Captive

Chapter 6

An incessant and obnoxiously vociferous noise pulled Bridget into consciousness. She opened her eyes and found the room bathed in halogen light. It was a nice reprieve from hours of darkness so thick she could not see her hand waving in front of her face. She sat up and looked around. The broken video camera and tripod were gone, and the words on the wall had vanished. Something else was odd--Bridget's arms were free. She distinctly remembered that those two figures tied her to the bed before they left. Her arms were no longer confined, so she examined them and realized that her now bandaged wrists were bruised and raw from her struggle. Bridget tightened the bandages and continued her survey of the cell. A new camera had been installed adjacent to the light fixture. It was much smaller and covered with a black dome. Her jailor clearly wanted a front row seat to her captivity.

Her head hurt. There was no denying that. It was not the same pain she felt when she first woke up in this place; this was not caused by an over consumption of Cosmopolitans or dirty martinis. She was disoriented, and the blasting horn echoing through the space was not helping her cause. Bridget's head felt as if it were going to explode, and soon, she felt the necessity to use the commode for the first time since she arrived. She barely landed on the floor in front of the porcelain bowl before the remnants of sushi and bile forced their way through her mouth and into the water. It stung, her stomach's hydrochloric acid burning her esophagus and tongue. She dry-heaved as more brown and green waste collided with the toilet. Bridget's eyes welled as she coughed and hacked, and she worked to keep her long, red hair out of the way. She hated the way she felt when she needed to vomit. It always made her feel helpless and alone. When her stomach finally settled, she wiped her mouth with a bit of the toilet paper, and flushed the commode. Her teeth, which she had not brushed since she went out on the night of her birthday, felt fuzzy and acidic. Her mouth tasted and stunk of regurgitated seafood and stomach juice. This was shaping up to be another lousy day. Once again, Bridget heard the sound of the intercom.

"Good morning, Bridget. How are you today?" it asked in a rather chipper tone.

"I've been better, but I'm sure you saw," she replied bitterly.

"Ah yes. Don't worry, dear, the nausea will subside. It's a side effect of the sleeping anesthetic. You'll be just fine."

Bridget was quiet for the moment as she tried to think of the words to formulate her question. "I'm not getting out of here, am I?" It was the best she could do given her circumstances.

"In due time. You have the long road of recovery ahead of you. I'm sure that after yesterday's little debacle, you are more willing to cooperate?"

"And by debacle, you mean your 'boys' scaring the hell out of me and tying me to the bed, right?" The voice remained silent, signaling that it was not going to surrender, so Bridget gave in first, if only to stave off the monsters. "If it means I don't have to see those things again, then yes, I'm willing to cooperate."

"Good. Now, since you slept for nearly twenty-four hours with no food, shower, or toilet, we need to see to your physical well-being before we begin the work to improve your mental and emotional health. If you can behave, you will be allowed the same privileges every day. If you cannot, then my boys will make sure to punish you appropriately. Is that understood?"

"Yes." She was unsure if she should add "sir" or not.

"Okay, then. My guards will be with you momentarily. They will blindfold you and walk you to the shower facility where you will be given approximately seven minutes to shower and three minutes to complete the rest of your feminine tasks. They will then bring you back to your quarters where you will be served lunch for fifteen minutes. After you eat, we will begin our first session together."