A stone hearth is situated in the far corner of the room. It’s cold and dark now, but I can see a few lingering embers. Beside it sits a rudimentary kitchen area—a pump sink that looks like it came from another century, a small counter with a hot plate, some shelves with canned goods and supplies stacked haphazardly.
There’s even a tiny table with two mismatched chairs, one with a broken spindle. Across from the bed, partially hidden in shadow, I can see another door—probably a bathroom, maybe? Could he be in there right now, watching me from the darkness?
The handcuff is split across a chain, the chain being maybe three feet long at most. Even if I stretched all the way out, I wouldn’t be able to reach the bathroom.
I’m stuck here, tethered to this bed like an animal in a trap, unable to move freely, unable to access the most basic human dignity.
There are no pictures on the walls, no personal touches.
No trace of a life lived here, or a person who exists beyond the bare necessities.
This isn’t a home. It’s a hideout.
Somewhere no one knows exists, where no one will find me. My heart lurches in my chest, panic mounting all over again like a wave I can’t outrun. I had learned a number of things growing up—CPR from the community center, sewing from my mother, how to grow vegetables in our church garden, and how to comfort the grieving and pray with the sick.
Nothing, absolutelynothing, prepared me for this.
For being at the mercy of a man who kills without hesitation.
The man on my porch isn’t the one I’d imagined—the one with quiet eyes and a soft touch, who once carried me into the hospital and sat with me when they set the bone or helped strangers without expecting a thanks.
Those glimpses of goodness don’t fit the monster I saw last night.
Calder is the devil in disguise—like Lucifer, an angel of light hiding in plain sight.
My heart refused to see it, clinging to those fleeting moments in the hospital, and on my birthday. Now I’m cursing myself for kissing him, or ever thinking there was a good person inside him.
My father said Jesus forgives all, and maybe he would forgive Calder, but I never will.
I rest my back against the bedframe, and the cold seeps into my bones through the thin cotton. It’s cold, and it’s only going to get colder.
My only hope is that Calder returns soon, and when he does, I’ll have some plan or way to talk myself out of this. At the edge of the bed, I spot a metal bucket.
What could that be for?It hits me then. It’s for me. I can’t reach the bathroom so I’ll have to use the bucket if I need to go.
The humiliation of it burns a hole of shame in my stomach.
My eyes dart away from the bucket, like if I don’t look at it, it might disappear. That’s when I see a piece of paper on the edge of the bedside table with writing on it, the letters dark and bold against white. Leaning forward as far as the handcuff will allow, I squint and read the small words scrawled in masculine handwriting.
I’ll be back by dark. Use the bucket if you gotta. -C
The note is curt, practical, and completely devoid of emotion.
Like he’s leaving instructions for feeding a dog, not holding a human being captive. I stare at those words until they blur, trying to extract meaning beyond the obvious.
I don’t know if I should take it as a warning of what’s to come or a sign of God that everything is going to be okay. That he didn’t just drop me off somewhere and leave me to rot. I’ve always clung to my faith like a lifeline, to my belief that if I give it to God he will fix it, that he has a plan even when I can’t see it. He was always there for me to lean on, a constant presence when everything else fell apart.
After we lost Momma, and the house felt too empty and quiet, when my daddy had his cancer scare a couple of years before that, and we thought we might lose him too. There was even a time when we were close to losing everything, even the church, drowning in debt we couldn’t pay, and somehow, God came through for us.
Maybe I needed to let my faith guide me now.
Trust that there’s a reason I’m still alive, a purpose to this suffering. Calder hasn’t hurt me, not really. Yes, he’d terrified me, chased me, knocked me out, and chained me here like an animal—but he hasn’t beaten me or raped me.
He’s a terrible man, capable of doing horrible things.
Things I’ve witnessed with my own eyes, but he hasn’t done anything to me, not yet.
Not even when he had the opportunity, and I was completely helpless. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Some small mercy, some hesitation, suggesting he’s not completely lost.
