by R. J. Blain
Working in the library gave me purpose. I’d never handled sitting around doing nothing well, and after reading every book I’d been offered five times over, I wanted to scream from general frustration, start unraveling the blankets so I could braid with the threads, so I could do something with my hands, and otherwise escape the monotony of sitting and waiting.
Cabin fever sucked.
I gave credit where credit was due, however: whoever had snatched me wanted to keep me alive. Every now and then, my nest was replaced with clean sheets, blankets, and pillows, and more books would appear to keep me company. After at least twenty-one doses of the first antibiotic, the pill changed to a new one I hadn’t seen before, a monster likely meant for horses rather than people.
I assumed the last check had pissed off my captors as much as it pissed me off, and they wanted to try a new tactic to rid me of the infection determined to stick around. I wished them the best of luck conquering what I couldn’t.
My ongoing illness served to remind me magic couldn’t do anything, nature had a rather annoying tendency to thwart those who attempted to circumvent its intent, and I would never be free of the past that’d taken so much from me.
Stupid foot. Stupid me for fighting so hard to keep my stupid foot.
Prosthetics existed, and thanks to my relationship with the Hampton family, I could even get a good one. However, I refused to give up on my battered foot quite yet.
I hadn’t come so far to quit so close to the finish line.
The pill packed a punch, reducing my coherent time between meals to a bath and a few minutes with a book before I returned back to sleep, unable to muster enough energy to manage anything else. If the cameras in the upper corners recorded me, my captors got a show of me dragging my ass across the floor, where I slithered into the bathroom rather than walk like a dignified person.
I’d worry about my dignity and pride another day, when I could be bothered with hopping around on one foot.
With no ability to keep track of time, I had no idea how long I spent in a drugged daze. At one point, someone stole away my medical boot and replaced it with a plaster cast with a printed warning note to avoid getting it wet and that it would provide support and could bear my weight.
I lost my chance to bathe, attempting to puzzle out what had been done with my foot and why they’d replaced my boot with a cast. Worse, the painkiller or antibiotic scrambled my magic enough I couldn’t even tell if I had an infection.
Unfortunately for me, the piece of paper proved ineffective for picking a handcuff, even when I rolled it into a tight tube. The attempt amused me despite my awareness I could strip off the fluff on the cuff and pull my hand out with little issue.
Maybe the camera would capture my hope for escape and remind them that, even when drugged, I put thought into how to acquire my freedom.
Somehow, I would.
Somehow.
EIGHT
I’d heard the lecture a few too many times.
When I finally escaped my captors and made a run—or I hobbled—for freedom, I would go out of my way to avoid ever being sedated again. It was one thing to wake up with a clean nest and a meal, but it was another to discover somebody had seriously fucked around with my foot without my permission.
I wanted to scream and yell at the bastards for taking away my cast, but I put a lid on my complaints for one simple reason.
Somehow, I had a foot, and it was a mostly intact one. When nature called enough I was forced to make the journey to the bathroom with my chain in tow, I got up to one foot with the help of the pipes.
A few new scars indicated somebody had gotten feisty with my abused right foot. The pale lines, on a part of my foot my doctors typically avoided for whatever reason, led me to believe somebody had decided to try something new. The lack of a boot or a cast terrified me.
I’d heard the lecture a few too many times.
Weight without support could finish my foot off and lead to an amputation.
While I needed to pee, I also needed an intact foot, and my captors hadn’t felt I needed a cane to get around. I had been able to manage without a cane for both the cast and the boot, which had offered the appropriate support. The note had promised the cast would support my foot, although I needed to keep it dry. I had.
The note hadn’t been a lie.
Mountainous stacks of new books waited for me, something I would appreciate, assuming I could make it to the bathroom without inflicting permanent injury upon myself. Bracing for the burning, stabbing pain of testing my luck, I rested my toe on the cold floor.
Nothing happened, not even a twinge. I wiggled my toes, and outside of the soreness of my foot having been cramped in a cast for a long time, I escaped discomfort.
I held the position for at least two minutes before I applied more pressure, placing the ball of my foot onto the ground. The one time I’d been instructed to do the exercise, it’d been done in a controlled environment to make certain I understood the problems I faced in the future.
None of the throbbing agony I expected came. As so many of the damaged bones were near the ball of my foot, it should have hurt.
I should have been crying the instant I’d tried to put any weight on my unsupported toe.
Clutching the pipe in a white-knuckled grip, I lowered the rest of my foot down, flinching when my heel touched the concrete.
I’d been kidnapped by miracle workers wielding the sort of magic I’d spent years dreaming about. While my muscles ached, I dodged the expected pain. I eased my full weight onto my foot. The ache grew to an odd soreness, dull and bearable. I’d been told I’d one day experience being sore, but not for years, not until after the damaged bones in my foot were able to support my weight and my battered, torn, and otherwise abused muscles had a chance to heal.
It should have taken numerous operations for that to happen due to the shattered state of the bones and joints.
How long had I waited in the basement to find some way to escape?
