The alarm goes off at six in the morning. I sit up and stretch, then slither out of bed. The tile floor is freezing cold and I put on a pair of slippers before padding over to the kitchenette across the room. I sleepily turn on the coffee maker, rubbing my eyes.

I live in a tiny studio apartment, admittedly on the rougher side of town. It may not be much to look at, but it’s mine. It’s home. And I work really damn hard to maintain it.

Rent is expensive when you’re on your own, and I’ve been on my own for a long time. I’m determined not to have a roommate, since I love coming home to peace and quiet. It’s easier to focus on work when I don’t have a bunch of distractions. I don’t need someone around asking me questions and taking up my time. The only person who ever really looked out for me was my mother, and she’s long gone now.

While the coffee is percolating, I hop into the shower and take my time washing my hair under the hot water. My apartment building is run down, a leaning, gray remnant of the seventies. The plumbing is, well, a little unreliable. Halfway through rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, the water starts to turn cold. I rush to finish up and turn it off, wrapping myself in a threadbare towel.

It’s fine. I prefer them this way. I always feel like the fluffy towels don’t dry as well. I quickly blow dry my long, gently curling, dark-blonde hair. I sweep it back into a bouncy ponytail and put on a little cursory makeup, just enough to make it look like I got more sleep last night than I truly did. I don’t need to look perfect. I work at a daycare during the week, and the kids I look after don’t care what I look like as long as I’ll read to them and give them snacks.

I put on a no-nonsense green sweater and jeans, paired with some comfy boots. It’s supposed to snow later today, so I throw on a thick jacket and a heavy brown scarf. Then I pour my coffee, black, into a thermos, grab my purse, and head out to catch the morning bus to work.

Today is a good day. I can tell, because on my bus ride, no weirdos sit next to me. No creepy guys leer at me and waggle their eyebrows suggestively. That’s a good sign.

By the time I walk into work, I have a smile on my face. And my smile gets wider when all my favorite little kids come running up to me as I walk through the door at work.

They don’t care that I live in a shitty studio in a bad neighborhood. They don’t care where I come from or what my life is like. They just accept me for who I am.

And here, among the kids, I’m pretty popular. They like my singing voice that I inherited from my mom. They like the dumb knock-knock jokes I tell. They think I’m cool. Sure, it might be a little pathetic for a 23-year-old to be this happy to be liked and accepted by a bunch of kids, but whatever. I like working here. My weekdays here are a lot more fun than my weekends working at the sports bar. And my night classes for nursing school. There’s a lot on my plate, but today, I feel pretty good.

I go through the whole day with a smile on my face, and when I get off work, I stop by my favorite Chinese takeout restaurant to grab some chicken lo mein for dinner. I take the bus home and to my amazement, despite the long ride and the snow, my food is still warm by the time I get to my apartment.

I settle in on the couch and watch TV while I eat. I clean up and get ready for bed. But when I walk into the curtained-off corner of the room where my bed is, suddenly it’s not there.

In fact, when I look around the place, it’s not my apartment anymore. My furniture is all gone. The room isn’t even the same color and shape. Now, I find myself in a dark, cold, musty room I don’t recognize.

Where the hell am I?

“Help!” I cry out, and wake up with a start.

It was all a dream.

A memory replaying in my desperate mind. Just my brain trying to distract me from the horror all around me. I blink, looking around the room.

I’m not at home in my tiny but cozy studio. I’m still in this dark, gray place. I don’t know where it is or how I got here. I’m in a bed, but it’s not my bed. It’s just the bed that exists in this room. The room I’ve been trapped in for what seems like days. Maybe even weeks.

My stomach churns and I rush towards the toilet, heaving over it. But there’s nothing left in me to give to the porcelain god. My stomach is as empty as my soul, and my body is wracked with dry sobs.

My body aches for freedom, and I’ve wasted so many tears already. I haven’t seen my captor since the night he first brought me down here. I’ve been left alone, my thoughts bleeding together, wondering how long it’ll take for something to happen.

