Captive

Chapter 5

Bridget tried to make sense of her conversation with the person on the other side of the wall. It was definitely a man based on the timber of his voice. He seemed calm, as if this was standard procedure and part of his every day job. There was a slight twinge of compassion in his voice, which she detected with immediate accuracy. Still, what kind of person works for someone who keeps people locked up in the dark? This could not be a prison because she had done nothing wrong. The confused woman tried to think. What had she done? In all of her life, she never committed a crime. She was never caught drinking underage, she had no DUIs, and she had no history of substance abuse. She never stole anything, she paid all of her parking tickets, and she always filed her taxes. Why was she here? It made no sense.

For the first time since she woke, she was not thinking about the darkness. That was part of some greater issue. That was what scared her. At least two other people knew she was in this building: the guard and her captor. She considered the possibility that the captor was her guard. It could very well be the case since he was so friendly. Maybe he was trying to earn her trust so he could chop her up into little bits later.

She remembered the room in the light: The walls were white-washed concrete, the bed was a mattress with white sheets and a gray comforter. The frame of the bed was made of cheap metal. The floor was some sort of shale with grouting work. The toilet was in the corner to the left of her bed. The video camera was still tipped over in the middle of the room somewhere. The video camera. Bridget began to think. She could, ideally, find her way back to the camera and then utilize it to her advantage. She slid away from the wall beside the food slot and felt the ground before her as she scooted herself toward the middle of the room. She could feel the cool tile beneath her fingertips. It was rough and rigid along its edges. It most certainly was not new. In some places, she could still feel the varnish from when it was first waxed. She stopped where she thought the middle of the room to be and began to feel the air, placing her palms and fingertips vertically in front of her to find the camera. Her hand clasped around something thin and metallic. It was long. The tripod. She allowed it to guide her to the bottom and then she retraced her palms back to the top. The camera was detached, so she crawled closer to the tripod mount and felt the ground around it.

Her hand grazed plastic. She smiled to herself and reached for it, scooping it into her hand. It was not a cumbersome thing. Very modern, very precise. She felt the device, hoping for a swivel display screen. When she found the button, she opened it, and the LED screen blinded her with its digital blackness. All of a sudden, the screen turned shades of fluorescent green. It was filming in night vision mode. She saw her room, and guiding the device with her palms, she surveyed her surroundings. A toilet paper rod was mounted to the right of the commode.

Great, she thought. When I need to go, at least I can clean myself afterward. She continued her scan. There was nothing out of the ordinary or of note the rest of the way around the space. She pointed the lens up above her head to gauge the height of the room. It was not that high. She zoomed in the lens and counted the concrete blocks from floor to ceiling. They appeared to be about ten-inches wide, and they were stacked roughly nine blocks high. The room was about ninety inches or roughly seven and a half feet high. She swept the camera from corner to corner, but found nothing useful.

Another idea flooded her brain. She hit the rewind button, watching her panic and lunch and tears in reverse motion. She saw her pleas to the device; it falling to the floor. She watched herself wake up. She kept her finger on the rewind key, hoping to see her captor, but the beginning of the tape only began when she stirred and sat up. She concluded that the device was activated by some sort of motion detector.

"Dammit," she thought. She decided to fast forward through the tape until she reached the end. She hit the record button and turned the device to her face. She spoke, "My name is Bridget Dunn. I'm thirty years old, and yesterday was my birthday. I live at 123 Creekside Apartments in number 3A. My parents are Thomas and Martha Dunn, and they will notice if I don't come to see them or answer my phone today. My phone has been taken from me. I'm locked in a dark cell and have been here for something like four hours. At least, that's what the camera's recording time said. But I don't know how long I've actually been here since I woke up here. Someone changed my clothes. I don't know if I'm safe or not. The guard who fed me lunch seemed friendly."