Captive{ated}

Twelve: Afraid

God, I always hated the dark when I was younger. Looking back on it, it was a funny fear to have growing up in the city of Chicago. It never got very dark, especially if you stuck to the right areas. Still, that didn't make the shadows any less scary because who knew what could lurk in them?

At least when I was younger I always had the option of turning a light on. I didn't get that luxury  here. My only light source was a vent that let thin slits of sunlight in, meaning that at night, this room was the deepest black I've ever experienced. It led outside, but it wasn't a route of escape. It was much too high to reach, much too small to squeeze through.

There was enough light that I could make out the shadow of my hand when I moved it, the silhouette of the toilet in the corner. This tiny space was made to be a prison, an isolation chamber. It did its job very well, leaving me with nothing to do but think and reminisce. I was just like a real prisoner now. However, the only thing that separated me from most of them was that I didn't do anything wrong.

I lost track of time so often in here. Besides the small slither of light allowed, the only thing telling me it was a new day would be when you would arrive in the morning to give me enough food for the day, asking me the same damned question every time: would I marry you?

At first I was deathly quiet and still. I simply sat in the corner farthest from the door, refusing to look at you. I was in such a pitiful state, feeling so trapped and so alone. I knew I could get out of here at any time if I merely nodded my head and gave you the answer you were looking for, but I couldn't do it.

I couldn't imagine marrying you. I couldn't imagine becoming a part of this town, becoming your mother.

After a week of solitude, I finally broke my silence when you came to me asking for my hand yet again. "I want to go home," I sobbed as the reality of my decision slammed into me like a tsunami. I was drowning in it. No matter what I chose, I would lose. "I miss my mom, dad, and brother. I want to see them."

For once, you had the sense to not tell me this was my home now. For once, you let me mourn. "I'm sorry," you apologized, and it wasn't  insincere either. You were genuinely sorry, but you offered no help.

"Please, let me go and I won't tell anyone what's happening here. I'll be gone from your life and you'll be gone from mine. It'll be as if we never crossed paths," I begged.

You were quiet for a few moments, studying me with endearment and pain. I could almost feel you caressing my cheek with that look. "I don't want you gone from my life," you said gently.

"I wish we never met," I said in response.

"I'm grateful we did," you said, and then you were gone.

From there on after, I would at least tell you no when you came for your daily visit. In a strange way, I think you were impressed with how long I was holding out.

I lost count of how many days I was in there. I found myself in a routine where I would do some stretches and exercises, but after about a couple weeks, I stopped with that. I would play movie scenes through my mind to entertain, and when I was looking for a good cry, I would think of memories instead.

No matter what, though, I couldn't get around the mental torture of being completely isolated in such a dark place, which in hindsight, must have been the whole purpose of doing this to me. Just as your father said, stubbornness can be beat out of any animal. This technique of punishment was similar, but instead of physical torture, it was mental and emotional. The more I was in there, the more I hated being alone. The longer I stayed trapped, the more I felt useless and insignificant. More and more, my thoughts began to wander towards freedom, which I knew was in my grasp if I merely said yes. Yet, I refused to do this.