“I’ll go after her. You finish the search here. If you find her, kill her. If she’s on the run, she’ll contact her parents soon, and we’ll get her that way.”
There’s the pounding of heavy feet, but my ordeal is far from over. As noise from the bedroom and shadows spilling throughthe partially-open wardrobe door, show the man left behind is motivated. Guess he wasn’t as convinced as his colleague.
I’m alone, and my only hope is being still and silent.
As he roughly drags things around, I try for a relaxed state of mind that will keep myself calm. A beach, right? Or mountains. A nice spa. But I don’t think of those things. I think of my neighbour’s approving but haughty gaze raking down me as I walk out of the building. I think of how, when I turn back as I walk away, he’s always watching me, as though he’s as addicted to seeing me as I am him.
There’s the scrape of wood and a crash as the man overturns my bed, then curses when I’m not there.
Shit. No amount of silver-grey eyes or beaches contain the panic now. I press my lips together to keep in my hysterics. This is all so unreal. I’m just a dull, shy girl with brown hair who eats too few vegetables and has a mild Taylor Swift addiction, but now I’m a mafia target.
I clench my teeth as he searches the wardrobe. There’s a clink as he shoves the hangers from one side to the other, and he kicks my pile of shoe boxes over.
But it’s been ransacked already, and he’s not paying full attention.
He steps away, and the next sound is him dragging out my chest of drawers.
And somehow, my god, I’ve never thought of myself as lucky until now… He hasn’t seen me. This absurd space in my wardrobe has finally had a use.
I keep breathing evenly in the dark, as the man who will murder me if he finds me crashes through my apartment.
I don’t know how long I cower in my wardrobe. I begin to shake after a while. My back aches from standing in the same position. My head throbs, and the blood dries on my forehead.
Listening intently, I try to make out what has happened. But it’s not like the murder man left with a cheery, “Going now, thanks for everything!”
Tons of neighbours mean there are faint noises, constantly. I can’t tell whether they’re from upstairs, or the man is still creeping around.
Every time I think of moving, I get as far as shifting an inch, and then stop. Because what if they’re just out there, in my apartment? What if they have surveillance? What if they’re playing a long game and waiting for me to come out? There is a crack of light coming through the partly-open wardrobe, and it doesn’t flicker.
And as I stand, stuck to the ground, I think again of all the things I haven’t done.
My neighbour would have turned me down, for sure, but I should have risked it. I have one life, and if it’s over, I’ve achieved nothing. Not like my mum, who raises money for her vulnerable children charity. Very successfully, and I’ve never thought anything of that until now. Not like Dad, who cared for me and built his mechanic firm from zero.
Most of all, I haven’t been essential to anyone. No one has been overcome with lust because of me, or so in love they can’t breathe. I’ve never been kissed and held and wanted. I haven’t been pregnant and had the man responsible stroke my belly tenderly.
I’m a failure, and I’m alone.
And I guess, honestly, I’m a coward. I couldn’t find the courage to speak to my neighbour, and now I’m stuck in a wardrobe, afraid for my life.
When soft footsteps echo through my apartment, I’m too far gone. A tear trickles silently down my cheek, because I’m an idiot. I should have moved.
I definitely can’t escape now.
Maybe I should have… What? Climbed out the window that my chubby bottom would have gotten stuck in? Or what if Steve was in on it and if I tried to go through the lobby, stopped me?
This feels like I’m a side character in my life. Just here to provide suspense.
The person, whoever they are, walks into every room, pausing at the threshold each time. But when they enter my bedroom—the final room on their brief tour—they don’t stop. Confident steps come to the wardrobe and my heart takes off. A helicopter in my chest.
When the wardrobe door creaks wide, I screw my eyes shut and another tear emerges.
I can’t cope. I can’t do this. But I remain quiet.
“Moya koshechka.” I don’t understand the words, but the accent is different to the previous men, and it takes a few seconds to permeate my brain. “Open your eyes.”
I do, surprise driving me. At the corner of my vision, a man has pushed to the back of the wardrobe and stands regarding me.
Shakily, I turn my head, and look into his titanium gaze.
