u/PolymathBabe

Urban legends can make or break a town’s existence. Whole cities rely on the tourism that feeds on the cryptic and speculative. Point Place and Flatwoods, West Virginia; Roswell, New Mexico; Fouke, Arkansas. Sometimes the idea of a creature can encapsulate whole regions: the Jersey Devil of New Jersey, Big Foot of the Pacific Northwest, Skinwalkers and Chupacabras from the Southwest. 

But what do we call it when the residents of a place don’t want the attention? What if they want to keep their sleepy town peaceful? Not because they’re concerned the thing in the woods would bring too much tourism… nor does being pressured into making tchotchkes to sell at every establishment worry them. But rather, if they were to let this story spread, any summertime visitors they do receive would likely never return. And the already dwindling population might cease to be sustainable.

There is a small town on the border of California and Oregon called Crescent City. The insignificance of the town at first is comical. If you search the internet your first result would be about a book with the same name that has nothing to do with the place. The second search result would be for New Orleans, whose nickname also shares recognition for being the Crescent City. And that’s how they like it: under the radar. 

Once you correctly prompt your search engine for the correct Crescent City, the insignificance of the town becomes confusing. The town is on the pacific coast, home to many gorgeous beaches, and boasts claims for the largest trees in the world as it sits in the Redwood National Park. And trailing down the mountains is the cleanest river in the continental U.S.; the pristine water rife with fish for the taking. 

Despite it being a nature enthusiast’s paradise, the population has been on a steady decline for the past decade. Maybe ten years ago you could blame it on the lack of work, but in this modern age of remote jobs that excuse is not an option. The city refuses to add any sort of sporting goods store despite the innocent demands of summer vacationers. And despite the decades of requests and opportunities, they refuse to expand any ingress and egress to the area. The only option of entrance or exit is a narrow, unkempt road that threatens to throw cars into the ocean or down a cliff to the bottom of the forest floor with every extremely tight turn, which only the most seasoned and have-nothing-to-lose truck drivers will risk to get goods into and out of the city. The community college had the funding to expand and add more educational programs, but it was shot down, forced to remain on the corner of the high school campus. 

The purpose of this intentional suppression of growth may elude the naive, but to those of us who live here, those of us who have become cynical to the ways of those in control, the purpose is clear. We will not let them hide this behind the ever-present coastal fog; we will not let them push this into the centuries-old shadow of the redwoods canopy. 

It’s not something that gets into your car on highway 199. It’s not something that can be made into a cute keychain or a gauche bumper sticker. And it will not appear to you if you say it’s name in the mirror three times. 

It lives in the negative space of the forest. Or perhaps, it is the space between trees. As you stand in the heart of the redwoods and you peer through a cluster of thick, upright, woody columns, at first you’ll only notice the fog become striped with daylight that ekes its way through the swaying branches above, only to disappear again with your next breath. But if you pay attention, and allow your eyes to unfocus just a bit, like you’re looking at one of those optical illusions, you will notice the gaps between trunks grow and shrink. The trees themselves aren’t moving, but rather something walks between them, treating the laws of physics as suggestions. On a rare, fogless day, if you have the eye for it you might even notice a distortion in the air as the trees make way for its passing. The slightest, shakiest, iridescence of a murderous mirage. It’s hard to follow with the naked eye, but you can see the route it takes if you’d like. If you have the stomach to sit there silently and patiently watch, praying you don’t end up in its path.

Maybe “murderous” isn’t the correct descriptor. The void between the trees does not care if you live or die. It simply is. It has been for aeons and will continue to be when we return to stardust. But, if you get in its way, cosmic entropy is no longer a fate you’ll be able to have. It is less than nothing and will take you with it. You do not become unborn or anything else so kind. You will be ripped from existence and then ripped from non-existence into something even slighter. 

I’ve been trying to get it to take me for years. 

It had me for a moment, at the same time it took my husband and son. But, then it put me back. I don’t know what’s less than absolute nothing, but if that’s where my family is, that’s where I want to be. I think it would be expected of me to say that I didn’t realize what happened at first and it took me a while to come to grips with things, but that’s not what happened.

As soon as I was again, aware and alone in the woods with no sign of my family except the bright red, child size backpack haphazardly thrown to the ground, I understood what had happened— what hadn’t happened and never would happen because nothing can happen in the void, not even the passage of time. I didn’t bother contacting the police or anybody. I never went back home. I was living out of my camping gear for months when I stumbled upon an abandoned house and have since set up base there. It’s safer from the wildlife, easier to keep warm. I don’t want to die here, in a different realm or dimension or whatever. I need to be with my son.

They say when you grow a child, even after birth some of their cells stay in your body forever. You are indelibly changed and bound to your offspring. I’d never really given much thought to it, but ever since it took my boy it’s felt like those lingering cells were ripped out of me and went with him. There’s a wound in me that will never heal until I am with him once more.

But, it won’t take me. I see it pretty frequently. And I’ve seen it take more people and even the occasional animal. A row of trunks will splay and close, one after another, swallowing the critters in its path, unless I throw myself in the way. The movement simply ceases and the quivering air stills. Maybe it’s my desire to be taken that drives it away. I beg and beg to be devoured and it does nothing but reject me. 

This is my life. I wake up in the morning in the dilapidated shelter that shields me from the elements, and walk until my feet bleed, searching for it. I’ve done this every day for who knows how many years. And I will do it until it finally relents. Occasionally, I make my way down the mountain for more gear and when I do I make it a point to talk with every local about it. It doesn’t have a name. Few will even refer to it by a nickname. Fewer will even engage in this conversation with me. The tourists are almost worse: completely dismissive and convinced I'm a crazy conspiracy theorist.

But I need to get this story out there. I think the people in charge are trying to be helpful, but keeping the town small and restricted: less people, less victims. But, by refusing to acknowledge the danger there are dozens of unknowing victims every year. The redwoods are ancient and enticing to visitors and always will draw people in. It needs to be known that there is something even more ancient living in those trees. Something dangerous. If people knew the truth, they would not pull over on the side of the crumbling highway craning their necks to the heavens, snapping photos. They would stay in their cars and keep driving. And if you’re reading this, I urge you to do the same. 

There are many other natural wonders of the world for you to visit. For if you visit this one, it may be your last.

Urban legends can make or break a town’s existence. Whole cities rely on the tourism that feeds on the cryptic and speculative. Point Place and Flatwoods, West Virginia; Roswell, New Mexico; Fouke, Arkansas. Sometimes the idea of a creature can encapsulate whole regions: the Jersey Devil of New Jersey, Big Foot of the Pacific Northwest, Skinwalkers and Chupacabras from the Southwest. 

But what do we call it when the residents of a place don’t want the attention? What if they want to keep their sleepy town peaceful? Not because they’re concerned the thing in the woods would bring too much tourism… nor does being pressured into making tchotchkes to sell at every establishment worry them. But rather, if they were to let this story spread, any summertime visitors they do receive would likely never return. And the already dwindling population might cease to be sustainable.

There is a small town on the border of California and Oregon called Crescent City. The insignificance of the town at first is comical. If you search the internet your first result would be about a book with the same name that has nothing to do with the place. The second search result would be for New Orleans, whose nickname also shares recognition for being the Crescent City. And that’s how they like it: under the radar. 

Once you correctly prompt your search engine for the correct Crescent City, the insignificance of the town becomes confusing. The town is on the pacific coast, home to many gorgeous beaches, and boasts claims for the largest trees in the world as it sits in the Redwood National Park. And trailing down the mountains is the cleanest river in the continental U.S.; the pristine water rife with fish for the taking. 

Despite it being a nature enthusiast’s paradise, the population has been on a steady decline for the past decade. Maybe ten years ago you could blame it on the lack of work, but in this modern age of remote jobs that excuse is not an option. The city refuses to add any sort of sporting goods store despite the innocent demands of summer vacationers. And despite the decades of requests and opportunities, they refuse to expand any ingress and egress to the area. The only option of entrance or exit is a narrow, unkempt road that threatens to throw cars into the ocean or down a cliff to the bottom of the forest floor with every extremely tight turn, which only the most seasoned and have-nothing-to-lose truck drivers will risk to get goods into and out of the city. The community college had the funding to expand and add more educational programs, but it was shot down, forced to remain on the corner of the high school campus. 

The purpose of this intentional suppression of growth may elude the naive, but to those of us who live here, those of us who have become cynical to the ways of those in control, the purpose is clear. We will not let them hide this behind the ever-present coastal fog; we will not let them push this into the centuries-old shadow of the redwoods canopy. 

It’s not something that gets into your car on highway 199. It’s not something that can be made into a cute keychain or a gauche bumper sticker. And it will not appear to you if you say it’s name in the mirror three times. 

It lives in the negative space of the forest. Or perhaps, it is the space between trees. As you stand in the heart of the redwoods and you peer through a cluster of thick, upright, woody columns, at first you’ll only notice the fog become striped with daylight that ekes its way through the swaying branches above, only to disappear again with your next breath. But if you pay attention, and allow your eyes to unfocus just a bit, like you’re looking at one of those optical illusions, you will notice the gaps between trunks grow and shrink. The trees themselves aren’t moving, but rather something walks between them, treating the laws of physics as suggestions. On a rare, fogless day, if you have the eye for it you might even notice a distortion in the air as the trees make way for its passing. The slightest, shakiest, iridescence of a murderous mirage. It’s hard to follow with the naked eye, but you can see the route it takes if you’d like. If you have the stomach to sit there silently and patiently watch, praying you don’t end up in its path.

Maybe “murderous” isn’t the correct descriptor. The void between the trees does not care if you live or die. It simply is. It has been for aeons and will continue to be when we return to stardust. But, if you get in its way, cosmic entropy is no longer a fate you’ll be able to have. It is less than nothing and will take you with it. You do not become unborn or anything else so kind. You will be ripped from existence and then ripped from non-existence into something even slighter. 

I’ve been trying to get it to take me for years. 

It had me for a moment, at the same time it took my husband and son. But, then it put me back. I don’t know what’s less than absolute nothing, but if that’s where my family is, that’s where I want to be. I think it would be expected of me to say that I didn’t realize what happened at first and it took me a while to come to grips with things, but that’s not what happened.

As soon as I was again, aware and alone in the woods with no sign of my family except the bright red, child size backpack haphazardly thrown to the ground, I understood what had happened— what hadn’t happened and never would happen because nothing can happen in the void, not even the passage of time. I didn’t bother contacting the police or anybody. I never went back home. I was living out of my camping gear for months when I stumbled upon an abandoned house and have since set up base there. It’s safer from the wildlife, easier to keep warm. I don’t want to die here, in a different realm or dimension or whatever. I need to be with my son.

They say when you grow a child, even after birth some of their cells stay in your body forever. You are indelibly changed and bound to your offspring. I’d never really given much thought to it, but ever since it took my boy it’s felt like those lingering cells were ripped out of me and went with him. There’s a wound in me that will never heal until I am with him once more.

But, it won’t take me. I see it pretty frequently. And I’ve seen it take more people and even the occasional animal. A row of trunks will splay and close, one after another, swallowing the critters in its path, unless I throw myself in the way. The movement simply ceases and the quivering air stills. Maybe it’s my desire to be taken that drives it away. I beg and beg to be devoured and it does nothing but reject me. 

This is my life. I wake up in the morning in the dilapidated shelter that shields me from the elements, and walk until my feet bleed, searching for it. I’ve done this every day for who knows how many years. And I will do it until it finally relents. Occasionally, I make my way down the mountain for more gear and when I do I make it a point to talk with every local about it. It doesn’t have a name. Few will even refer to it by a nickname. Fewer will even engage in this conversation with me. The tourists are almost worse: completely dismissive and convinced I'm a crazy conspiracy theorist.

But I need to get this story out there. I think the people in charge are trying to be helpful, but keeping the town small and restricted: less people, less victims. But, by refusing to acknowledge the danger there are dozens of unknowing victims every year. The redwoods are ancient and enticing to visitors and always will draw people in. It needs to be known that there is something even more ancient living in those trees. Something dangerous. If people knew the truth, they would not pull over on the side of the crumbling highway craning their necks to the heavens, snapping photos. They would stay in their cars and keep driving. And if you’re reading this, I urge you to do the same. 

There are many other natural wonders of the world for you to visit. For if you visit this one, it may be your last.

Urban legends can make or break a town’s existence. Whole cities rely on the tourism that feeds on the cryptic and speculative. Point Place and Flatwoods, West Virginia; Roswell, New Mexico; Fouke, Arkansas. Sometimes the idea of a creature can encapsulate whole regions: the Jersey Devil of New Jersey, Big Foot of the Pacific Northwest, Skinwalkers and Chupacabras from the Southwest. 

But what do we call it when the residents of a place don’t want the attention? What if they want to keep their sleepy town peaceful? Not because they’re concerned the thing in the woods would bring too much tourism… nor does being pressured into making tchotchkes to sell at every establishment worry them. But rather, if they were to let this story spread, any summertime visitors they do receive would likely never return. And the already dwindling population might cease to be sustainable.

