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The second window is at a right angle to the first, but the view is similar, except for what looks like one farm house with a tall silo far in the distance. I try to open the windows, but both of them are locked shut. I reach up to where the visible locking mechanism is one one of them and flip it, but the window still doesn’t budge. I run my hand repeatedly around the outside of both of the frames, but find nothing. Clearly, they’ve been secured some other way, such that anyone trapped inside here won’t be able to unlock them.
My eyes flit around the room, searching for something heavy I could use to break the glass. But there’s nothing. No chair to hurl against it, no statues or table lamps. The only throwable objects in here are pillows on the bed and an area rug on the floor.
There’s no escaping this room, except by the door.
I sink down on the king-size bed to think. For the first time, I notice there’s an outfit laid out on the bedspread. It’s a skimpy black lace bra and thong, plus garters and stockings. A palette of eye makeup and mascara sits to one side. No heels, unfortunately — I could maybe have used them to hammer at the window.
My stomach turns over as I realize that they’re here for me to put on.
And why.
Repulsed, I push the clothes away from me and stand up abruptly. I start to pace the perimeter of the room, my pulse racing. After a few laps like this, I take some calming breaths and force myself to slow down. I begin to walk deliberately as slowly as I can, taking in every detail of the space and trying to make my mind latch onto something I can use as a weapon, or a tool.
It’s then that I meet my own gaze in a small mirror hanging up at eye on the far wall. It’s encased in an antique-style gilded frame.
And an idea forms in my head.
Initial fear that it won’t work is slowly replaced by the dawning realization that there are really no other good options. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. I start to work the plan out in my head. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, making me giddy as I think it through as thoroughly as I can. I run through the whole scenario once, twice, a third time. I try to imagine it as though it’s happening as I picture it — as though by doing so, I can give myself the muscle memory of having done it.
Since whoever the next person is that comes through that door will likely be much stronger than I am, my only real hope is the element of surprise. Which means I need to get him (assuming it’s a him) to let his guard down.
Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I stare at the outfit on the bed. I don’t want to do this, but I think I have to. I pick up the makeup and cross to the mirror. I take out the eyeliner and quickly use it to enhance my eyes. I open the mascara and sweep it across my lashes. Lipstick is next, a deep red color that looks like a gash in the middle of my face. I put it on porn-star thick. I catch a glimpse of my still-healing scar as I work, and deliberately flick my eyes away from it.
Then, shakily, I pull off my clothes and put on the bra, panties, and stockings. They fit me well. Enough to make me push away thoughts of how the person who picked them knew my size.
After I’m dressed, I pick up my discarded T-shirt. Using my teeth to make a little hole in the fabric, I rip off a swath of it, then drop the rest of it to the ground.
When I’m finally finished, I run through the plan in my head one more time. I take a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly every time.
Then, I pull the mirror off the wall, raise it over my head, and smash it to the ground.
Working quickly, I find the longest, most knife-like shard among the shattered remains. I wrap one end up in the scrap of shirt and secure it behind me under my waist-band. Grabbing the mascara, I stand next to the smashed frame of the mirror and wait.
Seconds later, loud footsteps.
A key slips into the lock. The door opens.
A man I haven’t seen comes in. He’s short and stocky, maybe fifty. He has dark black hair. He’s wearing a suit that looks expensive.
Hector Loera.
My stomach clenching with anxiety, I launch into the routine I’ve practiced in my head.
“I’m so sorry!” I wail, looking down at the shattered mirror and taking a few steps back to cower against the wall. “I didn’t mean to do it! I was trying to—” I gulp, using my very real fear to make the tears come again. “I was trying to do what you wanted,” I finish in a near-whisper. “To make myself pretty.”
His brow creases. I can’t read his eyes, but I have to keep going, so I do.
I drop my gaze to the floor. “They… they said you’d be nice to me if… if I was a good girl. That you wouldn’t hurt me.”
Loera leers. “Who told you that?”
I hesitate for a split-second. I don’t know if Loera knows I’m the sister of the man who gave me to him, but if he doesn’t, I need to be careful not to tell him. “I don’t know who they are. They…” My voice breaks. “They kidnapped me,” I blubber. “These strangers, they grabbed me! They took me to a warehouse, and then some other men came and tied me up and brought me here! I was so scared! Please don’t hurt me! Please!”
Loera regards me without speaking. His eyes narrow as they travel up and down my body. When they reach my face again, I see them, stop for a long, cold second at the healing cut on my cheek. When his gaze finally locks back onto mine, it sharpens into a cold, pure look of gleeful sadism. Involuntarily, I shudder.
He’s getting off on this,I realize.My fear, my pain. All of it. He’s practically licking his chops to hurt me.
If my plan doesn’t work, the next hours of my life are going to be more horrifying than I can imagine.