I’d given up on the idea of being rescued.
It took me a long time to work up the courage to take my first true step, and I leaned against the wall in fear of the pain I expected. The soreness bothered me, but as it counted more as an ache rather than true pain, I made myself walk to the bathroom and begin the progress of setting up a bubble bath where I’d read a book—and attempt to check on my foot with my uncooperative, scrambled magic.
A pair of flats waited beside the pile of clean clothes, along with a pair of sneakers, and I wasted at least ten minutes trying to remember what it was like to wear a normal pair of shoes rather than tossing the unneeded right one. Shaking my head, I forced my attention back to the more important matter, which involved attempting to use my magic on myself. I expected to be thwarted thanks to the mystery cocktail they used trying to contain me—or heal my foot. Or both.
I removed the bracelet designed to control my exsanguination abilities. While I was rustier than I liked at using my magic, I was able to detect they’d somehow cured my foot of the lingering infection, and while there was a minor amount of inflammation due to the persistent injury, a single ibuprofen could handle it, assuming I could get my hands on the drug.
Rather than read one of the books, I spent my entire bath puzzling over why anyone would, outside of my inner circle of family and friends, want to heal my foot. Who? Why?
How?
The how would bother me later, sometime after I figured out the who or why. I could see Bradley pulling some form of stunt if he thought I could have a functional foot in a short period of time. However, I couldn’t see him—or anyone in his family—locking me in isolation for an extended period of time.
I could only assume I’d been living in the concrete room with its sole bathroom for at least several weeks if not several months. Scars didn’t form overnight, not without a lot of magic backing it, and I’d been on a full regime of antibiotics, something that typically lasted at least ten days but could extend
for up to a month. That I’d lost count of meals led me to believe I’d been held captive for months.
I resented having lost even more of my life to bullshit. At least the first round of bullshit I’d controlled—to a point. Had I been given a choice, we would have all walked away from that crash. I’d emerged the victor.
Bradley had walked away.
No, the more I thought about it, the less I believed he could have had anything to do with my imprisonment. Aware the bathroom had undergone some illusionary alterations, for all I knew, I could have been in an apartment, one disguised as some barren basement. Or a house. Or an abandoned office at the top of some skyscraper. Or in some barn deep in the country. I’d seen studio apartments without actual kitchens plenty of times. All it would take was installing a wall, adding some pipes, a layer of concrete, and some paint to create my cell.
Alternatively, a damned good illusion to trick me into believing I dealt with concrete instead of wood or carpet. I could have also been tricked into believing that there was no kitchen.
After having given them the slip once, my parents might lock me in a room for the rest of my life, but they would demand daily visitations. My mother would, given her way, bar me from ever eating out of a take-out container ever again, eliminating them from my list of suspects.
She couldn’t bear the thought of spanking me. There was no way my mother would condone isolation. While my father had no problems dishing out appropriate punishments whenever I endangered my life, he rarely used any form of isolation as a punishment tool, as my introverted self often viewed it as a reward.
Had the culprit known me, the take-out containers would have contained my favorite Chinese food at least once a day, with the rare appearance of Thai to offer some variety. I assumed my kidnappers had worked with limited ideas of what I enjoyed eating, although they’d been educated on how to keep a librarian somewhat amused and questionably sane during long-term imprisonment.
Captivity with daily offerings of Chinese food would have limited my desire to bust out somewhat, not that my desire to escape helped me accomplish anything.
Annoyed over how one magic trick had done such a good job of holding me prisoner, I got out of the bath, dried off, inched my way around the bathroom, taking care with each step. Once confident I would pay in soreness rather than pain, I stood straight without the help of the wall.
While my foot expressed some discomfort with my choice to use it, the experiment worked.
I limped, but I could walk.
Given a few months and a lot of effort, the possibility existed that I might not limp at all.
At a loss of what to think about my situation, I retrieved several more books from near my nest, drew another bath, and soaked in the tub, pretending to read a book. I spent the time attempting to make sense of who would do what my doctors couldn’t. The why also continued to baffle me. Without the answers to either, I was left with one final question:
What did these people hope to gain from me?
It took me less than five minutes to realize that, outside of making use of me as some weapon to kill people, I offered very little to anyone with limited exceptions. I would need to accuse Bradley’s mother of dropping him on his head as a baby. I would deny any accusations of having fallen for my ex-boss, although I’d be called out as the liar I was within moments of the denial leaving my lips.
I missed him, I missed his family, I missed my family, and I missed our friends.
When I considered the possibilities, I was left with few options. As it would take more than an extended captivity to convince me to kill anyone without just cause, I could only assume the killers wanted me out of the way so I couldn’t interfere with their plans.
Why else would anyone want me?
But why heal my foot if the goal was to get me out of the way?
I could understand, in a twisted way, if they believed I would kill without remorse. I couldn’t. I would, but only if pushed into a corner and there were no other options. I’d always wanted to help people rather than hurt them. If somebody showed up, I might be inclined to start hurting somebody, but I’d use non-lethal force as part of my haphazard flight to freedom.
