Page 79 of Caged

At least I’ll be able to get myself off while I’m stuck in this prison.

After categorizing and organizing for two days, I had an improved sense of spirit. I had no Internet, but I had textbooks, which gave me purpose.

Sunday night, the nightmares started.

Claustrophobia set in on Monday. When I became convinced the room wasn’t getting enough fresh oxygen and I was going to suffocate, I started stabbing the paint-sealed window frame that borders the fire escape with stray pens I found around the room until the pen would break and I’d have to source another.

Today, Wednesday, I ran out of pens.

I press the side of my face into the cold floor as I lie on my stomach. At this point, I don’t think the difficulty I feel when breathing, the inability to take in a full breath, is in my head. The oxygen in this room is dwindling, rapidly, replaced by the carbon dioxide I exhale. Soon, my consciousness will become impaired. I’m already dizzy. The nauseous feeling I’ve had since yesterday might be from my lack of real food, but it also might be the beginnings of carbon dioxide poisoning. The sliver of space between the door’s edge and the floor is the only ingress of fresh air. It’s not enough. I’m going to die from suffocation. Maybe I should accept my fate now. I could end it. I could shatter the mirror, get into the bath…

A painful lump rises in my throat.

You’re going to survive him, Monroe, I tell myself.You’ve already survived so much worse.

I manically inhale and exhale like a dog sniffing at the base of a door. What else can I use to get that window open?

Jesus Christ, Monroe! You have nail polish remover!

I spring to my feet, my will to live restored.

How did I not think of this? When Kieren made me effectively move in, I took more than what I thought I might need. Even though I hardly paint my nails, I did have a few bottles of red polish and one travel-sized bottle of remover inone of my toiletry bags. If I can soak the paint and find a new tool to scrape it, maybe I can free the window frame. As I rummage through my toiletry bag, I find a pair of metal nail clippers with a built-in nail file, the kind with a sharp curve on the end. It’s a stretch, but I’m desperate.

Friday, I shovel the last handful of trail mix into my mouth and chew slowly, meticulously. My food rations are gone.

I think about all the ways I’m going to kill Kieren.

I wonder what he would taste like.

I salivate just thinking about his charred flesh covered with barbeque sauce.

But the window pane has shown signs of progress.

Hunched in position, my left buttock propped on the short ledge of the window, my right foot skimming the floor like a bicycle kickstand, I resume my plight.

The rhythm of my work is hypnotic.

Scrape, scrape, jiggle. Scrape, scrape, jiggle.

The travel-sized amount of nail polish remover wasn’t enough to completely dissolve the paint, but it did soften it enough to scrape. My makeshift tool, the nail clippers, is my lifeline.

“You can imagine my disappointment when I didn’t find a screwdriver,” I say to the empty room. “Though, not unexpected. Kieren is a prissy, little bitch, after all. Never had to lift a finger in his life. Probably doesn’t even know what a screwdriver is, or a hammer. The child doesn’t even have scissors. Scissors! Why can’t we have scissors?”

“Because you’re too small to know how to use them,” I answer myself.

“But what if I want to cut my doll’s hair?” I ask.

“Stop cutting your doll’s hair, Monroe. Do you have any idea how much those dolls cost? You should be grateful you have any dolls at all,” I answer.

Blonde hair, blonde hair, blonde hair, blonde hair,I repeat to myself. I love my doll’s blonde hair. It’s so pretty.

“Mommy, I want blonde hair,” I say, my voice high and innocent in pitch.

“Don’t you want beautiful brown hair like mine, Monroe?” I answer in my best pretend-serious, adult voice. “If you dye it, you’ll ruin your hair, and then you’ll have ugly, frizzy hair and no man will ever want you.”

Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.

Crack.