Escape
The room was suffocating. The darkness pressed against me, a tangible thing, heavy and smothering. I sat tied to the rickety chair, my wrists raw from the rough rope. Across the room, the man who had dragged me back here after my failed escape sat slumped in a chair, his head tilted back, snoring softly. The sound was rhythmic, almost taunting.
I tugged at the bindings around my wrists, twisting and pulling. The knot wasn’t tight—he had been careless, his overconfidence his weakness. Slowly, painstakingly, I worked one hand free. My fingers ached, but I couldn’t stop. Time was slipping away, and I knew he could wake at any moment.
Finally, the rope fell away, and I stifled a gasp of relief. My body was screaming in protest—every muscle aching from the abuse—but I forced myself to move. I slipped from the chair, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. The man stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
I crept toward the door and slipped out into the hallway, heart hammering. The corridor was dimly lit, the flickering lightbulb overhead casting eerie shadows along the cracked walls. My breath came in shallow gasps as I opened the nearest door.
Inside, the room was empty except for a single dusty window. My heart leaped. A way out.
I rushed to the window, my fingers fumbling with the latch. It was stuck, rusted shut from years of neglect. Panic surged through me. I pushed harder, the metal creaking in protest. A sudden crack of sound behind me froze me in place—a groan of floorboards under weight.
I whirled around. The doorway was empty, but the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Someone was coming.
Desperation sharpened my thoughts. I spotted an old desk in the corner of the room and rummaged through it, my hands shaking. A piece of paper. A pen. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I scribbled frantically:
Help! My name is Jamie Jacobs. I’m being held at 132 Walnut Street. Please call the police.
I folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope I found in the desk. I scrawled the address across the front, my hands barely holding steady. I returned to the window, straining to force it open just enough to slip the envelope through the gap.
The faint sound of footsteps reached my ears, growing louder. I slid the envelope through the gap and watched as it fluttered down into the night. A small hope in the vast darkness.
The door behind me flew open.
“She’s trying to escape!” The man’s shout was like a gunshot in the silence.
I turned, but it was too late. Another man barreled into the room, a cloth in his hand. I struggled, but the sickly-sweet smell of chloroform filled my lungs. My vision blurred, the room spinning violently before plunging me into blackness.
Outside on Walnut Street, the envelope floated gently to the ground. It landed near the feet of a jogger, a woman who paused, wiping sweat from her brow. She bent down to pick it up, her curiosity piqued. As she stood, faint sounds of shouting and scuffling drifted from the warehouse above.
“Probably just some late-night argument,” she muttered, turning the envelope over in her hands. She squinted at the hastily written message but didn’t have time to read it fully before a vehicle screeched to a halt nearby. A man jumped out, slamming the door behind him as he disappeared into the warehouse.
The jogger frowned, a faint unease settling over her. She glanced at the envelope again, then at the building. Something about the situation felt wrong. She pulled out her phone and dialed the police.
At the station, Lt. Chalmers leaned over the map spread across the table, his face etched with concern. Mrs. Jacobs sat nearby, her hands trembling as she gripped a tissue.
“We’ve got a report from Walnut Street,” an officer said, stepping into the room. “A jogger found an envelope and heard some unusual activity near one of the warehouses. The address matches the location we’ve been monitoring.”
Lt. Chalmers grabbed his radio. “All units, converge on 132 Walnut Street. We may have a lead on the Jacobs girl. Move quickly, and approach with caution.”
Mrs. Jacobs stood, her voice cracking. “You have to bring her back. Please. Just bring my Jamie home.”
Back in the warehouse, I woke to searing pain. Every part of my body ached, and my wrists and ankles were bound again, tighter this time. My head pounded, the chloroform’s aftereffects leaving me groggy and disoriented.
The men were in the next room, their voices muffled but heated. I could make out fragments.
“...too much heat. We should just get rid of her.”
“No. She’s worth more alive. We wait for the money.”
The words sent a cold shiver through me. I twisted my wrists against the bindings, the rope cutting into my skin. My heart sank. They weren’t going to let me go. Not alive.
Suddenly, the room filled with the sound of crashing glass and heavy boots. Shouts echoed through the warehouse—commands barked, men yelling in confusion. Gunshots rang out, the noise deafening in the enclosed space.
The door to my room burst open, and a man in a police uniform rushed in. His flashlight swept the room before landing on me. “We’ve got her!” he called over his shoulder. He knelt beside me, cutting through the ropes with a knife. “You’re safe now.”
I collapsed into his arms, my body shaking with relief and exhaustion.
Outside, Mrs. Jacobs stood near the ambulance, her eyes wide with fear as she watched the paramedics wheel me out on a stretcher. I was barely conscious, my face pale and bruised.
“Jamie!” she cried, rushing forward. “Oh my baby, my sweet baby.”
Lt. Chalmers caught her gently by the shoulders, his voice somber. “She’s alive, Mrs. Jacobs, but she’s in critical condition. They’ve done a number on her.”
Tears streamed down her face as she clung to his arm. “Will she be okay?”
The paramedic glanced at her as they loaded me into the ambulance. “She’s strong. She’s got a fighting chance.”
As the ambulance sped away, Mrs. Jacobs whispered a prayer into the night. Somewhere, in the depths of my pain and confusion, I clung to a single thought.
I had survived. But the nightmare wasn’t over. The machine. The transformation. The truth of what they had done to me—it wasn’t just a mystery.
It was a ticking bomb. And I needed answers.