That’s probably the scariest thing. That I want something to happen. The monotony, the fear, the sorrow, it all blends together with an aching loneliness and a pit in my heart. Every time I think I’ve cried my last tear and built up my resolve not to cry and scream into the nothingness anymore, I break down again.

Isn’t that what he wants? To break me down?

I don’t even know, because I feel broken enough already.

There are no clocks and no windows here, so I have no idea how much time has passed. I sleep almost all the time, exhausted from my tears and worries. My face feels permanently raw, my body dehydrated and losing weight, and every movement takes more energy than it ever did before. I shower to try to free myself of the grim that I feel on my skin all the time, trying to forget that I’m a captive at the whim of a mad man who I don’t know the intentions.

I might as well be underground, hidden from all the world. In fact, sometimes I think I might be.

I look at the door on the other side of the room and wince at the sight of dents and scratches on the heavy industrial material. Signs of past escape attempts, when my loneliness and stir-craziness led me to beat at the door, throw things, bang canned food and the metal chair against the door, hoping desperately it might work. But nothing works. That door is solid. I don’t know who built this place or who put me here, but they’re got me cornered.

And under surveillance.

It only took me a little while of being here to notice the cameras. There are probably eight cameras in this small area, catching me from every angle. There’s even a camera above the cracked, dusty bathroom mirror. There isn’t a curtain around the bathtub, so I know my captor is trying to watch me bathe in the nude.

But I have a system: I take the sheets from my bed and drape them up over the metal rods, hiding my body as best I can. I’m not going to let this fucking scumbag win. No matter how much I scream, how much I cry, it’s anger in my heart that keeps me pushing ahead. It’s rage that fuels my ability to get out of the bed in the morning and not give up.

The water here is always warm. In fact, the whole place is kept at a balmy heat. It’s a ploy to get me to wear less clothing, to strip down to my underwear, I just know it. But I would rather be sweaty and uncomfortable than willingly strip down and parade around half-naked for some gross pervert, wherever he is.

That’s exactly what he wants, and he may have taken everything else from me, but I still have my dignity. And I intend to cling to that as long as humanly possible.

Being alone with one’s thoughts is torture, especially for days or weeks on end. Especially with nothing to look forward to, no release day at the end of your stay. I can’t countdown the days to my freedom. The only thing I have to look forward to is a terrifying man who kidnapped me, finally enacting the worst tortures imaginable.

I try not to think about it, pushing the dark fear into the recesses of my mind.

But in its place, all I can think about is retracing my steps of that fateful last day of freedom...

It was a normal day. Hell, even a good day. I woke up Saturday morning feeling energized and motivated. I had chores to do. Dishes to wash, laundry to fold. I blazed through all that quickly. That night I was scheduled to work the 3 o’clock to midnight shift at the sports bar. No big deal. I didn’t exactly look forward to my weekend shifts there, but some nights I made pretty good money in tips. Especially if there was an important sports game happening. But I had all morning and early afternoon to myself. After I finished my chores, I decided that it was time to do something for myself. Something I had been putting off for months.

I was going to get myself a pet cat from the shelter.

Once the decision was made, I was on cloud nine. I went to the pet store and picked out all the supplies I needed. Litter box, kitty litter, cat food, scratching post, little cat toys. I was so excited.

Is that where he first saw me? I didn’t recognize him at all, but if he weren’t following me that night, I’d never have given him a second glance. He just seemed so ordinary, like he would blend into any crowd.

How long had he been watching me? Was it just an impulse? Did he see me walking down the street alone and figure he got lucky?

Something tells me he was not an impulsive man, though. This horrific setup was done long in advance, the pantry stocked, the cameras put in place, the bed sheets washed. He had been planning this for a very long time.

But was he always intending it for it to be me down here in his disgusting box? Tears threaten my eyes again and I angrily swipe them away. He was no one I knew. He wasn’t the parent of one of the children I look after, he wasn’t a regular at the restaurant.

There was no way for you to know, I try to reassure myself, but the words ring hollow in my ears. There must have been something I could have done to prevent this.

I revisit my last day once more.

I took up so much time buying cat supplies I was almost late for work. I didn’t have a chance to grab my boots to change into afterward.