There is a small town on the border of California and Oregon called Crescent City. The insignificance of the town at first is comical. If you search the internet your first result would be about a book with the same name that has nothing to do with the place. The second search result would be for New Orleans, whose nickname also shares recognition for being the Crescent City. And that’s how they like it: under the radar. 

Once you correctly prompt your search engine for the correct Crescent City, the insignificance of the town becomes confusing. The town is on the pacific coast, home to many gorgeous beaches, and boasts claims for the largest trees in the world as it sits in the Redwood National Park. And trailing down the mountains is the cleanest river in the continental U.S.; the pristine water rife with fish for the taking. 

Despite it being a nature enthusiast’s paradise, the population has been on a steady decline for the past decade. Maybe ten years ago you could blame it on the lack of work, but in this modern age of remote jobs that excuse is not an option. The city refuses to add any sort of sporting goods store despite the innocent demands of summer vacationers. And despite the decades of requests and opportunities, they refuse to expand any ingress and egress to the area. The only option of entrance or exit is a narrow, unkempt road that threatens to throw cars into the ocean or down a cliff to the bottom of the forest floor with every extremely tight turn, which only the most seasoned and have-nothing-to-lose truck drivers will risk to get goods into and out of the city. The community college had the funding to expand and add more educational programs, but it was shot down, forced to remain on the corner of the high school campus. 

The purpose of this intentional suppression of growth may elude the naive, but to those of us who live here, those of us who have become cynical to the ways of those in control, the purpose is clear. We will not let them hide this behind the ever-present coastal fog; we will not let them push this into the centuries-old shadow of the redwoods canopy. 

It’s not something that gets into your car on highway 199. It’s not something that can be made into a cute keychain or a gauche bumper sticker. And it will not appear to you if you say it’s name in the mirror three times. 

It lives in the negative space of the forest. Or perhaps, it is the space between trees. As you stand in the heart of the redwoods and you peer through a cluster of thick, upright, woody columns, at first you’ll only notice the fog become striped with daylight that ekes its way through the swaying branches above, only to disappear again with your next breath. But if you pay attention, and allow your eyes to unfocus just a bit, like you’re looking at one of those optical illusions, you will notice the gaps between trunks grow and shrink. The trees themselves aren’t moving, but rather something walks between them, treating the laws of physics as suggestions. On a rare, fogless day, if you have the eye for it you might even notice a distortion in the air as the trees make way for its passing. The slightest, shakiest, iridescence of a murderous mirage. It’s hard to follow with the naked eye, but you can see the route it takes if you’d like. If you have the stomach to sit there silently and patiently watch, praying you don’t end up in its path.

Maybe “murderous” isn’t the correct descriptor. The void between the trees does not care if you live or die. It simply is. It has been for aeons and will continue to be when we return to stardust. But, if you get in its way, cosmic entropy is no longer a fate you’ll be able to have. It is less than nothing and will take you with it. You do not become unborn or anything else so kind. You will be ripped from existence and then ripped from non-existence into something even slighter. 

I’ve been trying to get it to take me for years. 

It had me for a moment, at the same time it took my husband and son. But, then it put me back. I don’t know what’s less than absolute nothing, but if that’s where my family is, that’s where I want to be. I think it would be expected of me to say that I didn’t realize what happened at first and it took me a while to come to grips with things, but that’s not what happened.

As soon as I was again, aware and alone in the woods with no sign of my family except the bright red, child size backpack haphazardly thrown to the ground, I understood what had happened— what hadn’t happened and never would happen because nothing can happen in the void, not even the passage of time. I didn’t bother contacting the police or anybody. I never went back home. I was living out of my camping gear for months when I stumbled upon an abandoned house and have since set up base there. It’s safer from the wildlife, easier to keep warm. I don’t want to die here, in a different realm or dimension or whatever. I need to be with my son.

They say when you grow a child, even after birth some of their cells stay in your body forever. You are indelibly changed and bound to your offspring. I’d never really given much thought to it, but ever since it took my boy it’s felt like those lingering cells were ripped out of me and went with him. There’s a wound in me that will never heal until I am with him once more.

But, it won’t take me. I see it pretty frequently. And I’ve seen it take more people and even the occasional animal. A row of trunks will splay and close, one after another, swallowing the critters in its path, unless I throw myself in the way. The movement simply ceases and the quivering air stills. Maybe it’s my desire to be taken that drives it away. I beg and beg to be devoured and it does nothing but reject me. 

This is my life. I wake up in the morning in the dilapidated shelter that shields me from the elements, and walk until my feet bleed, searching for it. I’ve done this every day for who knows how many years. And I will do it until it finally relents. Occasionally, I make my way down the mountain for more gear and when I do I make it a point to talk with every local about it. It doesn’t have a name. Few will even refer to it by a nickname. Fewer will even engage in this conversation with me. The tourists are almost worse: completely dismissive and convinced I'm a crazy conspiracy theorist.

But I need to get this story out there. I think the people in charge are trying to be helpful, but keeping the town small and restricted: less people, less victims. But, by refusing to acknowledge the danger there are dozens of unknowing victims every year. The redwoods are ancient and enticing to visitors and always will draw people in. It needs to be known that there is something even more ancient living in those trees. Something dangerous. If people knew the truth, they would not pull over on the side of the crumbling highway craning their necks to the heavens, snapping photos. They would stay in their cars and keep driving. And if you’re reading this, I urge you to do the same. 

There are many other natural wonders of the world for you to visit. For if you visit this one, it may be your last.

I was bred to be of use

Then discarded, there’s no more need

Now I’m forced to face abuse

They want me off the streets

So long forgotten I only exist

To be helpful, extend your name

Spit at me and call me pest

Don’t dare look me in the eye

Things crueler than I get praise and paint:

Lovely-looking liars

Would you give me one more chance,

Would you love me if I earned it?

Being beautiful for you, baby

I will make it my sole purpose

Pluck my feathers, crack my beak

Lay off bread crumbs for a week

Don’t flap so loud

Lay my eggs

Ask for nothing

make my nest

Coo on cue

 

I’m so tired

may I rest?

Put spikes on all my ledges

Cull my babies, trash my home

All that work and no reward

There’s nothing left for me to owe

With no incentive to keep me civil

Your downfall is all I seek

You say I’m dumb

You say I’m ugly

I say you’re prideful

I say you’re weak

You may have the numbers

But, I have the sky

My filthy omen will stain your marble

I’ll fill your lungs with down and dust

You’ll turn to heaven, turn to God

But all you’ll see is me

I peck your eye, Black out your sun

I could have been your savior, but now I am your locust

I might hear your final prayer

If you’re on your knees and begging

None of this would have happened 

If you just called me pretty

After years of walking home in the middle of the night after my shifts, I still find myself speed-walking the dark chasms between lamp posts, as if the bright pools of light beneath the streetlights could protect me in the first place. As I continuously steal glances over my shoulder,  I try not to dwell on how tonight feels different from my usual, reasonable paranoia. It's the lack of sleep. I've been awake for a couple of days straight at this point. Of course my nerves are a little fried.

I reach the next bright oasis and instinctively glance behind me. A dark figure slips behind a lamp post several lights back. It could be anything, I tell myself. It certainly had the shape of a man, but it wasn't even fully concealed. If someone truly intended to hurt me, they'd be better at staying hidden... wouldn't they?

As I stare back, the figure doesn't move an inch. I hustle to the next lamp post and turn around the moment I step into the flood of light, catching the figure. It’s definitely a man. He reaches the next post and once again attempts to conceal himself behind it. Maybe he was just another pedestrian trying to get somewhere and didn't want to make me nervous by walking faster and overtaking me. Maybe this was his awkward way of being considerate. Even so, I slip my keys from my pocket and thread them between my fingers, clenching my fist. Only three more luminous islands until I'm home, the next about half a block away. I sprint for it, and as soon as I reach the light, the man behind me advances one lamp post closer. 

I could scream for help if I have to. The street is lined with townhouses, but I'm not convinced the people living in these dilapidated buildings are the helping kind. I wouldn't put it past some of them to aid my attacker instead. Moving into a neighborhood where every window has bars wasn't my first choice, but it was within walking distance of the hospital, the rent was cheap, and that's all that really mattered at the time with the mountain of student debt I needed to pay off. My fiancé hated it even more than I did, especially since I insisted we not live together until we were actually married. I long for the relief of calling him once I'm safely inside with the door locked. The thought sparks an idea. With my free hand, I pull out my phone and dial 911, stopping just short of placing the call. If I need it, all I'll have to do is tap one button.

I make it to the next lamp post, then the last. My stalker continues his rhythmic pursuit. Has he been following me this whole time, or did I only pick up my tail halfway home? My heart pounds from the fear and the sprint. I just have to make it from this final pool of light to my front door, which sits almost perfectly between two streetlights. I adjust the key in my sweaty, trembling hand and bolt up the steps faster than I ever have before. The key slides smoothly into the lock on the first try. I throw the door open, slip inside, and slam it shut behind me, locking it in one fluid motion.

Some of the tension drains from my body. I was far enough ahead of him, and the patios between the lamp posts are nearly pitch black. I doubt he could tell which townhouse I entered. I head toward the back of the house, dump my purse, keys, and phone onto the kitchen table, then check the lock on the back door. I even check every securely barred window, just in case.

I'm just beginning to feel relieved and am about to call my fiancé when I hear a metallic clang from outside the front door. I hold my breath and tiptoe to the entryway, peering through the peephole. Nothing. Just the empty street and my overgrown grass swaying gently in the breeze. Now I'm just on edge. I'm fine. And I'll be even more fine once I call Danny and let him know I made it home safely. I head back to the kitchen table to grab my phone, but it's gone. The phone. The keys. My purse. They're all gone.

Blood rushes to my ears, and my vision tunnels. Is he in my house? How? I'm not sticking around to find out. I sprint back to the front door, unlock it, and yank on the handle. It doesn't budge. I check the lock again, twist the knob, and pull harder. Still nothing. I take a step back and examine the door. Did I break a hinge when I slammed it shut? No... There, at the very top, just out of reach, is some kind of deadbolt. Shiny and new against the aging paint of the door and frame. I don't see a keyhole, only a row of dials for entering a combination.

My heart hammers so violently I worry the sound alone will give away my location. He's got me trapped like an animal. All the lights downstairs are on, leaving precious few places to hide. Is he watching me right now? I rush to the back door. It, too, has been fitted with the same lock. What choices does that leave me? I could break one of the downstairs windows, but the bars would keep me from escaping. I could scream for help and hope someone gets here in time. Or I could go upstairs and jump from a window, but is that really any better? I'd probably break something from the fall, and then I'd truly be a sitting duck. With no good options, I grab a cast-iron skillet from the kitchen and grip it like a baseball bat. I'll smash the front window and hope I can bend the bars enough with the skillet to squeeze through. The front window also gives me a clear view of the staircase, so I'll see him if he comes downstairs. I yank the silky curtain aside and swing the skillet into the glass with all my strength. Shards explode around me, a few nicking my face.

I open my mouth to scream for help, but a large hand clamps over it. The scream still comes, muffled against his palm. Instinct takes over. I claw at the hand as he drags me backward, away from the shattered window. Realizing I'm still gripping the cast-iron skillet, I swing it backward over my head, hoping to smash him in the face. Either I miss, or he dodges. He catches my wrist and twists my arm behind my back, forcing me to drop the skillet. His hand crushes my lips against my teeth as he drags me toward the stairs. I taste blood. I want to bite him, to make him let go, but his grip is so powerful I can't even separate my lips.

He starts up the stairs, and I kick against the walls, shoving us both off balance. We crash onto the floor. His hand slips from my face as he catches himself, but he still has my wrist. I twist around to face him, struggling to wrench myself free. "Let go of me!" I scream, my voice so raw and animalistic it doesn't even sound like my own. I yank my arm back with every ounce of strength I have, and his grip gives way. The force of my pull sends me stumbling backward into the banister. The back of my head cracks against the railing. Instantly, the world tilts. My vision is suddenly  tiny pinpoints surrounded by white, and I fight with everything I have to stay conscious.

By the time I can register my body again, he's carrying me up the stairs. I flail as hard as I can, but I'm still reeling from the blow to my head. My limbs feel weak, sluggish, disconnected. The white haze at the edges of my vision slowly recedes as he carries me into my bedroom and throws me onto the bed. I hit and kick with everything I've got, but it doesn't slow him down. He does something to my wrists, then my ankles, and I can't move. My arms and legs are bound, each limb secured to a different bedpost. My heart pounds even harder. Every breath burns as though my chest is being cooked from the inside out. My awareness gradually returns. Duct tape binds my wrists, and every struggle tears at my skin and rips out hairs. The tape around my ankles is wrapped over my pants, giving me just enough movement to know escape is impossible. Not enough to free myself. Not even enough to close my knees. The vulnerable splay of my legs sends ice through my veins. Panic surges, and I thrash with a strength I didn't know I possessed, at one point launching nearly my entire body off the mattress, as though gravity were merely optional, as though I'd fly away if I weren't tied down.

"No! No! No!" I shout with every ounce of venom I can muster. The man rushes over and clamps his hand over my mouth once more. His eyes dart around the room before he grabs something from the floor and shoves it between my teeth and nearly down my throat. It’s some kind of cloth. It instantly muffles my protests. It tastes vile, and I gag. He grabs the roll of duct tape and wraps it around my head once... then twice, sealing the gag firmly in place. There's no way I'm getting this off without my hands.

