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Was I still trapped in the car and this was my mind playing tricks on me? Some macabre nightmare playing in my mind as I waited in the darkness for help to arrive?

Was I in the hospital? Caught inside a coma?

Was I dead?

As the hours and days ticked by with only my scattered, torturous thoughts for company, I realized that I could not possibly be in my car or a hospital. What was happening to me was too bizarre, too insane for my mind to have conjured even under a drug haze. Defying all logic and religion, my mind was trapped inside this plastic prison. A cruel hell, to be able to think and feel but not move.

Still, I never gave up trying. First it was my body. Then I tried focusing on my arm. Then a finger. Nothing.

The smell of the closet became as familiar as breath once was to me. The musky scent of old clothes and dust. The sour smell of gym sneakers. A slight hint of perfume clinging to a long-forgotten sweater. The curved edge of a hanger dug into the back of my neck. It hurt yet I could do nothing. Not even the simplest of movements to dislodge it.

I started to use the rumble and hiss of what sounded like an air conditioning unit turning on to count the days. Having no idea if I was right, it at least gave me some semblance of control, a false sense to be true, but if I could look forward to hearing that noise, if I treated it like a task to be accomplished, it gave a small measure of sanity as the relentless days passed trapped in my plastic cage.

One day. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Caught in the hell of my own mind.

Six. Seven.

I began to long for the return of Steve. At least it was some kind of human interaction. Even if he brought pain, at least it was pain laced with the most treacherous of all drugs… hope. Maybe he would see a spark behind my vacant eyes and know… know there was someone in here. Maybe if I wasn’t confined to this small space, maybe I could start to move again. At the very least, I wanted another look in the mirror, to confirm what my startled eyes had seen, even though the reality of my situation had already more than branded the twisted truth on my mind.

Having already heard the air conditioner turn over for the day, my mind was floating from one inconsequential thing to another when I heard it.

Footsteps.

The sound of a key scraping in a lock.

The turn of a door handle.

Then the loud slamming of the door.

Steve had returned.

My heart leapt. Fear and anticipation warred with one another, giving way to panic.

Unlike the last time when he went directly to the closet to free me, I could hear his heavy footfalls cross the room. He was muttering something

. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded harsh and short, as if in anger. The refrigerator door opened and, like the room’s door, was slammed shut.

“Fuck you, Gary. You worthless dick. Steal my client, will you? We’ll just see what happens on Monday when I get back in the office.”

He was mad.

Jesus fuck. What did that mean for me?

A bottle crashed against another. The sound of the refrigerator door opening again.

A second beer.

After all those days begging for him to return, I now found myself desperate to stay inside the dark and safe cocoon of my prison.

The closet door flew open, the door knob banging against the adjacent wall.

The bright light pierced my unblinking eyes.

He pulled me out by my arm.

“All right, slut. Daddy’s home and he’s pissed and needs to fuck something,” ground out Steve as he flung me on the sofa.