I promised myself that tomorrow—Sunday—I would go to the shelter and check it out.

I’d find a sweet little kitty, maybe one that seemed neglected and afraid, and I’d nurse it back to health. I’d pour my energy into making the furball purr and feel content and safe. I was so excited.

After my shift, I was stuck walking to the bus stop in the middle of the night in my stupid work heels.

And that’s when that awful man started chasing me.

He caught me.

He brought me here.

And the rest is misery.

I get up and walk around the room, wracking my brain for the thousandth time. Who could this guy be? I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to cause me such harm. I was always kind of a loner, keeping to myself. Did he know that? Did he watch me and realize there was no one close to me that I could turn to?

I grew up poor, watching my mother struggle to keep us afloat. So by the time I was on my own at eighteen, I had one hell of a work ethic. I was going to tunnel my way out of poverty and make a life for myself, even if I had to isolate myself from the rest of the world to do so.

I also hated to frivolously spend money, so I always opted for public transit over taxis or ride shares. I hated working, and then spending my pay on getting to and from the restaurant. Is that why he targeted me? Did he see me on the bus one day?

I pour over my memories again, trying to piece together his wicked grin, his hunched posture, his bulky frame.

But I’d never seen him before. Whether I saw him a hundred times in passing, or never at all, the outcome would be the same. I had no clues to go off of who this guy was.

Except for one.

He was quiet the entire time, and I was blacked out for most of it, but just before the door closed, he spoke.

“I’ll be back for you when you’re... ready for me,” he had said before shutting and locking the bunker door, leaving my head spinning and my stomach reeling.

I still don’t know what it means. When I’m ready? But I have the worst feeling about it. That he wants to break me down. That he wants me to go to those cameras and beg for him to rescue me from this Hell on Earth. That he wants me broken and simpering, desperate for any kind of human touch.

Even his.

My stomach growls and my face twists in anger. Every time I have to do anything other than sleep, I feel like my body is betraying me. Acting like everything is normal, and this isn’t the worst thing to happen to me.

How can I worry about hunger, about showering, about doing anything when I’m just a toy to an absent kidnapper?

But he’s never really absent. I walk over to the little kitchenette area and stare up at the hidden camera with anger and hate in my eyes. It’s a dark kind of poetry how similar this place is to my studio apartment. Same small square footage. Same stark, minimalistic decor.

Except my apartment was my sanctuary, filled with my treasured possessions, and allowing me to come and go as I needed. I hate my freedom. My privacy.

My sanity.

This place is like a hellish shadow of my apartment.

Whoever put me here had the place fully stocked, though. There were plenty of towels and rolls of toilet paper. The kitchenette had a massive pantry filled with canned goods and preserved food. None of it was particularly tasty, but my captor wasn’t starving me.

If he wants me begging for him, it’s probably just another ploy to try to get me on his side. His own twisted version of bad cop, good cop, but he’s both players.

I try to remember more from that day when I was brought here. After that man chased me into the alleyway, I fell. I cut my foot. It still hurts, even now, after washing it profusely and keeping it clean. It doesn’t look infected, and I’ve stayed off it as best I can. What else is there to do?

After I fell down, the man caught me. I tried to slash at him with a piece of glass but I couldn’t do it. There was that nasty sweet smell and then I blacked out. I assume he chloroformed me. I remember little bits and pieces, vaguely. Waking up in a moving vehicle, lying on my back. I couldn’t move or speak for some reason. I saw flashes of moonlight through the trees. And then nothing, until I woke up here, in this room.

“I’ll be back for you when you’re... ready for me.”

The last words I’ve heard spoken to me in days. Weeks maybe.

There is something else I remember, but it has nothing to do with why I’m here. There’s no way it could. A few weeks ago, someone I had no memory of, no attachment to, decided to suddenly appear. Someone I never expected to see. Someone I didn’t even miss.

My father.

In between my tears, my anger, my fear, I keep mulling over the strange details of our meetup. It’s a distraction from my horrific situation, but not a very pleasant one.

