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THIRTY-TWO
KIRSTEN
The dank scentof mildew lingers in the air and I wrinkle my nose. But the scrunching of my nose and curling of my lips are immediately cut short by the lancing pain behind my eyes.
On a groan, I drag an arm up and press the heel of my hand to my temple, then to the throbbing spot on the back of my head. Damp syrup coats my hair, some of the strands sticking to the stiff, scratchy ground beneath my back. I lift my hand and peel my eyes open to see the tacky liquid on my hand, but come up empty.
Darkness infiltrates every molecule of air, stealing my sight. I bring my hand closer to my face and slowly narrow my eyes. Search the darkness for a discernible hint of skin.
Nothing.
“Hello?” The two syllables scrape my throat and echo in my ears. Pushing up into a seated position, I clutch my throat and massage either side. I swallow past the dryness and try again. “Hello?” My voice bounces around in the darkness, mocking me as no one answers.
Drawing up my knees, I dig my heels and palms into the ground and push to stand. Legs still bent, I sway and dizzy as I straighten them. I reach out, hoping to clutch something, anything, to keep me upright and steady. But my hands don’t make purchase and I stumble back, one step after another, before my tailbone smacks the ground.
I drop my hands to the ground and push up to alleviate the radiating pain, but get distracted by the fibers between my fingers. Resting on my hip, I focus on the material. Run my fingers through it, curling and plucking the small pieces.
Is thiscarpet? Am I in someone’s house?
“Hello?” I try again, louder this time. “Is anyone here?” I shift until I’m on all fours, then slowly try to stand again. “I have injuries and need help.”
More stable than moments ago, I straighten my spine, stretch out my arms, and inch forward in the dark. Left then right, left then right.On my next step, dim light glows around me, illuminating the room. I squint, then close my eyes, as the pain in my head pulsates.
Inhaling deeply, I open my eyes and let my senses adjust. Little by little, the space comes into view.
Matted, dingy shag carpet under my feet. A wood-frame couch and chair with a vintage farmhouse and watermill pattern on large, lumpy cushions; a spindle-legged wood coffee table centered a foot away with a dusty bowl of artificial fruit and stack of children’s books at the heart.
To my left, the carpet ends where orange and yellow linoleum begins. Grimy yellow base cabinets butt against two walls. Pots sit on an electric coil cooktop, kitchen utensils dangling from a rack inches from a tile backsplash similar to the linoleum floor. Two wall-mounted ovens to the left of the stove. On the other countertop, a sink basin, wood wine rack, and yellow-glass cabinet take up most of the space.
Above the sink, a set of windows with wood bars and orange half-curtains garners my attention. I bolt across the room, dizzying as I do, and tug at the knobby wood bars. But my effort is pointless when they don’t budge an inch. When my eyes drift up to the uncovered glass, unease creeps through my veins. Behind the glass is a fading image of the forest and mountains.
“What the hell is this place?” I question under my breath.
Spinning around, I take in the rest of the room. In the center of the severely outdated kitchen is a rich brown dining table with enough space for six but only two chairs. Draped over the width of the table, a red-stitched yellow runner serves as a tablecloth, with two place settings, one on either side. Bowls and platters sit on the ends of the table; more fake food on display. Above the table, a chandelier with fake candles as bulbs.
I move across the room, slower this time, and wander through thehousein search of a way out. There has to be a door or an escapable window somewhere. Behind the kitchen is a pantry, row after row of shelves loaded with shelf-stable food. A utility sink at the end of the room with a washboard in the basin.
My stomach sours and I back out of the room.
On faster feet, I pass a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf loaded with books and games, go to the opposite end of the space, down the short hall past the living area. Two doorless thresholds exist in the hall—one leads to a bathroom, while the other opens up to a bedroom. Blanketed in the same pattern as the couch, the wooden four-post bed swallows up most of the room. The rest of the room is crowded by the lengthy six-drawer dresser, a cabinet beside the drawers, and a wood-framed mirror with shelves on the ends on top.
Dashing back to the living room, I search for a phone and come up empty.
“Hello?” I call out, on the cusp of yelling.
The lights in the space brighten, the soft glow more yellow than white.
“This isn’t funny,” I add, more leveled.
As if to mock me, the lights glow brighter. Hotter. Blinding.
Sweat slicks my skin, my heart bangs in the confines of my rib cage as I cover my eyes. Several pulse-pounding seconds pass before the air cools. I peek through cracked fingers to find the lights have softened.
When I lower my hands, my eyes catch on a box on the floor, a slip of paper taped to the lid. Dread slithers through my veins as I step closer to thegift. Bending, I pick up the illusive package, tear off the note, unfold it, and read.
Put this on and I’ll let you out, my pretty little whore.
Bile climbs up my throat as alarm mixes with anger.
