To the Point of Shatter

15. Abby

        I have no idea how long I've been here. Weeks, yes, and probably months. He comes and goes. But mostly, he is here, somewhere beyond the door. I can hear him moving around the prison he has made for me. I hear a radio at times, silence more often. He brings me three meals a day, water. I have a bathroom with a barred, frosted thick Plexiglass window. The window in the main room where the bed is is sealed with concrete. The only natural light comes from the bathroom. I leave that door open so I can gauge the time of day. In the room where I stay there is a full sized bed with no head or foot board, a bare mattress and pillow. There is a bare light bulb in the eaves, a scarred desk with a plastic school chair. The first time he left after I had roused, I had used the chair to try to bash in the door. But the door is metal with many bolts I hear slide back any time he enters. All I did was dent the face of it with the metal chair legs. I have considered using the chair to attack him when he comes to leave food, but he is big and carries a big gun. He's a military man. He is smart, on to me, and watches me through the reverse peephole in the door. He orders me to sit on the bed before he'll even open the door. I am not quick enough to beat a bullet.

        The longer I'm here, the less I care whether or not he shoots me. I don't want to live like this any more.

        He will not engage in conversation. The only response I have ever garnered from him is a backhand to my cheek the day I dented the door. He is tall and powerful, the backhand literally sending me flying off of my feet. I have no doubt he can kill me. What I can't figure out is what he's waiting for.

        I can see no real reason for him to keep me alive. He has not used me for sex, a thing I am beyond relieved about. He just feeds me and ignores me. The only thing I can think is that it's against his moral code to murder me. Apparently kidnapping and holding someone against their will is fine. And that's when I realized I am his prisoner of war.

        He gave me several changes of clothes shortly after I was brought here, some shampoo, a safety razor, soap, deodorant. I have contemplated slitting my wrists and even tried once but I can't get the blades to be lethal. Eating utensils are plastic, as are plates and cups. It's rather like Oakwood that way. The large pitcher of water he leaves each day with breakfast is also lightweight. I get normal food- eggs and toast, turkey sandwiches, tepid soup. He does not speak to me. I have told him I know Chloe put him up to this. I have begged and pleaded for him to let me go. I have cursed his very soul. All of this is met with a steely gaze under hooded lids. He is not stable. I imagine PTSD among other things. But he is unshakable and I wonder at his sheer will.

        I wait to die. He can't keep me here indefinitely. I wait for him to leave and not come back. I hear no noise outside of my concrete block walls, make out nothing of my surroundings from the blurry Plexiglas window. There is a box fan that I put right next to the bed. I know the main part of this place has air conditioning because I feel it under the door, catch the cold draft of it when he opens it. But the sealed room I'm in is hot, the only real air movement from this fan I leave on high with my face pushed against it. I take frequent showers just to stay cool.

        I miss Ava and Aiden with a force that is breathtaking. I am tormented over the worry they must feel. I wonder if, by now, Aiden has stopped looking for me. If he believes I am dead. I wouldn't blame him.

        And I honestly wish I were.

        I have a plan. I have been brewing it for several days. It's come to me that I will probably never get out of here alive. And I am not willing to spend the rest of my life here without at least trying to escape. I no longer have anything to lose. I know that soon he will bring dinner. I may be shot doing this. Unless I time it badly. And then I will be dead before he finds me. It's a chance I'm willing to take.