I changed into clean clothes, muttered curses over the illusionist making it so I couldn’t dive out through the hidden window, and retreated to my nest.
If only I knew what lurked beyond the window disguised with magic I couldn’t beat.
Unless I came up with a plan that would let me escape alive and well, all I could do was wait.
Isolation would drive me mad.
Talking to the ever-growing pile of books didn’t help. I longed to hear somebody’s voice. I’d even deal with a long meeting with Representative Kennedys if it meant I could converse with another sentient being. I missed my fluffy goddess, I longed to go hide under a bed—any bed would do, although I’d probably pick the one with the largest stash of car magazines so I could take my foot on a test drive of something pretty, fast, and ready to rule the roads.
To add to the problem, the days of sliding through a drugged haze were over. The pills disappeared from the meal regime, and while I got dosed with fucking knock-out gas more often that I appreciated, they’d taken to providing a cooler with sandwich fixings for several meals and one hot meal, resulting in even longer periods with nothing to do and no one to do anything with.
The novelty of having two working feet lingered, and I alternated between wearing shoes because I could and enjoying pattering around in my bare feet. If I did find a way out, I could only hope anyone observing my activities wouldn’t take notice of when I wore shoes.
My clothing would be an issue, as the wraps did a good job of covering me but left my arms exposed.
The weather would dictate when I could escape, and I’d lost complete track of the seasons.
If the seasons had changed. I suspected they had.
The arrival of new books kept me almost sane, and I tore through them with the same voracity of a starved shark in bloodied waters. Once I read them, I formed book pyramids, made a tunnel, and even, at one point, built a book castle to demonstrate to my captors they had crossed every last one of my lines and threatened to destroy me through boredom.
I loved books, but there were limits to how many books I could read without any other form of mental stimulation.
As I’d established my desperation for anything to do through stacking books together in creative ways, I dismantled my first few projects and began a venture born of desperation, boredom, and curiosity.
Before I’d been given hundreds upon hundreds of books to keep me amused, I’d been unable to examine the walls without drawing unwanted attention to myself. With my book castle building tendencies serving as a front for my more nefarious activities, I began with building an arch along a blank section of wall near my nest. I filled in the bottom with stacks of books to hide my activities, and continued to build my book castle, aware if the damned thing fell, I’d lose life or limb to the crushing weight of paperbacks and hardbacks.
Some risks were worth taking, and while I hesitated to fling myself through an unknown window to my potential death, a crushing defeat from one of my favorite hobbies bothered me a great deal less. I held some chance of general survival, assuming someone monitored my activities. I assumed somebody kept a close eye on me.
Why waste their investment allowing me to die from a castle of books squishing me?
I reserved one of my favorite books from my building efforts, and once I had a series of arches creating a roof, I dragged several pillows and some blankets inside to lead my captors into believing I’d taken complete leave of my senses and read in my new palace.
One of the blankets went over my arches, which somehow held despite their precarious nature, and I positioned my nest so I could read from the light coming in through the castle’s entry. I made a point of enjoying my book for a while before retreating inside, where I removed the books stacked beneath the backmost arch and began my
search of the wall.
I found nothing.
After reading my book for a while longer, I went to work dismantling the arches forming the roof, taking a vicious delight in creating literary destruction before I began working on my next challenge, which involved creating a tiered version of my castle, which would put the open gap in my arch roughly where I’d find a window. Figuring out how to create a shield from the cameras tested me, and I ultimately used a stack of books to pin a blanket in place before crawling back inside, creating a staircase of books to where I wanted to check the wall, and taking frequent breaks to read in case anyone was monitoring me.
When I confirmed my eyes didn’t play tricks on me thanks to a strong illusionist working magic on me, I dismantled my castle, moved it to a new location, and repeated the process, making a new design each time in the hopes my captors would realize I ventured perilously close to joining the ranks of the insane due to cabin fever.
Sometimes, I set up my castle away from the walls to help trick anyone who might be watching. Sometimes, I built something other than a castle in a futile attempt to alleviate the brutal crush of boredom. Sometimes, I abandoned my castles halfway through building them, retreating to my nest to take a nap.
Often, I forgot to eat anything beyond the first meal after I woke from my gas-induced slumber. I knew better, but I struggled enough with finding the motivation to seek out some route of escape. I blamed my faltering common sense, which struggled to survive in the onslaught of relentless monotony.
Time lost meaning sometime after beginning my quest to find a route of escape, but my castle-building scheme bore results. Like in the bathroom, the window featured plenty of space for me to crawl through. Unlike in the bathroom, once I penetrated the illusion’s barrier, the magic failed to thwart me. I could understand why. Without constant surveillance in the bathroom, more magic and trickery was required to keep me in place.
I praised myself for my common sense, as my window was positioned on the third floor, which would make an uncontrolled tumble a dangerous and likely lethal affair. Fortunately for me, the house was a mix of brick and stone, offering footholds for the industrious to use during an escape. Better yet, I spotted no signs of an alarm system.