I have no idea how long I struggle against the restraints. Eventually, my body begins to fail me. My movements grow weaker, slower, until I simply can't fight anymore. The cloth is shoved so deep into my mouth that I can't even scream, let alone swallow without fear of choking. My entire body trembles as hot tears spill down my cheeks, soaking my hair where it fans across the mattress.

Meanwhile, the man simply sits in a chair with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands buried in his hair. At least, I assume that's what he's doing. Looking at him, I can't make out any features above his shoulders. His hair, his head, his face… they all blur together into a dark, indistinct shape. I know it's a face. I'm not sure how I'm so certain. I think my eyes tell me I'm looking at one, but somewhere between my pupil and my optic nerve, something goes wrong. He's not disfigured. It's not a mask. My mind simply refuses to process what, or rather who, I'm seeing. I must have hit my head harder than I realized. The fact that I can't even look this bastard in the eye because I can't tell where his eyes are makes the whole situation feel even more wrong. My body starts trembling again, and fresh tears blur my vision. I try to sniff back the mucus running down my face, but it's hopeless. He looks up. I can tell by the way his posture changes, the way his head lifts from his hands and turns squarely toward me. The wrongness of his appearance and the weight of his attention makes me turn my head away. He rises from the chair and places a hand beside my head on the mattress, causing it to dip beneath his weight and gently roll my face toward him. I strain every muscle in my neck to keep looking away.

"Hey..." he croons, his voice as distorted and unnatural as his face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He lifts his free hand and reaches toward my cheek. I flinch before he can touch me. His hand recoils as though I've struck him, or worse, offended him by rejecting his affection. He begins to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Along the side of the bed. Finally, he stops at the foot of it, running both hands through his hair again. "I know you don't understand, but I'm trying to help you." He sounds earnest. Great. A delusional man who's completely unaware of his own delusion. A crazy person trying to do good is often more dangerous than a sane person who knowingly does wrong. Some of my colleagues would be appalled by that thought, but the mentally unwell are their patients, not mine. My patients are the victims of these self-proclaimed "saviors," whose attempts at love almost always turn violent. I wonder if that's who he is… Some unstable man who's seen me at work.

He's standing at the foot of the bed now, and I have to peer at him between my feet. He places his hands on one of them, and I struggle against the restraints again. A whimper escapes my throat, barely squeezing past the gag, but it's enough to make him glance up at me as he removes my shoe. "I just want you to be more comfortable," he says, slipping off the second one. His voice sounds like a record being manually spun backwards, though anything he says is inherently more sinister than any perceived message received during the Satanic Panic. I don't want to think about why he wants me comfortable, or what he'll do once he's decided I am. I can't scream no, so I shake my head violently, a few more muffled sobs break free. The blurry man straightens and studies me. I get the impression he's confused by how much I'm resisting. Or maybe he's trying to figure out the easiest way to remove my pants without untaping my ankles. "Oh no!" the warbling voice exclaims. He throws his hands up in front of himself as if trying to deflect my gaze. He rushes back to my side. "No, no, no! I'm not going to do that to you." The words tumble out with urgency, yet somehow still seem to arrive in slow motion.

I know I shouldn't take him at his word, but my coiled muscles loosen just a fraction, and the terror ebbs ever so slightly. Even so, I don't let my guard down. I keep my eyes fixed on the mass of face. Hyperfocused. Trying to see through the distortion, but nothing. Eventually, I let my head sink back into the pillow, tasting only failure and fatigue. It's irrational, but if I could just see his face, maybe I could connect with him somehow. That's what they tell you to do. Make your captor see you as a person, and you're more likely to survive.

I listen to his footsteps pacing back and forth. Letting my head rest and my body go limp invites a wave of exhaustion to crash over me. I close my eyes. My heartbeat gradually slows. I'm not sure how long I lie there before the aches begin to surface. I slowly test each limb, taking stock of the damage. I fought like hell, but not without consequences. I don't think anything is broken or seriously injured. Yet, the dull achy pain begins to grow and catch fire, igniting every one of my bones. The internal heat roasts my skin and prickles of sweat bloom all over my body. I can't help squirming against the discomfort. The white noise of his pacing suddenly stops. My eyes snap open. I'd almost forgotten he was still here. Without moving my head, I shift my gaze toward him to inconspicuously observe.

He hurries back to the chair and rifles through a bag. His hands tremble as he pulls out something metallic and a small plastic pouch. My mind immediately jumps to a knife. He's going to cut off a piece of me, keep it as a trophy, and carry it home in a ziplock. Blood thunders in my ears. He approaches slowly, cradling whatever he's holding with surprising care as he brings it toward my face. It's a small spoon, balanced with a mound of pale, faintly iridescent powder. He cups his free hand around it to shield it, as though protecting the flame of a birthday candle. I wrench my head to the side, praying that resisting will make him give up. Instead, he grips my chin and forces my face upward. I hold my breath until my lungs burn. Eventually, my body betrays me. I gasp. I feel every speck of the stuff slam into my nasal passages, tickling the back of my throat leaving an unpleasant chemical taste in its wake. My eyes water and I cough against the gag. I forcibly exhale air out of my nose, in a failed attempt to push some of it out, but he tips my farther back and gravity wins the fight. I can do nothing but endure it. The resignation I feel is bitter at first then becomes a sense of relief. I don’t even cry. I watch the light of the sunrise peek around the edges of the pastel curtains and drift to sleep. 

The fever pains start to wake me up slowly and reluctantly, then my wrists tug against the restraints and I'm immediately awake, aware, and on edge. He moved me to another room. No... this is still my room. The dark is playing tricks. The dark? How long was I asleep? The sun had just come up. I look around for the man, and he's nowhere to be found. I start to wiggle again, cataloging my injuries, now coupled with the fever and a stiffness that reminds me I haven't moved in many, many hours. Something crinkles under my hips. It's a puppy pad. That freak has no intention of letting me even get up to use the bathroom, and that sparks a rage in me. Then I notice the pad and my pants are wet. I've pissed myself. What did he give me that makes me sleep for a whole day, and so soundly that I'd pee my pants without waking? I might be embarrassed or ashamed if I didn't deal with adults messing themselves in bed for a living. Heat radiates off me, a combination of fever and fury. Despite my body's protests, I yank hard against the tape and find that the sweat from my wrists is weakening the sticky bond. I could definitely work my way out of these. 

The telltale metal clanks of a heavy-duty lock break my train of thought, and I stiffen as the blurry man enters holding a bowl. "Good, you're awake," he says. "You need to eat something." His head and face are a little less distorted, like somebody has lowered the Gaussian blur. It's still impossible to make out any features, but it is promising progress. This is likely just a concussion symptom. As he draws closer with the bowl, I catch a waft of the broth, and an intense nausea overwhelms me. Vomit forces its way up my throat, only to be held in by the gag. I start choking, and the attempt to cough causes even more gagging. I try to catch my breath, and some bile slithers into my airway. My hands instinctively try to scramble to my mouth to remove the obstruction, but I can't. The edges of my vision start to darken.

At some point, the man realizes what is happening because his trembling fingers unceremoniously begin to unravel the tape around my head and face. It rips at my skin, but I can hardly tell. He pulls the cloth out of my mouth, and chunky, foul-smelling vomitus follows suit. I cough and cough, with no time to take a breath in between. Coughing so hard it turns into retching. The force of the coughing makes my face tense with pressure. It feels like my eyeballs are about to pop out. It eventually slows, and after another evacuation of my stomach, I can finally breathe again. I drop my head against the bed, greedily sucking air into my lungs. Something hot and wet dribbles down the side of my cheek. It reeks. I can't bring myself to care.

"Oh, thank God," the man lets out a relieved sigh, dropping his head into his hands. "I thought I'd killed you." Now's my chance. I breathe in deep, ready to let out a scream begging for help. Only a hoarse rattle escapes. I try again. The stomach acid and choking have ripped my throat raw. Plus the fabric being shoved in there, and who knows how long it's been since I've had water. All I can manage is a rough, gravelly plea, barely loud enough to be heard downstairs, let alone loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Please!" I exclaim to the universe, and maybe a little to myself. My body failed me again. I begin to sob, but it's just a gritty wheeze. 

"Why are you doing this?" I ask the man without looking at him.

"I really am trying to help you," he responds.

I let out a barely audible, wry laugh. It hurts, and I have to swallow several times to get the tickling feeling to subside.

"How is this helping me?" There's a long pause. He's genuinely contemplating the question.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks.

I don't want to answer, but I remember that I should let him get to know me, and I force myself to answer honestly.

"Fiancé... and he'll be concerned and come looking for me if I don't contact him soon." It's his turn to chuckle wryly. My breath catches. Why is that funny? "Di-did you hurt him?"

"No." His answer is simple, yet there's more meaning behind that single word than I can understand.

"Are you going to?"

"No, I think he’s been hurt enough."

"What does that mean?" I ask, panicked, the attempt at shouting sending me into another coughing fit. He doesn't answer, just shakes his head. He gets up, reaches to the top of the doorframe, and enters some numbers into the padlock before unlocking the door and taking the bowl of soup with him. I hadn't noticed him lock it when he entered.

The silence stretches and gives me too much time to think. All my brain seems to be able to do is ponder all the horrible ways I could be killed. So I do what I did when I was a kid and feeling nervous about something: I count things. Five fingers on my left hand. Five fingers on my right hand. Six digits on the padlock combination, but too far away to see what the digits are. Two windows in the room and two curtain panels on each, all of which are letting the sunlight trickle into the room again. A minimum of one full day has passed... Four bound limbs taped to four bedposts. A built-in bookshelf with five shelves. 7 medical textbooks on the top shelf. An unknowable number of seconds since the man left the room. How many more until he comes back? At some point my eyes close, and I count sheep until I drift to sleep again.

It doesn't feel like I've slept long, but the sun has yet again completely disappeared. The dark makes the curtains look weird. I'm still feverish and sweaty, but it's a little better now. That's probably why I've been sleeping for such long stretches. I tug on the tape holding my wrists, and there's barely any bond left on the right one. My muscles are weak and sore, but I manage to twist and stretch my wrist enough that I can feel there's no more adhesion. I just need a little more pull on the tape to stretch out the non-sticky material, and then I'll definitely be able to get my wrist out. I lift my legs up and brace them beneath me to get all the support I can. Just... about... there... just a little more. I reposition my sliding feet. 

Wait... My feet! My legs are unbound! Exaltation bubbles in my chest, and I let out a gleeful giggle. I wiggle my bare legs around for good measure, out of pure joy. Then, all at once, the happiness is gone, replaced by a hollow, freezing feeling. My legs are bare. The puppy pad is gone, and I'm in an adult diaper. Oh God. What did he do to me?

A newfound terror crawls down my spine, and I use it to yank my hand free of the tape. I scramble to peel the tape from my final imprisoned limb when I hear the metal unlocking of the door. I calculate the risks in an instant. If he catches me with one hand unbound, he would easily overpower me, given my weakened state. I fight against my animal instinct. It tells me to do everything in my power to flee the predator. Instead I wiggle my free wrist back into the now-loose loop of tape, hoping he doesn't notice. I flatten out, my legs stretched across the bottom of the sheetless mattress, as he enters the room. He's got a glass of water and another bowl of something. His face is almost a face. It's no longer a blur, but more like a Picasso painting. The features look familiar, but I can't figure out why.

"Hey," he greets me in a friendly, still-distorted tone. "I'm sorry I had to change your pants while you were out. The pad was full, and your pants were soaked. I really didn't want you getting a rash or an infection."

I painfully swallow the nasty insults I want to throw at him for violating me like that, even if he hadn't done anything else, like he claims.

"Thanks," I say instead, trying to imitate the friendliness. I do a poor job, and it definitely comes across as disdainful, but the raspiness of my voice thankfully masks it.

He helps me drink the water and broth, and I don't fight him. I even tell him thank you again, and this seems to please him. He sets the cup and bowl on a plastic folding table where my desk usually is. Why would he move my desk out? He goes to sit on the chair, then phases through it, landing on a plastic crate. I close my eyes tight trying to refocus them. When I open them again, the folding table and crate remain, having always been there. Did he take me somewhere else? I hurriedly scan my surroundings. The layout of the room, the doors, the windows is definitely right… Is he moving my stuff out and his stuff in? This is some demented "we're in love" stalker delusion, isn't it? That's why my being courteous meant so much to him. I could use that to my advantage…

He sits there quietly observing me, and I sit there thinking of what I could do to manipulate him into letting me go. It becomes hard to think. The fever is spiking again, and my bones feel like they're made of fiberglass, shredding everything they touch with every slight movement I make. But I can't stay still. My body involuntarily tries to move away from the pain. Time to count again.

One door. One deadbolt. Two total curtain panels. Fourteen rows of ornamental flowers along the wallpaper on my left side. Ten and a half ugly flowers in each row. One psycho who thinks he loves me. Nine ugly flowers in each row. Three free limbs. Eight ugly flowers in each row. Where are the flowers going? Oh, that's right. I started to peel them away. One plastic crate. One bowl. Five empty built-in shelves.

