I don't know. I am in a black hole. Over time, thirst and hunger have become more prominent thoughts in my mind. My lips are so dry, it's like running my tongue along sandpaper. My stomach cramps with hunger. I lie on my side, too weak to make the effort to stand. I fantasize about margaritas and a hamburger at The Firehouse, a tradition on Friday nights.
He left me here and hasn't returned. At least not that I can tell. I am in a constant state of discomfort. Naked in a place that is always just a little too chilly. My own hands rubbing the goose-pimpled skin my only source of warmth. As I become weaker with dehydration and hunger, I get colder still.
Yet, I am still alive. And with that there is hope. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me. But then what does he want? He hasn't touched me again. He's not using me for any obvious purpose. Maybe he's left me to die a slow, agonizing, lonely death.
Then, footsteps. They creak above my head a few times, back and forth, like someone is up to something. I don't know if I should scream for help. What if he has abandoned me somewhere and this is my only chance to be discovered? What if I say something and incur his wrath? I have no choice but to take the chance.
“H…H…elp.” I haven't used my voice in days and my mouth is so chalky I nearly choke on the sounds. “Help,” I eke out.
The footsteps continue as I use my energy reserves to beg for help. I don't think I'm loud enough to be heard.
But then they approach a new area overhead and there's the sound of a door unlatching. My heart pounds with adrenaline, giving me a burst of energy I haven't had since the thirst began to overtake me.
Something thuds to the ground feet away from me. I scramble wildly trying to gauge where the person is. Terror creeps deep into my bones, but the need to survive is so strong, that it overrides the paralyzing fright. It's not bravery. Bravery implies there's a choice. “Wa-ter,” I rasp.
Silence. Silence that makes those goosebumps surface. Then in an instant, the blindfold is whipped off my face. I've gone without seeing for so long, my eyes forget how to focus. I blink a few times, trying to find something to hone in on and recalibrate my vision. Instinctively, I do so on a bottle of water about fifteen feet away from me. The firmly built man towering over me wearing a black balaclava quickly steals my attention, though.
I shake my head and shrink my body in fear. I don't feel human. I'm more like a caged animal. Like he's here to snuff me out. He pulls me to my knees. I look around and see I'm in a basement. A couple of short, cloudy, ground-level windows bring in hints of daylight. The light fighting its way in is bright with a tint of yellow; it must be a beautiful day out there.
I wait for him to say something, but he keeps silent.
He cups my chin and pulls it up to meet his eyes. Their clarity reminds me of the chunks of glass I used to collect at the beach as a kid. Still he says nothing.
He walks away and points at the water. I don't understand this game we're playing. But I am so thirsty.
I nod desperately. He turns away and heads back up the stairs, taking the bottle with him.
“No…no,” I beg hoarsely. He leaves the door open behind him and I'm so despondent, I would follow with no regard for my safety, but I'm shackled by the ankle. Before I can try to understand his intentions, he's back, with a bucket in one hand and a white paper bag in the other.
It hits me instantly. The aroma of food. Despite the dehydration, I begin to salivate. I would do anything for that fucking food and water. I'm delirious with the need.
He places the bucket down and brings the bag to my face as if he wants me to peek in. I do. It's like he's been reading my fantasies. Burgers and fries. Oh god. Fuck. I begin to cry. I can't believe I'm crying over a hamburger.
He pulls the bag away and sets it back where the water was. He returns with the bucket. Inside of it is soapy water and a sponge.
He points at this and then the food.
I look down at my body. It's covered in scrapes and mud. I've defecated and pissed in another spot in the room and I have become numb to the scent of it.
“If I wash, you'll feed me?” I ask, with a sense of hope that belies the perverseness of the situation.
He nods.
“Okay. Untie my hands. I'll do it. I promise.”
He shakes his head, putting the bucket down and dropping in his sinewy arm down to the elbow. He's not as covered as he was last time, wearing a t-shirt that shows his arms and jeans that are torn and covered in grease and paint, like he works in construction or something. My eyes run up along his arm, and that's when I notice a series of violent scars along the outer part of his biceps, like the skin has been ripped off at some point.
He pulls out the large sponge, soapy water running down his muscled forearm and back into the bucket.
He's not interested in me bathing myself.