry it on a white hand towel. For some reason, seeing streaks of mascara on the towel makes me feel better. There is no mirror in the bathroom. I probably look like shit, but that’s the least of my worries. There’s a big magnet on our fridge at home that says, Crying is all right in its own way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do. The guy who wrote the Narnia books said that. Not sure what he had to cry about. After my dad moved out, Mom cried for days, locked away in her room. Then one day she just stopped, and I haven’t seen her cry since. A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away. I need to decide what to do. I won’t stop being afraid until I’m out of here, but I’ll have to live with that.
The phrase I’m not going to hurt you keeps running through my head. If it’s true, then all I have to do is write seven stupid essays and I will be set free. If it’s not true, then I need to protect myself and figure out a way out of my prison. It would help if my brain didn’t feel like sludge. Dark and thick and slow-moving. I look around the main room for something to block the door. There is no heavy furniture other than the mattress on the bed. I grab a corner and drag it toward the door. It is very heavy. Or I am very weak. Or both. But at least if my kidnapper tries to come into the room to rape me or kill me, I’ll know about it.
When I get the mattress in place, I kneel on it and try and peer through the slot, but I can‘t see anything. And it’s way too small for me to get my hand through. And what good would it do to wave my hand out a letter slot anyway? Even though the letter said not to, I scream into the slot. “Help! Help!” I feel ridiculous, but I keep screaming until I go hoarse. Then I pound on the door for a while, but nothing happens except that my hands start to bleed. I flop back onto the mattress and close my eyes.
When I wake up, the light in the room is different. Brighter. It feels like it might be lunchtime, so I make a cheese sandwich. The first few bites make me gag, but I force myself to swallow. If someone attacks me, I will need to have the strength to fight back. I wish I’d taken karate instead of dance. What good was a perfect split leap going to do me now? My dad used to watch this old TV show about a guy who could make a bomb out of a gum wrapper and a bungee cord and a single match. I wonder what he would do with bamboo cutlery, peanut butter and a wicker basket. I sure can’t think of anything.
I need something metal. And sharp. I look around the room again. All the furniture is made of molded plastic. I stand up and hurl the night table against the wall, hoping it will shatter into sharp shards. It bounces. I smash the chair into the kitchen table, making a tiny dent.
I am suddenly very thirsty. When I open the fridge to get some juice, there it is, right in front of me—a white metal rack. I throw the little boxes of milk and juice on the floor and yank out the rack. I don’t know how I’m going to get the metal rods out of the frame, but I have to try. My hands are still sore and swollen from pounding on the door, so I stomp on the rack until my feet hurt as much as my hands do. I wonder where my shoes are. And my phone. I wonder if anybody has missed me yet. I sit at the table and stare at the dent.
Gradually, the room darkens and the pot lights come on. The quiet is deafening. No street noise. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of what I figure is some kind of air-exchange system. I look up and see a small vent near the ceiling. No help there. I’ll work on the fridge rack later. All I can do right now is write my first essay.