Condemned

29 | Sam

Something's not right.

My sheets are too smooth. I feel every inch of them. The mattress is perfect—not saggy in the middle. And I can't detect a chill in the air.

Still, I'm not comfortable. My arms ache. And I feel a little sick and weak. Dehydrated or something.

And when I attempt to roll over, I'm met with resistance.

My eyes want to snap open, but they sort of peel open. I'm in a strange room at a strange angle. Daylight is making a grim appearance through the lacy curtains. It's early and overcast.

I've apparently survived the night, although I have very little recollection of what happened after dinner.

I was trying to get Ishmael to tell me something, using both honey and vinegar. Rosemary came in and left abruptly...

She doesn't like me. Gee, I wonder why? It could have something to do with this bedroom. It's spacious and opulent, probably the master bedroom. I may be alone now, but my hands are bound over my head. I certainly didn't do that to myself.

Squirming around, glancing down, I don't think I'm wearing any clothing. Yes, it's just me between the expensive sheets.

The shooting pain in my right leg shifts my panic to a higher gear. It covers me in a sheen of sweat. A heart attack doesn't seem so far-fetched.

Calm down...

I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and wait for the pain to ease.

By the count of thirty—all the time I'll allow myself—it has ebbed to a dull ache.

I try to move my leg again, gentler this time. It functions like it should. I can wiggle my toes. The knee and ankle are all right. It's just the thigh. I don't think it's broken, but the pain, when I twist it at all, is too intense to be just a bruise.

When I reopen my eyes, I hope to reevaluate the situation with a clearer head. Looking up, it's just a few neck ties connected to each other. They're tight and were secured with expert hands, but I think I'll be able to wriggle my way out, eventually.

Why don't I remember how I got here or what followed? There are about ten hours unaccounted for. Why does this keep happening? I've never had trouble with my memory before, especially in situations like these!

Been there, done that. I'm the reigning queen of almost, but I'm not sure I have any claim left to that crown.

Had I been fully conscious—and not drunk, or drugged, or under a spell—I would have freaked out, just like I did with Ted—when the handcuffs snapped on and the belt came off. He was just "playing around," but he gave me a black eye when I didn't find it funny.

I shudder off that notion and suppress all the others—there's no time for that—so I can focus on my current dilemma. Ishmael is not Ted. He may be cultured and charming, and chillingly calm through the worst of my outbursts, but behind closed doors, he's probably ten times the sadist.

Hard to believe, but I'm actually making progress. The wrist hole is up to the fattest part of my right hand. I keep tugging and shifting it around. My wrists are both raw, but I haven't broken the skin yet.

With a grunt that's a little too loud, my hand pulls free. Before I move on, I listen for voices or footsteps. Hearing none, I maneuver myself to my knees, confirming that I am fully naked. I also discover the source of my leg pain. On my inner thigh, about three inches from where my underwear should be—had I been wearing any—there are two identical red puncture marks about an inch apart.