“No.”
I scoff at the blunt answer. My mind is a jerk. “No? What do you mean ‘no?’”
“I mean ‘no.’ You can’t leave here.”
“Where is ‘here?’” I implore.
A heavy sigh. “Where do you think you are?”
I’m still searching for the voice. Nothing. No one. I’m alone.
Fine. I’ll play along. Perhaps I’ll find the end of this dream that way—see the story through. “Um, a prison of my own mind? Or maybe a billionaire’s sex dungeon?”
The voice makes an impressed sound. “Oh, wow, people don’t normally guess correctly. Well, people aren’t normally aware enough to converse, but I’ve had a few.”
My mouth drops.Oh my god.What if I’m not asleep? What if whatever slammed into mewasa person, and now I’ve been kidnapped, taken somewhere dark and lined with leather, whips, and a large variety of butt plugs?
“I’m right about the sex dungeon?” I squeak.
“What?” He chuckles. “No, you’re right about being in a prison of your own mind. Though the sex dungeon sounds fun. Do you know any billionaires with sex dungeons? I’m sure it wouldn’t be that difficult to find. We could do that, if you want.”
This cannot be happening.
Play along, I remind myself. It’s just a weird dream. One I likely won’t remember when I awake.
My eyes scan the darkness again. Still utter emptiness. “Uh, no. That’s okay. A sex dungeon isn’t really my idea of fun. Not that I judge it, if all parties are consensual. Just not my thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
The voice sighs again. “Well, alright. No sex dungeon. Now, could you shut up? I can’t concentrate with you yelling in here.”
“Wait!” I yell before asking hopefully, “Can Ipleaseleave?”
“Nope. Now,pleaseshut up.”
I cover my face with one hand and whimper, “What is happening?”
This disembodied voice in my head is so rude. I mean, who is he? The sleep police? I’ve never had this much trouble exiting a dream before.
My head finds its place in between my knees as my arms hang loosely by my sides. Whatever is happening right now positively sucks. Is this what being in a coma is like? Dead to the world, but full of fire on the inside? I’m not a fan. Though, I’m sure most people in comas aren’t.
I need to wake up. I need to find a door, a gateway, a window,something, because apparently, politely asking to leave is getting me nowhere.
My face scrunches like I’m going to cry. Iwantto cry, but nothing is happening. I relax my muscles. Perhaps crying is beyond my dream capabilities. I scan my surroundings. Yep, still in a big, dark void.
I need to make a decision. I can either sit here—or preferably curl into a ball here—and be content in this dream prison, or I can fight to escape. I’m going to have to go for option number two. There’s no realistic scenario where I can imagine myself not. The number of black eyes I came home with as a kid was always a cause for concern with my mother. She’d ask over and over what happened every day that I returned home with a new bruise, scratch, or note from my teacher, and my answer would always be the same: “They started it.”
I was bullied, sure. Of course, I was, eternally the weird kid here, but I also had a habit of sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Other kids would start fights, and I had a tendency to finish them. In an effort to control and contain my anger and aggression, my mother placed me in karate classes. The only thing that did was give me better skills to knock down any bully I could. I didn’t last long in karate. Also, once the boys learned I could fight, they had no problem hitting me.
As I’ve matured into adulthood, I’ve come to understand that fighting doesn’t always have to be physical.
So, I’ll fight.
four
. . .