The fever becomes too much, and I can't count anymore. I'm shivering and on the verge of puking again. The man notices my distress, and he pulls out the bag and the spoon and brings them over to my face again. I try turning my head to the side. My teeth are chattering in my skull.

"No, please. I'm sick. You have to let me see a doctor."

He strokes my hair. And the misshapen eyes on his chin look kind... just like my fiancé's... so I sniff. His hand stays gently caressing my hair, and it's actually comforting. Is this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome? How long does that take to develop? How long has it been? The sick feeling eases, and the flowers on my wall grow back. I don't know how he can sit there and just watch me for hours on end. We sit in an almost comfortable silence while I watch the sun spill into the room. As dawn breaks, he unlocks the padlock and heads out of the room, presumably locking the one on the other side of the door as he goes. He's gone for a while, and I doze off.

When I come to, the room is dark again, with no sign of the sun from the window. I have a surprisingly consistent sleep schedule for a hostage victim. I suppose years of night shifts have also conditioned me to be this way. There's no sign that he's returned at all while I slept. I find myself missing his presence and even his smell. He does smell nice. Stop. No. I shake my head, trying to knock that crazy thought out of my mind. Realizing the insanity of my complacency causes another surge of adrenaline. I don't know what he's giving me, but it's making me lose my grip on reality. At this rate, I'll become his mummified plaything that he plays dress-up with. I'm done. I'm getting out now. I slip my free hand out of the tape and start working on the other. The work on my last wrist goes surprisingly slowly, whether that be from the anticipation that he could come back at any time or the fact that I've barely eaten and am still a little shaky from the fever.

As I'm working on the tape, the banister it's secured to begins to look funny. I can't help but pause and study it intently, waiting for my eyes to make sense of it, like I'd suddenly be able to see it in a color spectrum human eyes aren't capable of perceiving. Then, with a blink, it's gone. Simply disappeared. My heart starts racing, and I get a dropping feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not like the sickness or nausea I've been dealing with, but a deep, disgusting guilt. Like I'd done something wrong, and it's my fault the thing disappeared. All it takes is another yank, and my wrist is free. Instinctively, I try to stand up and back away from the disappearing bedpost as fast as possible, but the quick rise to my feet makes my head go woozy. My vision goes white, and I drop to the floor. As my senses and sight return, I see the low metal frame that the bare, dirty, stained mattress rests on and the remnants of the tape dangling and touching the floor.

Blood rushes in my ears, accompanied by heavy breathing. I push myself backward on all fours, scooting away slowly. Where am I? I find myself scooting through piles of trash, and parts of my baby-blue rug that I got to match my sheets peek through. But it's no longer baby blue. Stains bloom and grow before my eyes. The wallpaper flowers that had grown back pick themselves apart, dropping scraps of paper to the floor, where they mingle with the rest of the garbage.

"Gabby!" the man exclaims, slamming the door behind himself and quickly locking the deadbolt up top. With his back still turned, I manage to spring up. I rush for the glass cup of water that he'd left in here and launch myself at him, smashing the cup with all of my might against the back of his skull. There's a sickening crunch. It might just be the glass, but I hope it's his skull. He drops face-first onto the floor but manages to scramble forward, gripping onto his open backpack. The bag of powder and duct tape tumble out. I hop on top of his back and yank his head up by the hair with one hand, grab the bag of powder with the other, and shove it into his mouth. His teeth scrape against my hand.

I think about fighting downstairs and him imprisoning me to the bed, and I push it in harder. The gurgling sounds he was making become silenced at the depth I've managed to get it down his throat. My wrist gets ripped open by his teeth, right on the marks his restraints left on me. I think about what he might have done when he took off my pants while I was unconscious. I shove even harder. A couple of his teeth break off, and I feel his jaw dislocate. His weak hands uselessly scratch at his neck and face, trying to clear his airway, but the blow to the back of his head definitely caused some damage. It's the worst place to get hit on the head and I’ve seen this first hand in my patients. That's why I did it.

I slide my bloody, slobbery hand out of his gullet and release his hair with the other, then place both hands under his chin and lift his jaw, forcing him to close his mouth. Then I slide one hand over his lips and press them into his broken teeth for good measure. Like he'd done to me. His struggling slows and stops. I stop feeling the rise and fall of his chest as I sit on top of him. I let his limp head drop face-first onto the floor with a dull thud.

And then I realize… I hadn't seen his face during this last encounter. His back was to me the whole time. Would he still look distorted if I looked at him? I stand up slowly, so as not to get dizzy again, and make my way to the side of his head, tilting it up with my foot. All the features are in the right place, but they don't look right. His lips are swollen and bloody when they should be twisted into a teasing, yet loving, smirk. His strong nose is twisted at a bizarre angle. Had I broken that too somehow? His beautiful, ever-kind eyes are wide, bloodshot, and frightened.

My fiancé is dead, and I killed him. I can't process this. Is this another hallucination? Like the bed frame and the wallpaper? It has to be. But what if it's not? What if he'd gotten worried about me and stopped by to check on me? He could have been saving me, and I attacked and killed him! But no, because he hurriedly locked the door. That's why his back was to me in the first place. Yes. The door. Get out. Get help.

I grab the plastic crate and use it to reach the deadbolt. I try a couple of combinations, but nothing works, and there are too many digits to make guessing every single combination feasible. I hop off the crate and head to the windows, which have raggedy, soiled blankets stapled over them. I rip them down and find them completely boarded over with plywood. I try getting a grip on an edge and yanking, but these are in good. I'm not going to be able to get them off with just my hands. I pick up the largest glass shard I can find and scratch at the edges, trying to dislodge something. I ignore the hot, burning slice that scrapes deeper and deeper into my palm with every attempt.

I toss the glass and start banging my bloody hands against the wood and scream, but my voice is still weak and raspy. I go on banging for a while, but exhaustion hits all at once. I slump to the ground, running my hands through my greasy, matted hair.

Slow down. Breathe. Think logically.

You will eventually be able to get through the wood or the door. I can try the bed frame next. Using those metal platform rods would give me more leverage. Worst-case scenario, in another day or two my throat will heal up and I'll be able to scream louder. My eyes glance over to the body, and it's still my fiancé's face where a blurry monster should be. I slam my eyes shut. I let my body tip over, and I sleep right there on the floor. I'm haunted by dreams of the events that have taken place, but now the blurry man is my fiancé. He always was. And in my dreams, that makes sense, but that's the way it is with dreams, isn't it? The most insane and asinine piece of information is so obvious and canonical.

Unfortunately, when the sound of banging downstairs stirs me awake, it still makes sense. There is no relief like waking up from a nightmare and realizing none of it was real. It was all real and more.

I pick up a piece of the glass cup and hold it to my wrist. I think I could do it. End it and forget what I've done. I wouldn't make the mistake of cutting horizontally. I hear him shouting downstairs. He's looking for me, of course. I owe him money. He'll break down this door soon enough to find me. I'm shaking and nauseous again. I need more. Maybe he'd let me have just a little bit more on credit. That would be a much more pleasant way of forgetting than dying. And who's to say I wouldn't end up in hell, reliving this horror for all of eternity?

I think about the deal I could strike with my dealer... I don't like my odds. According to him, he's shown me more than enough grace as it is. Then I look at my fiance's pale, broken face, and reluctantly my eyes travel down, looking at the bulge at the top of his throat.

I can hear angry footsteps on the stairs, so I quickly crawl over to the body. I push him onto his back. His neck stays twisted to the side, and his limbs are stiff and statue-like as I turn him. Full rigor has set in. I place one hand on his upper face to steady it and use my other hand to try to crank open his lower jaw. It doesn't budge. I'm weak and shaky and slick with blood on both injured hands. If I were at full strength and ability, I still might not be able to pry open a jaw in full rigor mortis. The glass shard twinkles in the nonexistent sunlight, and without giving myself any time to think, I grab it and start digging into his neck. In perfect health and with proper tools, I'd probably be able to slice his throat just so, and with just enough force to leave the bag intact, but given the crude instrument, my injuries, and the time constraint of the banging outside my door, the drug spills out, intermingling with blood and falling deeper into the cavity of his neck.

He's banging on the door now. It won't be long. I shove my nose as deep in as I can, hoping to bypass some of the fluids, and inhale as deeply as I can. More banging. I quickly wipe my nose, clear the thick, coagulated parts from my nostrils, and go back in for a second deep breath. I will erase this from my brain if it's the last thing I do. Electricity tingles at the back of my brain and down my spine. The drumbeat grows louder, and I can't help but sway. They're playing for me. For my victory. For I've killed a monster. Maybe now, with the beast slain, I won't be so scared to walk home alone at night. I better get going. My fiancé gets worried sick when I come home late.

SNIFF

After years of walking home in the middle of the night after my shifts, I still find myself speed-walking the dark chasms between lamp posts, as if the bright pools of light beneath the streetlights could protect me in the first place. As I continuously steal glances over my shoulder,  I try not to dwell on how tonight feels different from my usual, reasonable paranoia. It's the lack of sleep. I've been awake for a couple of days straight at this point. Of course my nerves are a little fried.

I reach the next bright oasis and instinctively glance behind me. A dark figure slips behind a lamp post several lights back. It could be anything, I tell myself. It certainly had the shape of a man, but it wasn't even fully concealed. If someone truly intended to hurt me, they'd be better at staying hidden... wouldn't they?

As I stare back, the figure doesn't move an inch. I hustle to the next lamp post and turn around the moment I step into the flood of light, catching the figure. It’s definitely a man. He reaches the next post and once again attempts to conceal himself behind it. Maybe he was just another pedestrian trying to get somewhere and didn't want to make me nervous by walking faster and overtaking me. Maybe this was his awkward way of being considerate. Even so, I slip my keys from my pocket and thread them between my fingers, clenching my fist. Only three more luminous islands until I'm home, the next about half a block away. I sprint for it, and as soon as I reach the light, the man behind me advances one lamp post closer. 

I could scream for help if I have to. The street is lined with townhouses, but I'm not convinced the people living in these dilapidated buildings are the helping kind. I wouldn't put it past some of them to aid my attacker instead. Moving into a neighborhood where every window has bars wasn't my first choice, but it was within walking distance of the hospital, the rent was cheap, and that's all that really mattered at the time with the mountain of student debt I needed to pay off. My fiancé hated it even more than I did, especially since I insisted we not live together until we were actually married. I long for the relief of calling him once I'm safely inside with the door locked. The thought sparks an idea. With my free hand, I pull out my phone and dial 911, stopping just short of placing the call. If I need it, all I'll have to do is tap one button.

I make it to the next lamp post, then the last. My stalker continues his rhythmic pursuit. Has he been following me this whole time, or did I only pick up my tail halfway home? My heart pounds from the fear and the sprint. I just have to make it from this final pool of light to my front door, which sits almost perfectly between two streetlights. I adjust the key in my sweaty, trembling hand and bolt up the steps faster than I ever have before. The key slides smoothly into the lock on the first try. I throw the door open, slip inside, and slam it shut behind me, locking it in one fluid motion.

Some of the tension drains from my body. I was far enough ahead of him, and the patios between the lamp posts are nearly pitch black. I doubt he could tell which townhouse I entered. I head toward the back of the house, dump my purse, keys, and phone onto the kitchen table, then check the lock on the back door. I even check every securely barred window, just in case.

I'm just beginning to feel relieved and am about to call my fiancé when I hear a metallic clang from outside the front door. I hold my breath and tiptoe to the entryway, peering through the peephole. Nothing. Just the empty street and my overgrown grass swaying gently in the breeze. Now I'm just on edge. I'm fine. And I'll be even more fine once I call Danny and let him know I made it home safely. I head back to the kitchen table to grab my phone, but it's gone. The phone. The keys. My purse. They're all gone.

Blood rushes to my ears, and my vision tunnels. Is he in my house? How? I'm not sticking around to find out. I sprint back to the front door, unlock it, and yank on the handle. It doesn't budge. I check the lock again, twist the knob, and pull harder. Still nothing. I take a step back and examine the door. Did I break a hinge when I slammed it shut? No... There, at the very top, just out of reach, is some kind of deadbolt. Shiny and new against the aging paint of the door and frame. I don't see a keyhole, only a row of dials for entering a combination.

My heart hammers so violently I worry the sound alone will give away my location. He's got me trapped like an animal. All the lights downstairs are on, leaving precious few places to hide. Is he watching me right now? I rush to the back door. It, too, has been fitted with the same lock. What choices does that leave me? I could break one of the downstairs windows, but the bars would keep me from escaping. I could scream for help and hope someone gets here in time. Or I could go upstairs and jump from a window, but is that really any better? I'd probably break something from the fall, and then I'd truly be a sitting duck. With no good options, I grab a cast-iron skillet from the kitchen and grip it like a baseball bat. I'll smash the front window and hope I can bend the bars enough with the skillet to squeeze through. The front window also gives me a clear view of the staircase, so I'll see him if he comes downstairs. I yank the silky curtain aside and swing the skillet into the glass with all my strength. Shards explode around me, a few nicking my face.

