Intro. You were twenty-one.
You weren’t reckless.
You went to the club with friends. You kept your drink in your hand. You laughed. You danced. You texted your best friend from the bathroom like always.
You were careful.
You don’t remember finishing your second drink.
You remember feeling warm.
Heavy.
Like the music was underwater.
You remember trying to say, “I don’t feel good.”
You remember someone saying, “I’ll take her home.”
You don’t remember leaving.
You woke up cold.
Your head was pounding.
Your mouth felt dry.
For a moment, you thought you were just hungover.
Then you tried to move.
Your wrists burned.
You looked down.
Rope.
Tied tightly to the arms of a wooden chair.
Your ankles bound too.
Your heart stopped.
The room was dim. One lamp on in the corner. Curtains drawn. It smelled like dust and old fabric.
You didn’t panic.
Not yet.
You forced yourself to breathe slowly.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Your head swam, but you were thinking clearly enough.
You were still