Emma
The first thing to assault my senses is smoke. The place reeks of it.
For some reason, my eyes refuse to cooperate. It takes tremendous effort to open them.
Sitting up is near impossible. My muscles scream in agony. To top things off, a giant weight has me pinned to the couch.
My hands wrestle to get what feels like a furry blanket off my body. In the process, I notice ash and soot on my bare skin.
Exhausted from the effort, I look around. I see flames from a gray stone fireplace dance and lick at the air, making cracking and popping sounds as the wood morphs under the pressure of the heat.
I try and run my hand through my hair, but it’s a complete mess, full of tangles. My fingers get stuck in the knots.
My thoughts are working overtime. What the hell happened? The last thing I remember is a Hulk lookalike leaning over the top of me.
At the time, I couldn’t make out if he was superhero, mythical beast, or evil psychopath.
Back in the realm of consciousness, I still can’t remember who or what rescued me. All I know is, whoever it was scooped me up as if I were a football they could easily tuck under their arm and clutch for the win.
Hulk Lookalike had bent over me when I was in my apartment, I’m certain of it. I scan the area with blurry eyes. I try in vain to make sense of where I am.
The room is dark, quiet, and the smell of smoke overpowers everything else. Toto, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Where the fuck am I? Am I even still on planet earth?
For all I know, I could actually be inside a spaceship. Or maybe the basement of a psychopath.
Since I can sit up, albeit with difficulty, I quickly realize my arms and legs aren’t shackled or bound. Strange kidnapper.
If I am in an abductor’s house, then where the hell are they, and why am I not tied up?
Suddenly, I realize I’m totally naked. Yep, I’m in my birthday suit. There’s not a single stitch of clothing on my body.
Now the penny drops. The cover on me is a bearskin. I’m underneath a fucking bearskin rug or something.
What the hell is happening? Who uses a bearskin rug? Alarm bells are ringing.
I pinch the sensitive skin on the back of my wrist to wake up from this nightmare. When pain shoots through me, I realize this is no fucking dream.
Millions of questions swirl around inside my head. Where is someone I can ask what the hell is going on?
Panic spreads through me. Fire. Is someone going to cook me and eat me?
The fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel comes to mind. Better see if I can get away before the witch comes back to fulfill her evil plan.
Slowly, I try to get to my feet and shuffle in a little circle. I watch the shapes form in the shadows of the dim room.
From the little I can see, I think I’m in a cabin. A poorly decorated, drab and void of any personality or flair type of cabin.
There’s a newspaper on a desk by the door, and dark-colored curtains hang from the windows, not allowing any release of light, which explains the darkness in here. Wherever here is.
If not for the starkness of the room, it might have a cozy feel, but I’m shaking with crippling fear and anxiety from the lack of knowledge of my whereabouts.
More importantly, how the hell did I get into this cabin⸺and where is it? The last time I checked, the bustling island of Manhattan didn’t have cabins made from what appears to be pinewood.
I decide to investigate my body for damage or any kind of injuries like cuts, welts, or bruises. I run a trembling hand over my bare thighs and sigh with relief that I appear untainted down there…you know…between my legs.
Taking a deep breath, vulnerability surges through me. A woman all alone in a mountain cabin. Of course, I don’t know for sure it’s a mountain cabin, but my imagination is now running away with me.
Nearly dizzy from fear, I sit back down on the couch and try not to allow the panic in my mind to completely consume me.
I can get through this. Let’s re-create what the fuck happened to me before coming here.
What’s the last thing I remember?
I got home after a long day at work. I was feeling exhausted from the bullshit and missing Dylan terribly.
At some point in time, Jen rang to remind me we’re going out. Of course, the troll-like dude comes back to mind. Had he…? No, I dismiss the thought instantly.
Then what happened?
I was tired as shit when I left the club, nearly falling asleep in the cab. When I got to my apartment, I completely stripped down naked. When I sank onto bed and slid under my sheets, I remember feeling weightless, as if I were floating on pillows that were really fluffy clouds.
Eventually, I drifted off into a restless slumber.
It’s been hard for me to adapt to Dylan leaving me, and still, after all this time, I think of him, am consumed by him. I mean, you’d think after five fucking years, I’d have my shit together, or maybe even be engaged to be married to a new bachelor in question.
Nope, I’m still all alone, refusing to let go of the past.
Now, here I am in some dark cabin in the middle of God knows where, unable to piece together the events of what happened.
I want to call out for help, but fear immobilizes me as the words get stuck in my throat.
For what seems like forever, I sit and listen to the silence. Nothing.
The only thing I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my chest.
If I sit here still and quiet enough, maybe I’ll find some clues about my surroundings.
After a few more agonizing minutes, I come to the conclusion that I need to get up from this unknown couch in the middle of nowhere and look around.
Why am I even still sitting here? Shouldn’t I be trying to escape or something?
When I stand up, my knees crack. I brace myself, wincing in the darkness for fear that somebody might have heard me.
Perhaps my kidnapper is in another room, sleeping soundly. I could only pray to be so lucky as to slip by whoever the hell it is.
On the other hand, what happens when I do get outside the door? Where am I going to go? I swallow hard and lick my lips, disgusted with how astoundingly filthy I am right now.
I try to rub the soot off my elbows and hands, but it’s no use. The stuff is matted on there pretty hardcore, and I don’t want to lick my fingers to help rub it off.
Right now, I look like a fucking hobo, but does it really matter? I carefully walk over to one of the windows to see if I can look outside.
As I cross the room, I glance over my shoulder with paranoia, fearful that some man with giant glasses and a receding hairline will be looming over me with a gleaming axe and a smile on his face.
Okay, so maybe I watch too many shows on the ID channel about murder. Whatever. I vow to live life to the fullest if I ever make it out of here alive.
At the window, I place my slender fingers, still caked with soot, on the curtains, uncaring about whether or not I transfer any of my caked-on dirt to its surface.
I stick my tongue out in concentration and slowly peel back the layers of fabric until the night sky is exposed outside.
Okay, so it looks like I’m in the woods, as I expected. I mean, naturally, it’s the first thing you think of when in a log cabin.
There are shadows in the darkness, peaks blending in with the trees that I assume are mountains but can’t be truly confident about because it’s just too damn dark outside.
With a deep intake of breath, I place my clammy hand against the surface of the window. Immediately, the condensation from the night leaves my handprint plain as day on the glass.
Gently, I push on the glass, but the window doesn’t budge an inch. It’s sealed shut or something.
Okay, so now what? I brainstorm an escape route while scanning the room for the door. But before I can even form a decent plan, I hear a faint rustling noise from another room.
I freeze in place as my lungs work hard to swallow the air that just won’t come. I stand there, as still as a statue, straining to figure out where the sounds are coming from.
Finally, I work up the nerve to spin on my heel, however excruciatingly slowly it happens, and dash back to the couch and the safety of the bearskin.
Pain shoots through me, and I call out in fucking pain.
Then I see a figure in the doorway. Holy fucking shit.
There is a fucking bear in this room, and it’s standing upright, staring at me with wild eyes and fuzzy fur as if it’s ready to dive right in and eat me as a snack.
My trembling hands clutch the cover and hang on to it tightly as if it can save me from the savage beast. But I’m afraid nothing can save me now.