I open my mouth to scream for help, but a large hand clamps over it. The scream still comes, muffled against his palm. Instinct takes over. I claw at the hand as he drags me backward, away from the shattered window. Realizing I'm still gripping the cast-iron skillet, I swing it backward over my head, hoping to smash him in the face. Either I miss, or he dodges. He catches my wrist and twists my arm behind my back, forcing me to drop the skillet. His hand crushes my lips against my teeth as he drags me toward the stairs. I taste blood. I want to bite him, to make him let go, but his grip is so powerful I can't even separate my lips.

He starts up the stairs, and I kick against the walls, shoving us both off balance. We crash onto the floor. His hand slips from my face as he catches himself, but he still has my wrist. I twist around to face him, struggling to wrench myself free. "Let go of me!" I scream, my voice so raw and animalistic it doesn't even sound like my own. I yank my arm back with every ounce of strength I have, and his grip gives way. The force of my pull sends me stumbling backward into the banister. The back of my head cracks against the railing. Instantly, the world tilts. My vision is suddenly  tiny pinpoints surrounded by white, and I fight with everything I have to stay conscious.

By the time I can register my body again, he's carrying me up the stairs. I flail as hard as I can, but I'm still reeling from the blow to my head. My limbs feel weak, sluggish, disconnected. The white haze at the edges of my vision slowly recedes as he carries me into my bedroom and throws me onto the bed. I hit and kick with everything I've got, but it doesn't slow him down. He does something to my wrists, then my ankles, and I can't move. My arms and legs are bound, each limb secured to a different bedpost. My heart pounds even harder. Every breath burns as though my chest is being cooked from the inside out. My awareness gradually returns. Duct tape binds my wrists, and every struggle tears at my skin and rips out hairs. The tape around my ankles is wrapped over my pants, giving me just enough movement to know escape is impossible. Not enough to free myself. Not even enough to close my knees. The vulnerable splay of my legs sends ice through my veins. Panic surges, and I thrash with a strength I didn't know I possessed, at one point launching nearly my entire body off the mattress, as though gravity were merely optional, as though I'd fly away if I weren't tied down.

"No! No! No!" I shout with every ounce of venom I can muster. The man rushes over and clamps his hand over my mouth once more. His eyes dart around the room before he grabs something from the floor and shoves it between my teeth and nearly down my throat. It’s some kind of cloth. It instantly muffles my protests. It tastes vile, and I gag. He grabs the roll of duct tape and wraps it around my head once... then twice, sealing the gag firmly in place. There's no way I'm getting this off without my hands.

I have no idea how long I struggle against the restraints. Eventually, my body begins to fail me. My movements grow weaker, slower, until I simply can't fight anymore. The cloth is shoved so deep into my mouth that I can't even scream, let alone swallow without fear of choking. My entire body trembles as hot tears spill down my cheeks, soaking my hair where it fans across the mattress.

Meanwhile, the man simply sits in a chair with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands buried in his hair. At least, I assume that's what he's doing. Looking at him, I can't make out any features above his shoulders. His hair, his head, his face… they all blur together into a dark, indistinct shape. I know it's a face. I'm not sure how I'm so certain. I think my eyes tell me I'm looking at one, but somewhere between my pupil and my optic nerve, something goes wrong. He's not disfigured. It's not a mask. My mind simply refuses to process what, or rather who, I'm seeing. I must have hit my head harder than I realized. The fact that I can't even look this bastard in the eye because I can't tell where his eyes are makes the whole situation feel even more wrong. My body starts trembling again, and fresh tears blur my vision. I try to sniff back the mucus running down my face, but it's hopeless. He looks up. I can tell by the way his posture changes, the way his head lifts from his hands and turns squarely toward me. The wrongness of his appearance and the weight of his attention makes me turn my head away. He rises from the chair and places a hand beside my head on the mattress, causing it to dip beneath his weight and gently roll my face toward him. I strain every muscle in my neck to keep looking away.

"Hey..." he croons, his voice as distorted and unnatural as his face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He lifts his free hand and reaches toward my cheek. I flinch before he can touch me. His hand recoils as though I've struck him, or worse, offended him by rejecting his affection. He begins to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Along the side of the bed. Finally, he stops at the foot of it, running both hands through his hair again. "I know you don't understand, but I'm trying to help you." He sounds earnest. Great. A delusional man who's completely unaware of his own delusion. A crazy person trying to do good is often more dangerous than a sane person who knowingly does wrong. Some of my colleagues would be appalled by that thought, but the mentally unwell are their patients, not mine. My patients are the victims of these self-proclaimed "saviors," whose attempts at love almost always turn violent. I wonder if that's who he is… Some unstable man who's seen me at work.

He's standing at the foot of the bed now, and I have to peer at him between my feet. He places his hands on one of them, and I struggle against the restraints again. A whimper escapes my throat, barely squeezing past the gag, but it's enough to make him glance up at me as he removes my shoe. "I just want you to be more comfortable," he says, slipping off the second one. His voice sounds like a record being manually spun backwards, though anything he says is inherently more sinister than any perceived message received during the Satanic Panic. I don't want to think about why he wants me comfortable, or what he'll do once he's decided I am. I can't scream no, so I shake my head violently, a few more muffled sobs break free. The blurry man straightens and studies me. I get the impression he's confused by how much I'm resisting. Or maybe he's trying to figure out the easiest way to remove my pants without untaping my ankles. "Oh no!" the warbling voice exclaims. He throws his hands up in front of himself as if trying to deflect my gaze. He rushes back to my side. "No, no, no! I'm not going to do that to you." The words tumble out with urgency, yet somehow still seem to arrive in slow motion.

I know I shouldn't take him at his word, but my coiled muscles loosen just a fraction, and the terror ebbs ever so slightly. Even so, I don't let my guard down. I keep my eyes fixed on the mass of face. Hyperfocused. Trying to see through the distortion, but nothing. Eventually, I let my head sink back into the pillow, tasting only failure and fatigue. It's irrational, but if I could just see his face, maybe I could connect with him somehow. That's what they tell you to do. Make your captor see you as a person, and you're more likely to survive.

I listen to his footsteps pacing back and forth. Letting my head rest and my body go limp invites a wave of exhaustion to crash over me. I close my eyes. My heartbeat gradually slows. I'm not sure how long I lie there before the aches begin to surface. I slowly test each limb, taking stock of the damage. I fought like hell, but not without consequences. I don't think anything is broken or seriously injured. Yet, the dull achy pain begins to grow and catch fire, igniting every one of my bones. The internal heat roasts my skin and prickles of sweat bloom all over my body. I can't help squirming against the discomfort. The white noise of his pacing suddenly stops. My eyes snap open. I'd almost forgotten he was still here. Without moving my head, I shift my gaze toward him to inconspicuously observe.

He hurries back to the chair and rifles through a bag. His hands tremble as he pulls out something metallic and a small plastic pouch. My mind immediately jumps to a knife. He's going to cut off a piece of me, keep it as a trophy, and carry it home in a ziplock. Blood thunders in my ears. He approaches slowly, cradling whatever he's holding with surprising care as he brings it toward my face. It's a small spoon, balanced with a mound of pale, faintly iridescent powder. He cups his free hand around it to shield it, as though protecting the flame of a birthday candle. I wrench my head to the side, praying that resisting will make him give up. Instead, he grips my chin and forces my face upward. I hold my breath until my lungs burn. Eventually, my body betrays me. I gasp. I feel every speck of the stuff slam into my nasal passages, tickling the back of my throat leaving an unpleasant chemical taste in its wake. My eyes water and I cough against the gag. I forcibly exhale air out of my nose, in a failed attempt to push some of it out, but he tips my farther back and gravity wins the fight. I can do nothing but endure it. The resignation I feel is bitter at first then becomes a sense of relief. I don’t even cry. I watch the light of the sunrise peek around the edges of the pastel curtains and drift to sleep. 

The fever pains start to wake me up slowly and reluctantly, then my wrists tug against the restraints and I'm immediately awake, aware, and on edge. He moved me to another room. No... this is still my room. The dark is playing tricks. The dark? How long was I asleep? The sun had just come up. I look around for the man, and he's nowhere to be found. I start to wiggle again, cataloging my injuries, now coupled with the fever and a stiffness that reminds me I haven't moved in many, many hours. Something crinkles under my hips. It's a puppy pad. That freak has no intention of letting me even get up to use the bathroom, and that sparks a rage in me. Then I notice the pad and my pants are wet. I've pissed myself. What did he give me that makes me sleep for a whole day, and so soundly that I'd pee my pants without waking? I might be embarrassed or ashamed if I didn't deal with adults messing themselves in bed for a living. Heat radiates off me, a combination of fever and fury. Despite my body's protests, I yank hard against the tape and find that the sweat from my wrists is weakening the sticky bond. I could definitely work my way out of these. 

The telltale metal clanks of a heavy-duty lock break my train of thought, and I stiffen as the blurry man enters holding a bowl. "Good, you're awake," he says. "You need to eat something." His head and face are a little less distorted, like somebody has lowered the Gaussian blur. It's still impossible to make out any features, but it is promising progress. This is likely just a concussion symptom. As he draws closer with the bowl, I catch a waft of the broth, and an intense nausea overwhelms me. Vomit forces its way up my throat, only to be held in by the gag. I start choking, and the attempt to cough causes even more gagging. I try to catch my breath, and some bile slithers into my airway. My hands instinctively try to scramble to my mouth to remove the obstruction, but I can't. The edges of my vision start to darken.

At some point, the man realizes what is happening because his trembling fingers unceremoniously begin to unravel the tape around my head and face. It rips at my skin, but I can hardly tell. He pulls the cloth out of my mouth, and chunky, foul-smelling vomitus follows suit. I cough and cough, with no time to take a breath in between. Coughing so hard it turns into retching. The force of the coughing makes my face tense with pressure. It feels like my eyeballs are about to pop out. It eventually slows, and after another evacuation of my stomach, I can finally breathe again. I drop my head against the bed, greedily sucking air into my lungs. Something hot and wet dribbles down the side of my cheek. It reeks. I can't bring myself to care.

"Oh, thank God," the man lets out a relieved sigh, dropping his head into his hands. "I thought I'd killed you." Now's my chance. I breathe in deep, ready to let out a scream begging for help. Only a hoarse rattle escapes. I try again. The stomach acid and choking have ripped my throat raw. Plus the fabric being shoved in there, and who knows how long it's been since I've had water. All I can manage is a rough, gravelly plea, barely loud enough to be heard downstairs, let alone loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Please!" I exclaim to the universe, and maybe a little to myself. My body failed me again. I begin to sob, but it's just a gritty wheeze. 

"Why are you doing this?" I ask the man without looking at him.

"I really am trying to help you," he responds.

I let out a barely audible, wry laugh. It hurts, and I have to swallow several times to get the tickling feeling to subside.

"How is this helping me?" There's a long pause. He's genuinely contemplating the question.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks.

I don't want to answer, but I remember that I should let him get to know me, and I force myself to answer honestly.

"Fiancé... and he'll be concerned and come looking for me if I don't contact him soon." It's his turn to chuckle wryly. My breath catches. Why is that funny? "Di-did you hurt him?"

"No." His answer is simple, yet there's more meaning behind that single word than I can understand.

"Are you going to?"

"No, I think he’s been hurt enough."

"What does that mean?" I ask, panicked, the attempt at shouting sending me into another coughing fit. He doesn't answer, just shakes his head. He gets up, reaches to the top of the doorframe, and enters some numbers into the padlock before unlocking the door and taking the bowl of soup with him. I hadn't noticed him lock it when he entered.

The silence stretches and gives me too much time to think. All my brain seems to be able to do is ponder all the horrible ways I could be killed. So I do what I did when I was a kid and feeling nervous about something: I count things. Five fingers on my left hand. Five fingers on my right hand. Six digits on the padlock combination, but too far away to see what the digits are. Two windows in the room and two curtain panels on each, all of which are letting the sunlight trickle into the room again. A minimum of one full day has passed... Four bound limbs taped to four bedposts. A built-in bookshelf with five shelves. 7 medical textbooks on the top shelf. An unknowable number of seconds since the man left the room. How many more until he comes back? At some point my eyes close, and I count sheep until I drift to sleep again.

It doesn't feel like I've slept long, but the sun has yet again completely disappeared. The dark makes the curtains look weird. I'm still feverish and sweaty, but it's a little better now. That's probably why I've been sleeping for such long stretches. I tug on the tape holding my wrists, and there's barely any bond left on the right one. My muscles are weak and sore, but I manage to twist and stretch my wrist enough that I can feel there's no more adhesion. I just need a little more pull on the tape to stretch out the non-sticky material, and then I'll definitely be able to get my wrist out. I lift my legs up and brace them beneath me to get all the support I can. Just... about... there... just a little more. I reposition my sliding feet. 

Wait... My feet! My legs are unbound! Exaltation bubbles in my chest, and I let out a gleeful giggle. I wiggle my bare legs around for good measure, out of pure joy. Then, all at once, the happiness is gone, replaced by a hollow, freezing feeling. My legs are bare. The puppy pad is gone, and I'm in an adult diaper. Oh God. What did he do to me?

