I have no idea what direction to go but I don’t care—for the first time in forever I am free of that room. I move as fast as my feet can take me. I’m low on sugars and my head feels light but I keep going; this is my chance. Physical activity has not been a part of my world for so long it is hard for my brain to wait while my legs try desperately to keep up. The hallway is long with lots of doors, the wallpaper is ripped in places, and the lighting is low. It looks like an abandoned hotel, but where are the windows? I keep winding around corners, my hands holding me upright against the walls as my knees grow weak. I have no sense of direction; every hallway looks the same. I can hear voices getting louder and my heart is in my throat. I try pulling and pushing on the closest door handle but it doesn’t budge. Stinging tears race down my cheeks, panic is kicking in and sobs are overtaking me. I fight them back but I feel I’m letting myself down—I have a chance to escape and I can’t even open a goddamned door! A heavy click followed by a humming noise makes me freeze. Then the lights flicker and go out.
I cover my mouth to stop the screams as my hands shake violently along with my teeth. I press my back up against the door needing something stable to hold on to. A bright flicker off to the left draws my eye but it quickly dies and is followed by a dull orange glow. Someone is standing about ten feet from me smoking a fat cigar. I close my eyes saying a silent prayer. When I open them again I’m met with a mean set of eyes inches from my face. I am unable to move. I know this man—I've seen him a few times before and I think he runs this place. He puffs away, filling my nose with the nauseating scent of his Montecristo. I'd know that smell anywhere; my father often had parties and they seemed to be the most popular cigar among his guests.
My knees weaken as he continues to stare at me, saying nothing. I hear his shoulder shift in his jacket as his hand comes up and grips my chin tightly. With casual ease he flicks open and ignites his Zippo, holding it up to inspect the growing lump above my eye. The light goes out and I feel his vice-like grip move to the back of my neck and he pushes me to move forward. He obviously knows the building well since it is still pitch black and he directs me without hesitation. All I can hear is my hammering heartbeat and my short, ragged breaths.
Finally we stop at a door and he pushes it open and tosses me inside. I stumble forward, falling to my knees. Suddenly, the lights come on and I come face to face with the fat man whose neck is now wrapped in a white bandage. He holds his belt in his hand snapping it for more effect. The last thing I remember is being pushed onto a couch and the first crack of the belt along my lower back. This kind of pain, I’ll never forget; it is permanently embedded in my memory. Thankfully I slip away into a blissful place, one I welcome with open arms.
I wake to blinding pain, the smallest movement causing me to sob, which in turn hurts even more. My brain is cloudy. I can barely form a thought—even breathing is tricky. It takes me a few moments to realize I am back in my prison lying face down on the squeaky bed. I let go and allow the tears to flow. I need something to think about, something to focus on. I remember the first day I came here, Christ it seems so long ago.
“Hello my love,” I purr to my Keurig as I place my beloved mug that reads “Don’t talk to me till this mug is empty” underneath and push the button. My friend Lynn gets a kick out of the fact that I can’t function until I’ve had at least one large cup of coffee in me. She bought me this mug for my twenty-sixth birthday. It was tucked inside a basket she had done up along with an airline ticket to Fiji for the two of us to escape my crazy world. Man what a trip that was. I hear my front door open.
“You’re in for it now, Savi!” Lynn shouts as she comes into my kitchen. She holds up a magazine, showing the cover to me. As soon as my eyes read the caption I knew I was in the shit.
“Oh no.” I snatch it from her fingers.
“Oh yes,” she sighs, passing by me and opening up a cabinet. “So I take it he hasn’t called you yet?”
I shake my head no as I study the picture in horror. Us Weekly has a picture of me at a bar last night leaning over a table showing off my behind. The caption reads, “Mayor’s Daughter Reveals All”.
“I was reaching for my purse!” I shout. “It isn’t even my butt—this has been Photoshopped.”
“I know that, but will daddy dearest believe you?” She sips her coffee, eyeing me with concern. “Maybe you should call him first, might look better if you do.”
Lynn and I have been friends forever. We met in middle school the day we got stuck in detention for running our mouths and became fast friends ever since. She rode the wave of fame and publicity right alongside me. She is my rock as I am hers and we both consider ourselves the sisters we never had. Perhaps she has a point. I toss the magazine aside, reaching for my purse and pull out my cell. Three rings later I hear his voice.