Twelve

Paige

The bread’s gone, even the heel bit that I throw away at home. I never realized what it meant to be really hungry. I can feel my body beginning to eat itself for energy. Cannibalization at a cellular level. It’s exhausting.

I’ve had nothing but time to think. Just time to realize how many stupid things I’ve done for attention or to fit in. Now I wonder if I’ll have a chance to do things differently. I’m so scared that everyone will remember me the way I was—not the way I planned to be at some point. I was going to be nicer, work harder, all that stuff, and now I may not get to.

I wish I could tell my parents that I’m sorry. This notebook might be the only way I can let them know.

If I get out of this, When I get out, I’m going to make it up to my family.

I’m writing all of this down in case I don’t get out. In case I die. I know that might happen. Maybe it’s even likely. I want my parents to know how sorry I really am. I love you all so much.

Love,

Paige

The kidnappers came back! When the door flew open for a second, it was as if I’d imagined them into reality.

The one guy tossed down this plastic bag from Walmart with underwear, some T-shirts, and a pair of sweatpants inside. The other guy had two other sacks crammed with soap, shampoo, and food. My stomach grumbled, and my mouth watered when I saw the apples. When the guy nodded, I took it as permission, and I snapped up the food like they might take it away. I shoved one of the apples in my mouth. I hardly even chewed.

The tall guy stood by the door while I ate, and the other guy wandered around. They both wore black knit ski masks so I couldn’t see their faces. If they’re worried about me seeing who they are, that must mean there’s a chance they’ll let me go—right? But at the same time, the masks made them seem almost not human. Part of me wanted to tear them off so I could see their faces, and another part of me was terrified of what might be under there.

The one guy checked the boards that closed up most of the windows. He touched the scratch marks where I tried to pry them off. He picked up this pad of paper and read what I’d written. I wanted to snatch it out of his hands. The apology on it was for my family. But there was no point. The paper was his, the food was his, the new clothing was his, heck, I’m his. If he wants to read this, he can.

I finally got up the nerve to ask them what they were going to do with me. The short one licked his lips with this thick slug-like tongue and asked me what I wanted him to do. My mouth went completely dry. Everything I was thinking must have shown on my face, because the short guy laughed. A hacking laugh, like “hock, hock, hock.” He told me to relax, he wasn’t interested. He told me I stunk, and I was embarrassed because I knew it was true and then I was disgusted that I cared what he thought of me. The tall one told him to stop messing around. I get the feeling he’s in charge. He told me that it didn’t matter what they had planned—it wasn’t any of my business. He pushed the bag of clothing closer with his worn Timberland boot and told me to clean myself up.

Then they headed for the door. When I realized they were leaving, I panicked. I’d been frightened when they showed up, and now I didn’t want them to go. I couldn’t stand the idea of being buried under all that quiet. I leapt up and moved toward them. The short one shoved me back hard. Maybe he thought I was trying to run for it. I stumbled and cracked my tailbone on the floor.

“Please don’t go,” I begged.

They didn’t answer—they just slammed the door behind them. I heard the padlock snap shut, and I was alone again. I’m ashamed to admit that I sat there on the floor and sobbed, tears and snot running down my face.

My dad would tell me that crying is a waste of time and energy. He believes emotion gets in the way of action and that the difference between leaders and followers is the ability to put your emotions in place when you need to. If he was here, he would give me a hug and wipe my face. He’d want me to be strong. He wouldn’t waste time crying, so I made myself stop. I made myself focus on what action I could take. Thinking of what to do next kept my mind from wandering off to places I didn’t want to think about. I went into the bathroom and washed my face. I pulled out the new clothes and yanked off the tags. The fabric felt cheap and thin.

The underwear they brought me was a six-pack of Jockey for Her. Cotton granny panties in bright colors. I wondered if the fact it was a six-pack meant anything, that they’d set me free by day seven, or if they expected me to wash them, or if they didn’t think it would matter after that. I made myself pull each item out of the bag slowly and inspect it. I acted like it was my Christmas stocking, where every item had to be oohed and ahhed over.

I pulled out the tube of Crest Pro-Health and the new toothbrush. I squeezed out a tiny dollop of the sharp mint paste onto my tongue. Then I carefully folded the box down. I put the toothpaste on the shelf in the bathroom next to my new deodorant, toothbrush, and comb. When I reached into the bag again, I realized what else was there—a newspaper. My heart slammed into my ribs.

I laid the paper out on the bed, the sheets rustling. My face stared up at me. Next to my senior picture was a smaller photo of my parents and sister. I devoured the article, tasting each of the words. My family had made a public statement. They were doing everything to find me. They wanted me to know they loved me. My finger traced the letters, turning black with ink, before I began reading the rest. There wasn’t much else. The police representative didn’t say much, but the paper said there were leads. Witnesses. Someone thought they heard me scream. Someone else was pretty sure they saw me in my car with the two guys in the back. The article didn’t say who it was, but there was an “unnamed source” who had led the cops to my car at the airport.

There would be evidence in the car. They’d worn gloves, those thin plastic ones that people who work in delis wear, and knit masks over their heads, but they still must have left something behind. A few stray hairs or some DNA. I needed to have faith the police will do their jobs. I looked down at the picture of my parents.

I haven’t had many interactions with the police, but I know my dad. He will find me. I just need to do my part—stay alive until he comes for me.

I know you’ll come, Dad. I love you.

But please come soon. I don’t know how much more I can take.