A newfound terror crawls down my spine, and I use it to yank my hand free of the tape. I scramble to peel the tape from my final imprisoned limb when I hear the metal unlocking of the door. I calculate the risks in an instant. If he catches me with one hand unbound, he would easily overpower me, given my weakened state. I fight against my animal instinct. It tells me to do everything in my power to flee the predator. Instead I wiggle my free wrist back into the now-loose loop of tape, hoping he doesn't notice. I flatten out, my legs stretched across the bottom of the sheetless mattress, as he enters the room. He's got a glass of water and another bowl of something. His face is almost a face. It's no longer a blur, but more like a Picasso painting. The features look familiar, but I can't figure out why.

"Hey," he greets me in a friendly, still-distorted tone. "I'm sorry I had to change your pants while you were out. The pad was full, and your pants were soaked. I really didn't want you getting a rash or an infection."

I painfully swallow the nasty insults I want to throw at him for violating me like that, even if he hadn't done anything else, like he claims.

"Thanks," I say instead, trying to imitate the friendliness. I do a poor job, and it definitely comes across as disdainful, but the raspiness of my voice thankfully masks it.

He helps me drink the water and broth, and I don't fight him. I even tell him thank you again, and this seems to please him. He sets the cup and bowl on a plastic folding table where my desk usually is. Why would he move my desk out? He goes to sit on the chair, then phases through it, landing on a plastic crate. I close my eyes tight trying to refocus them. When I open them again, the folding table and crate remain, having always been there. Did he take me somewhere else? I hurriedly scan my surroundings. The layout of the room, the doors, the windows is definitely right… Is he moving my stuff out and his stuff in? This is some demented "we're in love" stalker delusion, isn't it? That's why my being courteous meant so much to him. I could use that to my advantage…

He sits there quietly observing me, and I sit there thinking of what I could do to manipulate him into letting me go. It becomes hard to think. The fever is spiking again, and my bones feel like they're made of fiberglass, shredding everything they touch with every slight movement I make. But I can't stay still. My body involuntarily tries to move away from the pain. Time to count again.

One door. One deadbolt. Two total curtain panels. Fourteen rows of ornamental flowers along the wallpaper on my left side. Ten and a half ugly flowers in each row. One psycho who thinks he loves me. Nine ugly flowers in each row. Three free limbs. Eight ugly flowers in each row. Where are the flowers going? Oh, that's right. I started to peel them away. One plastic crate. One bowl. Five empty built-in shelves.

The fever becomes too much, and I can't count anymore. I'm shivering and on the verge of puking again. The man notices my distress, and he pulls out the bag and the spoon and brings them over to my face again. I try turning my head to the side. My teeth are chattering in my skull.

"No, please. I'm sick. You have to let me see a doctor."

He strokes my hair. And the misshapen eyes on his chin look kind... just like my fiancé's... so I sniff. His hand stays gently caressing my hair, and it's actually comforting. Is this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome? How long does that take to develop? How long has it been? The sick feeling eases, and the flowers on my wall grow back. I don't know how he can sit there and just watch me for hours on end. We sit in an almost comfortable silence while I watch the sun spill into the room. As dawn breaks, he unlocks the padlock and heads out of the room, presumably locking the one on the other side of the door as he goes. He's gone for a while, and I doze off.

When I come to, the room is dark again, with no sign of the sun from the window. I have a surprisingly consistent sleep schedule for a hostage victim. I suppose years of night shifts have also conditioned me to be this way. There's no sign that he's returned at all while I slept. I find myself missing his presence and even his smell. He does smell nice. Stop. No. I shake my head, trying to knock that crazy thought out of my mind. Realizing the insanity of my complacency causes another surge of adrenaline. I don't know what he's giving me, but it's making me lose my grip on reality. At this rate, I'll become his mummified plaything that he plays dress-up with. I'm done. I'm getting out now. I slip my free hand out of the tape and start working on the other. The work on my last wrist goes surprisingly slowly, whether that be from the anticipation that he could come back at any time or the fact that I've barely eaten and am still a little shaky from the fever.

As I'm working on the tape, the banister it's secured to begins to look funny. I can't help but pause and study it intently, waiting for my eyes to make sense of it, like I'd suddenly be able to see it in a color spectrum human eyes aren't capable of perceiving. Then, with a blink, it's gone. Simply disappeared. My heart starts racing, and I get a dropping feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not like the sickness or nausea I've been dealing with, but a deep, disgusting guilt. Like I'd done something wrong, and it's my fault the thing disappeared. All it takes is another yank, and my wrist is free. Instinctively, I try to stand up and back away from the disappearing bedpost as fast as possible, but the quick rise to my feet makes my head go woozy. My vision goes white, and I drop to the floor. As my senses and sight return, I see the low metal frame that the bare, dirty, stained mattress rests on and the remnants of the tape dangling and touching the floor.

Blood rushes in my ears, accompanied by heavy breathing. I push myself backward on all fours, scooting away slowly. Where am I? I find myself scooting through piles of trash, and parts of my baby-blue rug that I got to match my sheets peek through. But it's no longer baby blue. Stains bloom and grow before my eyes. The wallpaper flowers that had grown back pick themselves apart, dropping scraps of paper to the floor, where they mingle with the rest of the garbage.

"Gabby!" the man exclaims, slamming the door behind himself and quickly locking the deadbolt up top. With his back still turned, I manage to spring up. I rush for the glass cup of water that he'd left in here and launch myself at him, smashing the cup with all of my might against the back of his skull. There's a sickening crunch. It might just be the glass, but I hope it's his skull. He drops face-first onto the floor but manages to scramble forward, gripping onto his open backpack. The bag of powder and duct tape tumble out. I hop on top of his back and yank his head up by the hair with one hand, grab the bag of powder with the other, and shove it into his mouth. His teeth scrape against my hand.

I think about fighting downstairs and him imprisoning me to the bed, and I push it in harder. The gurgling sounds he was making become silenced at the depth I've managed to get it down his throat. My wrist gets ripped open by his teeth, right on the marks his restraints left on me. I think about what he might have done when he took off my pants while I was unconscious. I shove even harder. A couple of his teeth break off, and I feel his jaw dislocate. His weak hands uselessly scratch at his neck and face, trying to clear his airway, but the blow to the back of his head definitely caused some damage. It's the worst place to get hit on the head and I’ve seen this first hand in my patients. That's why I did it.

I slide my bloody, slobbery hand out of his gullet and release his hair with the other, then place both hands under his chin and lift his jaw, forcing him to close his mouth. Then I slide one hand over his lips and press them into his broken teeth for good measure. Like he'd done to me. His struggling slows and stops. I stop feeling the rise and fall of his chest as I sit on top of him. I let his limp head drop face-first onto the floor with a dull thud.

And then I realize… I hadn't seen his face during this last encounter. His back was to me the whole time. Would he still look distorted if I looked at him? I stand up slowly, so as not to get dizzy again, and make my way to the side of his head, tilting it up with my foot. All the features are in the right place, but they don't look right. His lips are swollen and bloody when they should be twisted into a teasing, yet loving, smirk. His strong nose is twisted at a bizarre angle. Had I broken that too somehow? His beautiful, ever-kind eyes are wide, bloodshot, and frightened.

My fiancé is dead, and I killed him. I can't process this. Is this another hallucination? Like the bed frame and the wallpaper? It has to be. But what if it's not? What if he'd gotten worried about me and stopped by to check on me? He could have been saving me, and I attacked and killed him! But no, because he hurriedly locked the door. That's why his back was to me in the first place. Yes. The door. Get out. Get help.

I grab the plastic crate and use it to reach the deadbolt. I try a couple of combinations, but nothing works, and there are too many digits to make guessing every single combination feasible. I hop off the crate and head to the windows, which have raggedy, soiled blankets stapled over them. I rip them down and find them completely boarded over with plywood. I try getting a grip on an edge and yanking, but these are in good. I'm not going to be able to get them off with just my hands. I pick up the largest glass shard I can find and scratch at the edges, trying to dislodge something. I ignore the hot, burning slice that scrapes deeper and deeper into my palm with every attempt.

I toss the glass and start banging my bloody hands against the wood and scream, but my voice is still weak and raspy. I go on banging for a while, but exhaustion hits all at once. I slump to the ground, running my hands through my greasy, matted hair.

Slow down. Breathe. Think logically.

You will eventually be able to get through the wood or the door. I can try the bed frame next. Using those metal platform rods would give me more leverage. Worst-case scenario, in another day or two my throat will heal up and I'll be able to scream louder. My eyes glance over to the body, and it's still my fiancé's face where a blurry monster should be. I slam my eyes shut. I let my body tip over, and I sleep right there on the floor. I'm haunted by dreams of the events that have taken place, but now the blurry man is my fiancé. He always was. And in my dreams, that makes sense, but that's the way it is with dreams, isn't it? The most insane and asinine piece of information is so obvious and canonical.

Unfortunately, when the sound of banging downstairs stirs me awake, it still makes sense. There is no relief like waking up from a nightmare and realizing none of it was real. It was all real and more.

I pick up a piece of the glass cup and hold it to my wrist. I think I could do it. End it and forget what I've done. I wouldn't make the mistake of cutting horizontally. I hear him shouting downstairs. He's looking for me, of course. I owe him money. He'll break down this door soon enough to find me. I'm shaking and nauseous again. I need more. Maybe he'd let me have just a little bit more on credit. That would be a much more pleasant way of forgetting than dying. And who's to say I wouldn't end up in hell, reliving this horror for all of eternity?

I think about the deal I could strike with my dealer... I don't like my odds. According to him, he's shown me more than enough grace as it is. Then I look at my fiance's pale, broken face, and reluctantly my eyes travel down, looking at the bulge at the top of his throat.

I can hear angry footsteps on the stairs, so I quickly crawl over to the body. I push him onto his back. His neck stays twisted to the side, and his limbs are stiff and statue-like as I turn him. Full rigor has set in. I place one hand on his upper face to steady it and use my other hand to try to crank open his lower jaw. It doesn't budge. I'm weak and shaky and slick with blood on both injured hands. If I were at full strength and ability, I still might not be able to pry open a jaw in full rigor mortis. The glass shard twinkles in the nonexistent sunlight, and without giving myself any time to think, I grab it and start digging into his neck. In perfect health and with proper tools, I'd probably be able to slice his throat just so, and with just enough force to leave the bag intact, but given the crude instrument, my injuries, and the time constraint of the banging outside my door, the drug spills out, intermingling with blood and falling deeper into the cavity of his neck.

He's banging on the door now. It won't be long. I shove my nose as deep in as I can, hoping to bypass some of the fluids, and inhale as deeply as I can. More banging. I quickly wipe my nose, clear the thick, coagulated parts from my nostrils, and go back in for a second deep breath. I will erase this from my brain if it's the last thing I do. Electricity tingles at the back of my brain and down my spine. The drumbeat grows louder, and I can't help but sway. They're playing for me. For my victory. For I've killed a monster. Maybe now, with the beast slain, I won't be so scared to walk home alone at night. I better get going. My fiancé gets worried sick when I come home late.

After years of walking home in the middle of the night after my shifts, I still find myself speed-walking the dark chasms between lamp posts, as if the bright pools of light beneath the streetlights could protect me in the first place. As I continuously steal glances over my shoulder,  I try not to dwell on how tonight feels different from my usual, reasonable paranoia. It's the lack of sleep. I've been awake for a couple of days straight at this point. Of course my nerves are a little fried.

I reach the next bright oasis and instinctively glance behind me. A dark figure slips behind a lamp post several lights back. It could be anything, I tell myself. It certainly had the shape of a man, but it wasn't even fully concealed. If someone truly intended to hurt me, they'd be better at staying hidden... wouldn't they?

As I stare back, the figure doesn't move an inch. I hustle to the next lamp post and turn around the moment I step into the flood of light, catching the figure. It’s definitely a man. He reaches the next post and once again attempts to conceal himself behind it. Maybe he was just another pedestrian trying to get somewhere and didn't want to make me nervous by walking faster and overtaking me. Maybe this was his awkward way of being considerate. Even so, I slip my keys from my pocket and thread them between my fingers, clenching my fist. Only three more luminous islands until I'm home, the next about half a block away. I sprint for it, and as soon as I reach the light, the man behind me advances one lamp post closer. 

I could scream for help if I have to. The street is lined with townhouses, but I'm not convinced the people living in these dilapidated buildings are the helping kind. I wouldn't put it past some of them to aid my attacker instead. Moving into a neighborhood where every window has bars wasn't my first choice, but it was within walking distance of the hospital, the rent was cheap, and that's all that really mattered at the time with the mountain of student debt I needed to pay off. My fiancé hated it even more than I did, especially since I insisted we not live together until we were actually married. I long for the relief of calling him once I'm safely inside with the door locked. The thought sparks an idea. With my free hand, I pull out my phone and dial 911, stopping just short of placing the call. If I need it, all I'll have to do is tap one button.

I make it to the next lamp post, then the last. My stalker continues his rhythmic pursuit. Has he been following me this whole time, or did I only pick up my tail halfway home? My heart pounds from the fear and the sprint. I just have to make it from this final pool of light to my front door, which sits almost perfectly between two streetlights. I adjust the key in my sweaty, trembling hand and bolt up the steps faster than I ever have before. The key slides smoothly into the lock on the first try. I throw the door open, slip inside, and slam it shut behind me, locking it in one fluid motion.

