Page 1 of Room Ten: Praise Times Three

1

LETI

Even though it’s Saturday, today started like every other day.

My alarm went off at six am. I jumped out of bed, put on a pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and a baggy t-shirt—all from Krush Kruisers, my sister’s line of athletic wear—and was jogging the neighborhood of our Barrington Hills estate by six-fifteen. This is typically a solitary experience because you can’t see any of the neighbors’ houses from the road. Except for the occasional passing car on their morning commute, I never run into anyone.

So, when an older model tan van passes by, I take notice—even though I also dismiss them as workmen. Maybe they’re pool cleaners or carpenters or masonry specialists. Most of the houses in this area are less than twenty years old, but bored housewives remodel all the time.

It’s when the van passes again and then pulls over at the end of the lane that I worry. Slowing down, I pull my phone out of my yoga pants at the same time the van makes an erratic U-turn and drives right at me. I turn back to my house and run as fast as possible. I’m a little over a mile away from home with no driveways or trees to run into, which means I’m utterly defenseless when I’m tackled to the ground and thrown into the bushes.

A man twice my size lifts himself off me, spins me to my back and grabs hold of my wrist. When he moves for the other wrist, I fight with everything I have, kicking and flailing. I’ve never seen someone his size move so fast in my life. With a swift and well-placed backhand to my cheek, I fall limp—my bell thoroughly ringing as stars and birdies and jewelry box ballerinas dance around my head. He lifts my boneless form over his shoulder, tossing me mercilessly into the back of the van.

Glancing around through unfocused eyes, I see the silhouette of a man sitting in the driver’s seat with a woman in the passenger seat. She tosses me a look full of venom, her lips curled up in a sneer.

I scream, right before the big man, with malice and glee twisting his features, shoves a rag into my mouth. He binds my wrists, but when he moves to my ankles, I flail again, kicking and screaming around the foul rag shoved in my mouth.

“Dope her,” the woman growls before turning around to face the windshield.

With a quick prick, the world goes dark.

* * *

I come to with a horrific headache, the likes of which I’ve never experienced. My eyes are swollen and puffy, and my tongue is thick, my mouth full of cotton although the dirty rag is gone. My body aches, but it’s only when I try to wipe the gunk out of my eyes that I realize I can’t move my arms or legs.

Through blurry eyes, I take in my dank surroundings. I’m lying with my limbs tethered to a bed frame. There’s a window on one wall, but the curtains are drawn and outside of the sliver of sunlight shining through, so I have no idea as to the time of day. The room is dark, dusty and filled with stale cigarette smoke and a rancid odor I can’t quite place.

The door swings open, and the large man who tackled me to the ground fills the doorway.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough and gravelly, like a lifelong smoker who goes through three packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day.

I try to ball up into the fetal position, a natural instinct to protect my vital organs, but it’s not going to happen. I don’t have to ask what they want—I know what they want.

Money.

With my father's enormous bank accounts, I’m sure they think they can get some.

I say nothing, hoping my silence makes them forget I’m here. It’s a tactic that has worked my whole life, but something tells me it will not work now.

The man walks toward me, opens up a switchblade, and—without a word—cuts my T-shirt from the top, ripping it open.

“Please don’t.” I can’t stop the tears from coming. I don’t want to be raped. It’s unnecessary. “You don’t have to do this. Tell me what you want, and I’m sure we can work something out.”

Behind him walks in the woman from the van. She sits at the edge of the bed and stares at me, shaking her head. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

I stare at her but do not recognize her face. “What would you like me to say?”

“An apology would be nice. Although, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone, so I guess I’m not surprised that even in your current predicament, saying ‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t cross your mind.”

I have no idea what this woman is talking about, but if an apology will work, I can do that. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I don’t think you are. I think, like everything else in your perfect little life, you see nothing wrong with what you did.”

I drop my eyes. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“I think we should take off her pants,” the man says near my head.

“Tell me why you’re sorry.” The woman holds up her hand to signal the man to hold that thought and raises her eyebrow in my direction.

---