Hostage looks for courage to leave.
|“Don’t open that door”. I wasn’t sure if the voice was his or if it was coming from my own mind. It had been years since I was outside this room. I don’t even dream about freedom anymore. This room is my life now and as horrific as it is, this is my home.|
My last taste of freedom was becoming a faint memory. Chelsea, my best friend, and I were walking home from the movies. It was some romantic teen comedy starring the latest heartthrob. Our ponytails were swinging with innocence while our voices giggled with youth. We didn’t pay attention to him until it was too late. He was big and brutal, grabbing me probably as I was closest to the curb. Chelsea screamed and tried to help but he swatted her to the sidewalk and dragged me into the van. For years I wondered if Chelsea was ok, praying that she wasn’t hurt and dreaming that she still thought me. I don’t pray or dream any more.
I didn’t hear the lock engage when he left early this morning. He had obviously been drinking before he came to me. The bruises to my face and the humiliation blanketing me were testament to just how much he consumed. I tried to be good like he told me but I dropped his glass and it shattered to the floor. He had to punish me.
It is so quiet outside this door. I touch the handle then back off as if on fire. It is too frightening to hope. Too much has been lost. But I try again, this time holding, even caressing the handle and feeling its warmth. I just need to turn the knob, push open the door and walk away.