I needed him even when he hadn’t been there.
I needed him.
I needed him.
It was all I could think of, crammed in the corner, losing faith I’d make it out of this. Wondering if I did survive, who I’d be on the other side.
“I’m going to die here,” I mumbled through cracked lips.
My stomach cramped in on itself, and I curled around it, wishing the hunger pains would stop. They had to stop eventually, I reasoned. Eventually, my mind would give me the blessing of blocking out the physical pain because the mental one was enough.
My captor left and hadn’t come back. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d had water. The first night, I’d cringed while giving in to drink the water from the flower vase. I’d almost thrown it right back up, but I’d been desperate and didn’t know how much longer I could wait until he returned.
If I’d known he wouldn’t have come back at all, I would have saved the water, making it last.
I had no idea I’d be left chained to this bed for who knew how long. I’d lost track. I knew it hadn’t been that long, but I was so tired, and my body ached. Sometimes I passed out, not knowing for how long. Did I miss a night? Did I miss two? How long could a person go without water? Five days? Or a week? Or was that food? I tried to remember the obscure facts I’d seen on a TV show somewhere, but I could never focus long enough to figure it out.
Not that it mattered anyway.
Because I was going to die here.
I’d been grateful at first when the man hadn’t come back. More time between me and misery. More time for me to think of a way to escape. I’d thought about dragging the bed to the closet in hopes I could find something to get free—only to find it bolted to the floor.
I’d stretched to reach the window, hoping to discover neighbors close enough that I could get help from—only to find nothing but land. I wondered if I was even in the state of New York anymore. It hadn’t stopped me from getting it open and screaming. I’d screamed until it hurt to breathe, the air too rough for my raw throat.
I’d wriggled my hand, forcing it into the smallest shape possible to slide free of the cuff, only to result in a raw wrist. I’d considered breaking my thumb like I saw on a show one time, only to figure out there was nothing I could actually use and that I was too scared to pull it off.
Now, laying here in my own waste, I didn’t care about fear, but now I was too weak to break a cracker, let alone my hand.
Now, I just wanted the earth to have mercy and let me pass out for good.
Now, I just wanted to quiet my mind, frustrated with the pendulum of hope, too scared, too desperate, too angry.
After the first night, I almost hoped to wake up to the sound of his steps coming up the stairs again. I hoped maybe he got caught by the police, and they were questioning him, and I just needed to hold on a little longer.
When I woke up the day after that, and he still wasn’t there, a hesitant form of acceptance crept into my mind, spreading as the hours passed. I took the time to wonder why? Was it all a joke? Did he kidnap me just to scare me and leave me here? Did he have multiple personalities and his other side came out and forgot about me? Did he die? Did he just change his mind? Or was this his plan all along? Or was he waiting until I was desperate enough to be grateful for his return?
Not a single idea filled me with anything but angry fear.
And through the hours and waiting and thinking, one person stayed on my mind more than anyone else: Parker.
That was a whole other kind of pendulum. Missing him and needing him. Doing nothing but imagining him bursting through the door, apologizing as he crumbled at my feet and saving me. Hating him for lying. Hating him for leaving. Screaming my anger as if he had been standing in front of me instead of this horrifying shade of gray and white.
All of that, only to crumble all over again and beg for him to find me because I loved him, and I needed him.
I closed my eyes, imagining him on his knees, begging me to forgive him for being so selfish and leaving me to talk to some producer. I imagined telling him it was okay and falling into his arms, but even my daydream stuttered over that, tripping over the resentment. I hated that I thought it but hated it even more because it was true. Sometimes I almost laughed at the irony of being left behind by a musician who forgot about me to follow his dreams. Maybe this was my destiny.