18
AMY
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Wednesday, July 14
I pace the room, burning with rage. They haven’t given me anything to keep me occupied. No TV, no magazines, nothing to pass the torturous shuffle of time. Worst of all is the sense of disorientation. The room is so thoroughly boarded up it’s difficult to tell night from day. The only way to vaguely track time is by the delivery of my meals.
The door opens to reveal Jill with my lunch, a baked potato hugging a slice of browning avocado. Through the hole in her ski mask, a nasty smile twists her lips. “Brought you your change of clothes, Highness Hutchinson.”
Ignoring the taunt, I take the proffered bundle of clothes. We stare at one another in silence. It appears Jill isn’t leaving until she’s witnessed my reaction. Preparing myself, I lay out the orange sweatpants and orange shirt on the bed. A traffic cone. That’s exactly what I’ll look like if I wear them. This, I guess, is the intention. The witch. The scheming, devious, insecure witch.
I smile at Jill. “Orange is my color. You should steer clear of it though. It will make your skin look even more sallow.”
A spark of fury ignites Jill’s eyes. “You’re so skinny, I don’t know if the clothes will fit. The results will be interesting.” She pivots on her heel and exits the room, leaving her animosity behind like a rancid scent.
I drop down on the edge of the bed, my shoulders slumping.
Amy, you fool. As if this is a battle you stand a chance of winning.
I’m bitterly aware that Jill and the man control everything, from what I eat to what I wear to when I will be freed.
I shouldn’t have antagonized her. I should’ve played my role of submissive victim. Then I remember Monday, how I groveled and cried and begged them not to hurt me. All that sniveling subservience, however, hadn’t helped me. I had still been injected with some paralyzing drug. I recall the helpless sensation of losing all feeling in my body, giving me an unnerving glimpse into the trapped existence of my mother.
In all my life no one has ever set out to deliberately and willfully harm me like that. My father’s prestige always served as a sort of protective barrier. Now I’m at the mercy of people who are ruthless, sadistic and, yes, certifiable.
I was left alone most of Tuesday, still too shaken to get out of bed. I refused to touch the food brought to me, ignoring the silent, condemning figure of Jill standing over me.
When I woke up this morning, anger warred with depression.How dare these people think they can do whatever they want to me? How dare they keep me here?
As the afternoon stretches in front of me, I feel my temper flaring as high as the temperature in the room. Yet I have to admonish myself to watch my mouth. If I respond every time Jill or Barry baits me, I’ll only make matters worse for myself.
A sour smell suddenly assaults my nostrils. To my shock, I realize it’s me. I need a bath, but there’s no bathroom door and the man calling himself Barry can walk in anytime. Not that he’s even bothered to show his face, not since Monday, the coward.
A wisp of an idea dangles in front of me.
I stride to the bed and throw off the covers. Grunting with effort, I drag the mattress to the door, barring the way in. I do the same with the base of the bed. For good measure, I add the bedside tableand plastic chair to the mix. By the time I’m finished building my barricade, I’m sweating.
Opening the faucets to fill the bath, I strip off my clothes, washing them with soap in the basin and hanging them over the towel rail to dry. With a flicker of triumph, I lower myself into the bath, sighing in satisfaction as the tepid water laps my body.
I close my eyes, thedrip dripof water from my clothes onto the bathroom tiles the only sound rupturing the stillness. I wonder if they’ve contacted my father and what his reaction was.
Hovering in the back of my mind is the possibility my kidnappers might kill me. How will they do it? Quickly? Painfully? If I die, who will miss me? My father, of course. He’ll be devastated. Who else? I flick through a mental database of family and friends, feeling something stir inside me when I realize I can come up with only a pitiful number of names.
Reeling myself back from that depressing train of thought, I soap myself and wash my hair. After I climb out of the bath, I don Jill’s fashion-disaster outfit. The clothes hang shapelessly on me and I don’t need a mirror to tell me how awful I look.
Then I hear the snap of a lock being undone.
My heart falters as the door opens and encounters the makeshift barricade.
It’s too late now to put back the furniture. I hurry to a corner of the room and sink to the floor. I hear Jill swear, then thewhump-whumpof her throwing her body against the door, trying to shift the pileup of furniture. Her shouting grows louder.
I hear Jill call out, “Kane!” Then the answering baritone of his voice.
Astonishment shoots through me. Despite this whole setup, they’re amateurs. Should I be relieved? Or should that scare me even more?
Judging bythe noise outside, I’m guessing that Barry—no, Kane, I must remember to disclose that detail to the police—is adding his weight to the door. After that, it’s easy, the whole barricade shifts and Kane and Jill burst into the room.