The man who ignored my existence for twenty-three years, this complete stranger who wanted nothing to do with me or my mother, suddenly wanted to see me. When I walked into his office at the manufacturing plant he owns in Rochester, he looked ill. Tired. He was pale and fragile-looking, nothing like the strong man I used to imagine when I was a child.

I was suspicious of his intentions. After all, what could he possibly have wanted with me now after all this time? But it seemed to me he was feeling guilty. Ashamed, maybe, of how he treated mom and I.

Like he wanted to make up for lost time or something.

“Too late for that,” I frown morosely, feeling my stomach growl again and ignoring it.

My biological father mentioned something about a will, some paperwork he decided to add my name to. But I knew not to get excited about that. All my life, he has let me down. Pretended I don’t exist. Why should I expect anything from him now?

Besides, I don’t want anything from him. I prefer to make my own way in life. I don’t want to owe anything to anyone.

And now it doesn’t matter anyway. Because I’m trapped down here in this horrible pit, being watched and stalked by some creepy old pervert.

“Sorry, Dad. I’ve already got one awful old man trying to ruin my life right now, don’t have room for another,” I mumble.

I walk to my bed, slowly stripping the sheets once more. It’s the only real routine I have, something I can turn my brain off on. Just go through the motions of taking the sheets, hanging them on the metal shower rod. Everything in here is damp from the humidity of my constant showers, but I can’t help but feel like I’m coated in something nasty.

Especially knowing that the cameras are tracking my every move.

I turn on the water, the warm steam filling the air. If I close my eyes, for just a second, I can pretend I’m back in my own apartment, showering in the morning to get ready for the day. I imagine the hands of daycare kids wrapping me in a hug, tickling me and brightening my day. I can almost smell the scent of tempra paint and the outdoors and their lunches in my nose, and a faint smile reluctantly comes to my lips.

But I’m not there, and my breath gets choked off in my throat. A sob comes from me, and in the only private place I have, I begin to truly cry. Not to anguished, angry and frighten cries of earlier in my captivity.

These are the tears of grief. Of mourning.

As if I’d finally accepted that my old life is dead and gone, and all I have to look forward to is up to the whims of a disgusting creep.

Tears mingle with the shower water and my shoulders heave until there’s no more tears to cry. I’m empty, the sensation almost cathartic after feeling so much for so long. I stay in the shower until it runs cold, wanting to hide my vulnerability from those damnable cameras. I don’t want him to know he’s won. That he’s beaten me down.

“I’ll be back for you when you’re ready for me,” he promised. I never want him to think I’m ready for him. I’ll never be ready for him.

I reach for the towel, drawing it in behind the sheet, drying off quickly, my body starting to shiver from the cold water. My clothes don’t smell so nice anymore, after being down here for so long, but I grab for them and discreetly get dressed in the tub.

In the corner of the room is a dresser with brand new lacy lingerie and other pieces of scant clothing. I won’t wear any of it. As I walk out of the bathroom I turn and flip the mirror camera the bird. I mouth the words fuck you. I’m not going to let him know he won.

But even with all my anger and fear, I find myself torn. I certainly don’t want that nasty old pervert to come down here. I never want to see his horrible fucking face again.

On the other hand, being alone with my thoughts for so long... I’m losing my grip on reality. Loneliness eats at me, and not knowing what’s going to happen, imagining every horrific possibility... At least if he came down here, I’d know more of what to expect. At least I’d have something solid to fear.

I’m pushed from my reverie by the sound at the door.

I freeze up, looking over at the door with wide eyes. My heart begins to pound.

No, no, no no no!

I immediately move to the kitchen, looking for a weapon. There’s no knives, and the sharpest thing in there is a can opener. I grab a can of tomato soup, hoping I could throw it at him and dart for the door.

Now that he’s here, I definitely know what I want. I want to be free. I want the third option.

I can hear a series of locks clicking, coming undone. And then the door knob turns. The door clicks open and a beam of light pours into the room, illuminating the dark silhouette in the doorway.

Instantly I can tell that it’s not the same man. This man is broad and very tall, blocking off the entire door with his wall of muscle. I gulp and reel the can back, preparing to throw it at his head as I shake with fear.

“Who the hell are you?”