Five. That’s it. That’s all the American Board of Psychologists, or whoever made up that shit, can give me?
I consider what’s happened to me and I realize that those stages are all fucked up! Makes me wonder if there’s a hostage’s handbook somewhere.
“Denial.” Skip!
There’s, Why me? Why is this happening? And, God, aren’t you watching out for me? But you know what’s happened, and you feel the chilling dread of the darkest shadow you’ve ever encountered creeping closer. And with every passing day, it closes in on you—your own mortality—and you wonder how long the air will last.
So my number one is fear. Plain, simple, easy.
Fear.
Anger . . . hmm, I’m going to pass that one for the moment and skip to . . .
Bargaining.
That’s my number two.
I pleaded with Pedro to free me. He started to cry and left the room. He may be my only chance, as he seems to be the only one here with a conscience and maybe without a hidden agenda. Monster One and Monster Two, who tried force feeding me, each have their own ideas. While one maybe wants to dismember me, the other is following orders.
The way I refused to eat . . . that was bargaining with my captors.
Then, of course, there’s all the prayers I’ve been saying to any God in the universe that would hear me, begging him to get me out of this.
If I get a real chance to bargain for my life with my captors, I will, in a heartbeat. Of course, the shooter hasn’t shown his face to me, though. I wonder if it’s the guy who got me the nutrition drinks and who stopped the other man from hitting me.
I don’t know, but if they’ve made up their mind to kill me, I hope I can be brave enough to be defiant and spit in their faces.
Bargaining is number two.
Depression . . . should absolutely be number three in the hostage handbook’s stages of grief. I wonder if my captors have even bothered to learn my name. They haven’t used it. No one has spoken to me or questioned me, and the only one who talks to me is Pedro. I’m so fucking depressed—no comparison to anything I’ve ever felt before. I want to put my arms around my family and never let go. I cried for the first few days I was here—thinking about how I’ll probably never see them again—but I can’t and won’t do that anymore. Neither sorrow nor fear are productive emotions, and because they’re debilitating, I have to keep them in check.
Acceptance? No fucking way! I can’t do that. Not ever. I can picture my little sister and my mom—it’s just the three of us. They need me. I have to get home!
So how do I fight? How do I get out of here?
More thoughts flood in, all day long, tormenting me silently as I sit here chained against the wall on my filthy mattress. What if this is not short term? What if they move me somewhere more . . . permanent?
Now those thoughts jack me right back around to fear. I’ve read true life accounts about people taken. Women who were chained for years, their bodies used and beaten mercilessly. By a great miracle some get away, but most never get their miracle and are never found.
Fucking heartbreaking fucking world!
Acceptance? No. There is no acceptance—there is only plotting. I fix my mom and sister’s faces in my mind.
But my captors said home, I’m reminded.
Can I focus on that? Can I believe it? What else do I have?
Muffled voices catch my attention. They sound like they’re coming from behind a closed door or wall, and I have to strain to make out what they’re saying.
“I have to take measurements in that room too!” a man demands loudly. “Everywhere. What part of that don’t you understand?” His voice carries a noticeably deep and resonant timbre with a southern twang. “It’s my ass if I return with insufficient data.”
He sounds pissed off.
“This is a private storage room with the dimensions of a closet, it’s not big enough to be of any consequence,” another man says coolly with a Spanish accent. “Put the container by the door.”
The first man who spoke makes it known he’s unhappy, but then it goes silent again and they’re gone.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but the tape is still in place and no one has come.
If . . . I mean when I go home, I’m going to do all the things I’ve put off, thinking I’d have time to do later. No more waiting for anything! I’ll eat what I want when I want—spaghetti, lasagna, pizza, milkshakes and fucking french fries. I’m going to get the little black tribal elephant tattoo I’ve always wanted but was too afraid of the commitment and the pain to actually go through with.