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But it can't be a hangover. Although I've never had one, I hardly drank last night.
I'm only allowed one glass of champagne at any particular event, and I didn't even drink the one I had in my hand last night. Jackson took it from me and set it aside on the table on our way up to the beach.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to recall what could have happened to leave me waking up feeling so terrible.
I don't remember anything past the phone call Jackson took before walking away.
I try a full body assessment, starting at my feet. I can still feel sand between my toes, but that doesn't make sense.
I wouldn't have gone to bed dirty, covered in the beach. Mornings on the campaign trail are always hectic. We always have breakfast planned, and last night was no different. The Smiths were on the schedule this morning. Meeting with potential donors the morning after makes them feel important, and it also gives my parents the opportunity to either get a donation they were unable to secure the night before or attempt to increase the donation made.
Flexing my calf muscles, I test them for soreness.
When I sense someone else in the room, I open my eyes to complete darkness.
Nothing makes sense right now. There's no light filtering in from outside which is strange. It's nearly impossible for a hotel to keep all the lights out, especially lights in the city, and there are plenty of lights in South Padre. Even in my room facing the beach there were lights our first night here.
“Hello,” I say into the darkness. “What's happening?”
Maybe a storm knocked out the power.
Maybe that's the reason why it's so dark.
I can't see city lights because there are no city lights.
I try to brush my hair off my face. My heart races, a pounding beat inside of my chest when I realize my hands are tied down.
This is a dream.
It has to be a dream, right?
People don't wake up feeling hungover, tied to a bed, but as I blink into the darkness, the reality doesn't change.
I don't wake up.
This is reality.
Not a nightmare.
“Wh-What's going on?” I stammer, my throat scratchy and raw, as if I've spent hours screaming or crying.
A bedside table lamp turns on and futilely I try to escape, but my restraints won't allow it.
A man stands beside the bed in an unfamiliar room, and all I can manage in this moment is blinking up at him.
It's a nice room. The king-sized bed isn't overpowering because of the spacious interior.
I have no idea why my brain wants to focus on such trivial things when it's clear that I'm in danger.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to react or respond in a way that will make this a positive outcome for me.
I've never read a news story where someone was taken and the abductor later on was just likeha ha, I'm kidding,before letting the person go.
My chin trembles as I try not to think about the possibilities of the things that this man could do to me.
I don't want to consider if death would be better than the other things I could suffer at his hands.
As a woman, I know there's a litany of things that he could do to me, to my mind, to my body, that would make me wish I were dead.