Some of the tension drains from my body. I was far enough ahead of him, and the patios between the lamp posts are nearly pitch black. I doubt he could tell which townhouse I entered. I head toward the back of the house, dump my purse, keys, and phone onto the kitchen table, then check the lock on the back door. I even check every securely barred window, just in case.

I'm just beginning to feel relieved and am about to call my fiancé when I hear a metallic clang from outside the front door. I hold my breath and tiptoe to the entryway, peering through the peephole. Nothing. Just the empty street and my overgrown grass swaying gently in the breeze. Now I'm just on edge. I'm fine. And I'll be even more fine once I call Danny and let him know I made it home safely. I head back to the kitchen table to grab my phone, but it's gone. The phone. The keys. My purse. They're all gone.

Blood rushes to my ears, and my vision tunnels. Is he in my house? How? I'm not sticking around to find out. I sprint back to the front door, unlock it, and yank on the handle. It doesn't budge. I check the lock again, twist the knob, and pull harder. Still nothing. I take a step back and examine the door. Did I break a hinge when I slammed it shut? No... There, at the very top, just out of reach, is some kind of deadbolt. Shiny and new against the aging paint of the door and frame. I don't see a keyhole, only a row of dials for entering a combination.

My heart hammers so violently I worry the sound alone will give away my location. He's got me trapped like an animal. All the lights downstairs are on, leaving precious few places to hide. Is he watching me right now? I rush to the back door. It, too, has been fitted with the same lock. What choices does that leave me? I could break one of the downstairs windows, but the bars would keep me from escaping. I could scream for help and hope someone gets here in time. Or I could go upstairs and jump from a window, but is that really any better? I'd probably break something from the fall, and then I'd truly be a sitting duck. With no good options, I grab a cast-iron skillet from the kitchen and grip it like a baseball bat. I'll smash the front window and hope I can bend the bars enough with the skillet to squeeze through. The front window also gives me a clear view of the staircase, so I'll see him if he comes downstairs. I yank the silky curtain aside and swing the skillet into the glass with all my strength. Shards explode around me, a few nicking my face.

I open my mouth to scream for help, but a large hand clamps over it. The scream still comes, muffled against his palm. Instinct takes over. I claw at the hand as he drags me backward, away from the shattered window. Realizing I'm still gripping the cast-iron skillet, I swing it backward over my head, hoping to smash him in the face. Either I miss, or he dodges. He catches my wrist and twists my arm behind my back, forcing me to drop the skillet. His hand crushes my lips against my teeth as he drags me toward the stairs. I taste blood. I want to bite him, to make him let go, but his grip is so powerful I can't even separate my lips.

He starts up the stairs, and I kick against the walls, shoving us both off balance. We crash onto the floor. His hand slips from my face as he catches himself, but he still has my wrist. I twist around to face him, struggling to wrench myself free. "Let go of me!" I scream, my voice so raw and animalistic it doesn't even sound like my own. I yank my arm back with every ounce of strength I have, and his grip gives way. The force of my pull sends me stumbling backward into the banister. The back of my head cracks against the railing. Instantly, the world tilts. My vision is suddenly  tiny pinpoints surrounded by white, and I fight with everything I have to stay conscious.

By the time I can register my body again, he's carrying me up the stairs. I flail as hard as I can, but I'm still reeling from the blow to my head. My limbs feel weak, sluggish, disconnected. The white haze at the edges of my vision slowly recedes as he carries me into my bedroom and throws me onto the bed. I hit and kick with everything I've got, but it doesn't slow him down. He does something to my wrists, then my ankles, and I can't move. My arms and legs are bound, each limb secured to a different bedpost. My heart pounds even harder. Every breath burns as though my chest is being cooked from the inside out. My awareness gradually returns. Duct tape binds my wrists, and every struggle tears at my skin and rips out hairs. The tape around my ankles is wrapped over my pants, giving me just enough movement to know escape is impossible. Not enough to free myself. Not even enough to close my knees. The vulnerable splay of my legs sends ice through my veins. Panic surges, and I thrash with a strength I didn't know I possessed, at one point launching nearly my entire body off the mattress, as though gravity were merely optional, as though I'd fly away if I weren't tied down.

"No! No! No!" I shout with every ounce of venom I can muster. The man rushes over and clamps his hand over my mouth once more. His eyes dart around the room before he grabs something from the floor and shoves it between my teeth and nearly down my throat. It’s some kind of cloth. It instantly muffles my protests. It tastes vile, and I gag. He grabs the roll of duct tape and wraps it around my head once... then twice, sealing the gag firmly in place. There's no way I'm getting this off without my hands.

I have no idea how long I struggle against the restraints. Eventually, my body begins to fail me. My movements grow weaker, slower, until I simply can't fight anymore. The cloth is shoved so deep into my mouth that I can't even scream, let alone swallow without fear of choking. My entire body trembles as hot tears spill down my cheeks, soaking my hair where it fans across the mattress.

Meanwhile, the man simply sits in a chair with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands buried in his hair. At least, I assume that's what he's doing. Looking at him, I can't make out any features above his shoulders. His hair, his head, his face… they all blur together into a dark, indistinct shape. I know it's a face. I'm not sure how I'm so certain. I think my eyes tell me I'm looking at one, but somewhere between my pupil and my optic nerve, something goes wrong. He's not disfigured. It's not a mask. My mind simply refuses to process what, or rather who, I'm seeing. I must have hit my head harder than I realized. The fact that I can't even look this bastard in the eye because I can't tell where his eyes are makes the whole situation feel even more wrong. My body starts trembling again, and fresh tears blur my vision. I try to sniff back the mucus running down my face, but it's hopeless. He looks up. I can tell by the way his posture changes, the way his head lifts from his hands and turns squarely toward me. The wrongness of his appearance and the weight of his attention makes me turn my head away. He rises from the chair and places a hand beside my head on the mattress, causing it to dip beneath his weight and gently roll my face toward him. I strain every muscle in my neck to keep looking away.

"Hey..." he croons, his voice as distorted and unnatural as his face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He lifts his free hand and reaches toward my cheek. I flinch before he can touch me. His hand recoils as though I've struck him, or worse, offended him by rejecting his affection. He begins to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Along the side of the bed. Finally, he stops at the foot of it, running both hands through his hair again. "I know you don't understand, but I'm trying to help you." He sounds earnest. Great. A delusional man who's completely unaware of his own delusion. A crazy person trying to do good is often more dangerous than a sane person who knowingly does wrong. Some of my colleagues would be appalled by that thought, but the mentally unwell are their patients, not mine. My patients are the victims of these self-proclaimed "saviors," whose attempts at love almost always turn violent. I wonder if that's who he is… Some unstable man who's seen me at work.

He's standing at the foot of the bed now, and I have to peer at him between my feet. He places his hands on one of them, and I struggle against the restraints again. A whimper escapes my throat, barely squeezing past the gag, but it's enough to make him glance up at me as he removes my shoe. "I just want you to be more comfortable," he says, slipping off the second one. His voice sounds like a record being manually spun backwards, though anything he says is inherently more sinister than any perceived message received during the Satanic Panic. I don't want to think about why he wants me comfortable, or what he'll do once he's decided I am. I can't scream no, so I shake my head violently, a few more muffled sobs break free. The blurry man straightens and studies me. I get the impression he's confused by how much I'm resisting. Or maybe he's trying to figure out the easiest way to remove my pants without untaping my ankles. "Oh no!" the warbling voice exclaims. He throws his hands up in front of himself as if trying to deflect my gaze. He rushes back to my side. "No, no, no! I'm not going to do that to you." The words tumble out with urgency, yet somehow still seem to arrive in slow motion.

I know I shouldn't take him at his word, but my coiled muscles loosen just a fraction, and the terror ebbs ever so slightly. Even so, I don't let my guard down. I keep my eyes fixed on the mass of face. Hyperfocused. Trying to see through the distortion, but nothing. Eventually, I let my head sink back into the pillow, tasting only failure and fatigue. It's irrational, but if I could just see his face, maybe I could connect with him somehow. That's what they tell you to do. Make your captor see you as a person, and you're more likely to survive.

I listen to his footsteps pacing back and forth. Letting my head rest and my body go limp invites a wave of exhaustion to crash over me. I close my eyes. My heartbeat gradually slows. I'm not sure how long I lie there before the aches begin to surface. I slowly test each limb, taking stock of the damage. I fought like hell, but not without consequences. I don't think anything is broken or seriously injured. Yet, the dull achy pain begins to grow and catch fire, igniting every one of my bones. The internal heat roasts my skin and prickles of sweat bloom all over my body. I can't help squirming against the discomfort. The white noise of his pacing suddenly stops. My eyes snap open. I'd almost forgotten he was still here. Without moving my head, I shift my gaze toward him to inconspicuously observe.

He hurries back to the chair and rifles through a bag. His hands tremble as he pulls out something metallic and a small plastic pouch. My mind immediately jumps to a knife. He's going to cut off a piece of me, keep it as a trophy, and carry it home in a ziplock. Blood thunders in my ears. He approaches slowly, cradling whatever he's holding with surprising care as he brings it toward my face. It's a small spoon, balanced with a mound of pale, faintly iridescent powder. He cups his free hand around it to shield it, as though protecting the flame of a birthday candle. I wrench my head to the side, praying that resisting will make him give up. Instead, he grips my chin and forces my face upward. I hold my breath until my lungs burn. Eventually, my body betrays me. I gasp. I feel every speck of the stuff slam into my nasal passages, tickling the back of my throat leaving an unpleasant chemical taste in its wake. My eyes water and I cough against the gag. I forcibly exhale air out of my nose, in a failed attempt to push some of it out, but he tips my farther back and gravity wins the fight. I can do nothing but endure it. The resignation I feel is bitter at first then becomes a sense of relief. I don’t even cry. I watch the light of the sunrise peek around the edges of the pastel curtains and drift to sleep. 

The fever pains start to wake me up slowly and reluctantly, then my wrists tug against the restraints and I'm immediately awake, aware, and on edge. He moved me to another room. No... this is still my room. The dark is playing tricks. The dark? How long was I asleep? The sun had just come up. I look around for the man, and he's nowhere to be found. I start to wiggle again, cataloging my injuries, now coupled with the fever and a stiffness that reminds me I haven't moved in many, many hours. Something crinkles under my hips. It's a puppy pad. That freak has no intention of letting me even get up to use the bathroom, and that sparks a rage in me. Then I notice the pad and my pants are wet. I've pissed myself. What did he give me that makes me sleep for a whole day, and so soundly that I'd pee my pants without waking? I might be embarrassed or ashamed if I didn't deal with adults messing themselves in bed for a living. Heat radiates off me, a combination of fever and fury. Despite my body's protests, I yank hard against the tape and find that the sweat from my wrists is weakening the sticky bond. I could definitely work my way out of these. 

The telltale metal clanks of a heavy-duty lock break my train of thought, and I stiffen as the blurry man enters holding a bowl. "Good, you're awake," he says. "You need to eat something." His head and face are a little less distorted, like somebody has lowered the Gaussian blur. It's still impossible to make out any features, but it is promising progress. This is likely just a concussion symptom. As he draws closer with the bowl, I catch a waft of the broth, and an intense nausea overwhelms me. Vomit forces its way up my throat, only to be held in by the gag. I start choking, and the attempt to cough causes even more gagging. I try to catch my breath, and some bile slithers into my airway. My hands instinctively try to scramble to my mouth to remove the obstruction, but I can't. The edges of my vision start to darken.

At some point, the man realizes what is happening because his trembling fingers unceremoniously begin to unravel the tape around my head and face. It rips at my skin, but I can hardly tell. He pulls the cloth out of my mouth, and chunky, foul-smelling vomitus follows suit. I cough and cough, with no time to take a breath in between. Coughing so hard it turns into retching. The force of the coughing makes my face tense with pressure. It feels like my eyeballs are about to pop out. It eventually slows, and after another evacuation of my stomach, I can finally breathe again. I drop my head against the bed, greedily sucking air into my lungs. Something hot and wet dribbles down the side of my cheek. It reeks. I can't bring myself to care.

"Oh, thank God," the man lets out a relieved sigh, dropping his head into his hands. "I thought I'd killed you." Now's my chance. I breathe in deep, ready to let out a scream begging for help. Only a hoarse rattle escapes. I try again. The stomach acid and choking have ripped my throat raw. Plus the fabric being shoved in there, and who knows how long it's been since I've had water. All I can manage is a rough, gravelly plea, barely loud enough to be heard downstairs, let alone loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Please!" I exclaim to the universe, and maybe a little to myself. My body failed me again. I begin to sob, but it's just a gritty wheeze. 

"Why are you doing this?" I ask the man without looking at him.

"I really am trying to help you," he responds.

I let out a barely audible, wry laugh. It hurts, and I have to swallow several times to get the tickling feeling to subside.

"How is this helping me?" There's a long pause. He's genuinely contemplating the question.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks.

I don't want to answer, but I remember that I should let him get to know me, and I force myself to answer honestly.

"Fiancé... and he'll be concerned and come looking for me if I don't contact him soon." It's his turn to chuckle wryly. My breath catches. Why is that funny? "Di-did you hurt him?"

"No." His answer is simple, yet there's more meaning behind that single word than I can understand.

"Are you going to?"

"No, I think he’s been hurt enough."

"What does that mean?" I ask, panicked, the attempt at shouting sending me into another coughing fit. He doesn't answer, just shakes his head. He gets up, reaches to the top of the doorframe, and enters some numbers into the padlock before unlocking the door and taking the bowl of soup with him. I hadn't noticed him lock it when he entered.

The silence stretches and gives me too much time to think. All my brain seems to be able to do is ponder all the horrible ways I could be killed. So I do what I did when I was a kid and feeling nervous about something: I count things. Five fingers on my left hand. Five fingers on my right hand. Six digits on the padlock combination, but too far away to see what the digits are. Two windows in the room and two curtain panels on each, all of which are letting the sunlight trickle into the room again. A minimum of one full day has passed... Four bound limbs taped to four bedposts. A built-in bookshelf with five shelves. 7 medical textbooks on the top shelf. An unknowable number of seconds since the man left the room. How many more until he comes back? At some point my eyes close, and I count sheep until I drift to sleep again.

It doesn't feel like I've slept long, but the sun has yet again completely disappeared. The dark makes the curtains look weird. I'm still feverish and sweaty, but it's a little better now. That's probably why I've been sleeping for such long stretches. I tug on the tape holding my wrists, and there's barely any bond left on the right one. My muscles are weak and sore, but I manage to twist and stretch my wrist enough that I can feel there's no more adhesion. I just need a little more pull on the tape to stretch out the non-sticky material, and then I'll definitely be able to get my wrist out. I lift my legs up and brace them beneath me to get all the support I can. Just... about... there... just a little more. I reposition my sliding feet. 

Wait... My feet! My legs are unbound! Exaltation bubbles in my chest, and I let out a gleeful giggle. I wiggle my bare legs around for good measure, out of pure joy. Then, all at once, the happiness is gone, replaced by a hollow, freezing feeling. My legs are bare. The puppy pad is gone, and I'm in an adult diaper. Oh God. What did he do to me?

A newfound terror crawls down my spine, and I use it to yank my hand free of the tape. I scramble to peel the tape from my final imprisoned limb when I hear the metal unlocking of the door. I calculate the risks in an instant. If he catches me with one hand unbound, he would easily overpower me, given my weakened state. I fight against my animal instinct. It tells me to do everything in my power to flee the predator. Instead I wiggle my free wrist back into the now-loose loop of tape, hoping he doesn't notice. I flatten out, my legs stretched across the bottom of the sheetless mattress, as he enters the room. He's got a glass of water and another bowl of something. His face is almost a face. It's no longer a blur, but more like a Picasso painting. The features look familiar, but I can't figure out why.

"Hey," he greets me in a friendly, still-distorted tone. "I'm sorry I had to change your pants while you were out. The pad was full, and your pants were soaked. I really didn't want you getting a rash or an infection."

I painfully swallow the nasty insults I want to throw at him for violating me like that, even if he hadn't done anything else, like he claims.

"Thanks," I say instead, trying to imitate the friendliness. I do a poor job, and it definitely comes across as disdainful, but the raspiness of my voice thankfully masks it.

He helps me drink the water and broth, and I don't fight him. I even tell him thank you again, and this seems to please him. He sets the cup and bowl on a plastic folding table where my desk usually is. Why would he move my desk out? He goes to sit on the chair, then phases through it, landing on a plastic crate. I close my eyes tight trying to refocus them. When I open them again, the folding table and crate remain, having always been there. Did he take me somewhere else? I hurriedly scan my surroundings. The layout of the room, the doors, the windows is definitely right… Is he moving my stuff out and his stuff in? This is some demented "we're in love" stalker delusion, isn't it? That's why my being courteous meant so much to him. I could use that to my advantage…

He sits there quietly observing me, and I sit there thinking of what I could do to manipulate him into letting me go. It becomes hard to think. The fever is spiking again, and my bones feel like they're made of fiberglass, shredding everything they touch with every slight movement I make. But I can't stay still. My body involuntarily tries to move away from the pain. Time to count again.

One door. One deadbolt. Two total curtain panels. Fourteen rows of ornamental flowers along the wallpaper on my left side. Ten and a half ugly flowers in each row. One psycho who thinks he loves me. Nine ugly flowers in each row. Three free limbs. Eight ugly flowers in each row. Where are the flowers going? Oh, that's right. I started to peel them away. One plastic crate. One bowl. Five empty built-in shelves.

The fever becomes too much, and I can't count anymore. I'm shivering and on the verge of puking again. The man notices my distress, and he pulls out the bag and the spoon and brings them over to my face again. I try turning my head to the side. My teeth are chattering in my skull.

"No, please. I'm sick. You have to let me see a doctor."

He strokes my hair. And the misshapen eyes on his chin look kind... just like my fiancé's... so I sniff. His hand stays gently caressing my hair, and it's actually comforting. Is this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome? How long does that take to develop? How long has it been? The sick feeling eases, and the flowers on my wall grow back. I don't know how he can sit there and just watch me for hours on end. We sit in an almost comfortable silence while I watch the sun spill into the room. As dawn breaks, he unlocks the padlock and heads out of the room, presumably locking the one on the other side of the door as he goes. He's gone for a while, and I doze off.

When I come to, the room is dark again, with no sign of the sun from the window. I have a surprisingly consistent sleep schedule for a hostage victim. I suppose years of night shifts have also conditioned me to be this way. There's no sign that he's returned at all while I slept. I find myself missing his presence and even his smell. He does smell nice. Stop. No. I shake my head, trying to knock that crazy thought out of my mind. Realizing the insanity of my complacency causes another surge of adrenaline. I don't know what he's giving me, but it's making me lose my grip on reality. At this rate, I'll become his mummified plaything that he plays dress-up with. I'm done. I'm getting out now. I slip my free hand out of the tape and start working on the other. The work on my last wrist goes surprisingly slowly, whether that be from the anticipation that he could come back at any time or the fact that I've barely eaten and am still a little shaky from the fever.

As I'm working on the tape, the banister it's secured to begins to look funny. I can't help but pause and study it intently, waiting for my eyes to make sense of it, like I'd suddenly be able to see it in a color spectrum human eyes aren't capable of perceiving. Then, with a blink, it's gone. Simply disappeared. My heart starts racing, and I get a dropping feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not like the sickness or nausea I've been dealing with, but a deep, disgusting guilt. Like I'd done something wrong, and it's my fault the thing disappeared. All it takes is another yank, and my wrist is free. Instinctively, I try to stand up and back away from the disappearing bedpost as fast as possible, but the quick rise to my feet makes my head go woozy. My vision goes white, and I drop to the floor. As my senses and sight return, I see the low metal frame that the bare, dirty, stained mattress rests on and the remnants of the tape dangling and touching the floor.

Blood rushes in my ears, accompanied by heavy breathing. I push myself backward on all fours, scooting away slowly. Where am I? I find myself scooting through piles of trash, and parts of my baby-blue rug that I got to match my sheets peek through. But it's no longer baby blue. Stains bloom and grow before my eyes. The wallpaper flowers that had grown back pick themselves apart, dropping scraps of paper to the floor, where they mingle with the rest of the garbage.

"Gabby!" the man exclaims, slamming the door behind himself and quickly locking the deadbolt up top. With his back still turned, I manage to spring up. I rush for the glass cup of water that he'd left in here and launch myself at him, smashing the cup with all of my might against the back of his skull. There's a sickening crunch. It might just be the glass, but I hope it's his skull. He drops face-first onto the floor but manages to scramble forward, gripping onto his open backpack. The bag of powder and duct tape tumble out. I hop on top of his back and yank his head up by the hair with one hand, grab the bag of powder with the other, and shove it into his mouth. His teeth scrape against my hand.

I think about fighting downstairs and him imprisoning me to the bed, and I push it in harder. The gurgling sounds he was making become silenced at the depth I've managed to get it down his throat. My wrist gets ripped open by his teeth, right on the marks his restraints left on me. I think about what he might have done when he took off my pants while I was unconscious. I shove even harder. A couple of his teeth break off, and I feel his jaw dislocate. His weak hands uselessly scratch at his neck and face, trying to clear his airway, but the blow to the back of his head definitely caused some damage. It's the worst place to get hit on the head and I’ve seen this first hand in my patients. That's why I did it.

I slide my bloody, slobbery hand out of his gullet and release his hair with the other, then place both hands under his chin and lift his jaw, forcing him to close his mouth. Then I slide one hand over his lips and press them into his broken teeth for good measure. Like he'd done to me. His struggling slows and stops. I stop feeling the rise and fall of his chest as I sit on top of him. I let his limp head drop face-first onto the floor with a dull thud.

And then I realize… I hadn't seen his face during this last encounter. His back was to me the whole time. Would he still look distorted if I looked at him? I stand up slowly, so as not to get dizzy again, and make my way to the side of his head, tilting it up with my foot. All the features are in the right place, but they don't look right. His lips are swollen and bloody when they should be twisted into a teasing, yet loving, smirk. His strong nose is twisted at a bizarre angle. Had I broken that too somehow? His beautiful, ever-kind eyes are wide, bloodshot, and frightened.

My fiancé is dead, and I killed him. I can't process this. Is this another hallucination? Like the bed frame and the wallpaper? It has to be. But what if it's not? What if he'd gotten worried about me and stopped by to check on me? He could have been saving me, and I attacked and killed him! But no, because he hurriedly locked the door. That's why his back was to me in the first place. Yes. The door. Get out. Get help.

I grab the plastic crate and use it to reach the deadbolt. I try a couple of combinations, but nothing works, and there are too many digits to make guessing every single combination feasible. I hop off the crate and head to the windows, which have raggedy, soiled blankets stapled over them. I rip them down and find them completely boarded over with plywood. I try getting a grip on an edge and yanking, but these are in good. I'm not going to be able to get them off with just my hands. I pick up the largest glass shard I can find and scratch at the edges, trying to dislodge something. I ignore the hot, burning slice that scrapes deeper and deeper into my palm with every attempt.

I toss the glass and start banging my bloody hands against the wood and scream, but my voice is still weak and raspy. I go on banging for a while, but exhaustion hits all at once. I slump to the ground, running my hands through my greasy, matted hair.

Slow down. Breathe. Think logically.

You will eventually be able to get through the wood or the door. I can try the bed frame next. Using those metal platform rods would give me more leverage. Worst-case scenario, in another day or two my throat will heal up and I'll be able to scream louder. My eyes glance over to the body, and it's still my fiancé's face where a blurry monster should be. I slam my eyes shut. I let my body tip over, and I sleep right there on the floor. I'm haunted by dreams of the events that have taken place, but now the blurry man is my fiancé. He always was. And in my dreams, that makes sense, but that's the way it is with dreams, isn't it? The most insane and asinine piece of information is so obvious and canonical.

Unfortunately, when the sound of banging downstairs stirs me awake, it still makes sense. There is no relief like waking up from a nightmare and realizing none of it was real. It was all real and more.

I pick up a piece of the glass cup and hold it to my wrist. I think I could do it. End it and forget what I've done. I wouldn't make the mistake of cutting horizontally. I hear him shouting downstairs. He's looking for me, of course. I owe him money. He'll break down this door soon enough to find me. I'm shaking and nauseous again. I need more. Maybe he'd let me have just a little bit more on credit. That would be a much more pleasant way of forgetting than dying. And who's to say I wouldn't end up in hell, reliving this horror for all of eternity?

I think about the deal I could strike with my dealer... I don't like my odds. According to him, he's shown me more than enough grace as it is. Then I look at my fiance's pale, broken face, and reluctantly my eyes travel down, looking at the bulge at the top of his throat.

I can hear angry footsteps on the stairs, so I quickly crawl over to the body. I push him onto his back. His neck stays twisted to the side, and his limbs are stiff and statue-like as I turn him. Full rigor has set in. I place one hand on his upper face to steady it and use my other hand to try to crank open his lower jaw. It doesn't budge. I'm weak and shaky and slick with blood on both injured hands. If I were at full strength and ability, I still might not be able to pry open a jaw in full rigor mortis. The glass shard twinkles in the nonexistent sunlight, and without giving myself any time to think, I grab it and start digging into his neck. In perfect health and with proper tools, I'd probably be able to slice his throat just so, and with just enough force to leave the bag intact, but given the crude instrument, my injuries, and the time constraint of the banging outside my door, the drug spills out, intermingling with blood and falling deeper into the cavity of his neck.

He's banging on the door now. It won't be long. I shove my nose as deep in as I can, hoping to bypass some of the fluids, and inhale as deeply as I can. More banging. I quickly wipe my nose, clear the thick, coagulated parts from my nostrils, and go back in for a second deep breath. I will erase this from my brain if it's the last thing I do. Electricity tingles at the back of my brain and down my spine. The drumbeat grows louder, and I can't help but sway. They're playing for me. For my victory. For I've killed a monster. Maybe now, with the beast slain, I won't be so scared to walk home alone at night. I better get going. My fiancé gets worried sick when I come home late.