Get Me Out of Here

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. 

I slowly blinked my eyes open, a bright light shining down on my face. As I open my eyes, an enormous headache hits me with all its fury. I’ve gotten headaches, even migraines, before but this is by far the worst one. I try to think back to yesterday, scope out the cause of this sudden pain. Had I been out too late? Had I been drinking? But nothing. Absolutely nothing came to my mind. As I tried to think, my eyes settled on the light blue walls of my bedroom. That’s when it hit me. MY room didn’t have blue walls. I shove myself to a sitting position, almost positive that I simply am a little out of it and my walls were their normal shade of purple-gray. They were still blue. I blinked, hard, trying to clear the apparent fog out of my sleep-filled eyes. They were most definitely blue. 

I looked over the room, from the floral decorations scattered along the walls, all an unpleasant shade of blue. I hated the color blue, it was my least favorite color out of all the ones in the rainbow, even yellow. Blue meant unhappiness, or sadness, and depression, which is an illness I fought to get rid of for years. I thought to myself, as I stared at the blue-tinted bedroom, maybe I had a mental breakdown and was committed? Yes, that had to be it. I did recently go off my antidepressants, maybe I finally snapped and was sent to a facility to get better. That couldn’t be right though, because there were still windows and I had access to things in my bedroom, like hangers and lightbulbs. None of that would be in here if I was committed. 

My phone. Where was my phone? I searched around me in the bed and in my pockets. Weird. I had just woken up, but I was wearing ripped jeans and a nice t-shirt. It wasn’t my usual outfits, I almost never strayed from my leggings and sweatshirt combo, so I knew at once that something wasn’t right. I jumped to my feet and ran over to the large walk-in closet. Nothing I would ever have touched was in there. It was full of t-shirts and a variety of jeans, yet there was not one single pair of shoes. What was I supposed to wear outside? 

I turned around, rubbing a hand through my hair. I was so confused, so lost, so unsure of how I got here. This wasn’t right but I couldn’t remember a single thing I did last night. Maybe I hit my head and got really confused, but I am home. My gaze fell on the large white bookshelf. This was the only part of the room that matched my idea of my own. It was large, with seven shelves hanging on it. A huge assortment of books filled it, along with a stack of unread books littered on the floor. I could tell they were unread because when I read books, tabs hung out the sides and pages were folded from marked pages. I also always kept a pen and a highlighter nearby to take notes and marvel at the intriguing ink scribbled into the paper pages. 

Only these weren’t intriguing. I noticed certain titles that didn’t fit like Little Woman, The Great Gatsby, and the Harry Potter series. I never would have these books, the more classical or fantasy style of writing was dissatisfying in my mind. I always preferred a book that kept me up at night, one that described scene so horrifying, so gruesome, that I would think about the scenes repeatedly throughout the week and wonder if the author was entirely sane. Authors like Stephan King himself always met that goal. He was one of my favorite authors, yet there were no books of his kind at all on any of the shelves. The books were all classic favorites, ones you would get assigned to read and annotate in your high school English class. I couldn’t even remember my high school English class. 

I began to panic at this sight. I knew without a doubt in my mind that this was not my bedroom, nor was it my house. Wherever I was, someone had made it appear to be identical to my bedroom, but clearly missed some key aspects. It was as if someone tried to encase me in an optical illusion, just not a very good one. I felt like I was suffocating, like there was no air flowing into this room. My heart started racing uncontrollably, at a speed so high the dizziness and headache shot back into my head. I needed fresh air. I ran over to the curtains, throwing them apart so I could have access to the window. Outside, it looked just like my backyard, even down to the family of cats living in the bush outside my window. I rested my hand on the lock, clicking it open. I couldn’t wait to feel the freshness of the air. Maybe I would open my window and everything would come back to me, or I would realize I somehow ended up in an alternate dimension. Either way, case would be solved. Gripping the window in my fingers, I threw it open excitedly. 

Only it wasn’t open. The window opened, but the view of my backyard, with the green rolling hills and the apple trees and the family of cats, was gone. It was all a lie. In its place, where the open fresh air should be, was a large piece of plywood covering the entire window. I could barely see the sunlight shining through the cracks of the wood on the edge of the real window, but there was no way to pry it off. It had been nailed into the side of the wall with multiple screws. My mouth gaped open in shock and disbelief. It didn’t make sense. Who would lock me in this random room? I curled my hands into fists, anger coursing through me. I beat my fists into the wooden board repeatedly until I looked down at the blood dripping from a busted knuckle. 

The door. If the window was boarded up, would the door be too? I leaped across the room, almost flying, and gripped the doorknob tightly. I wrenched the door open, hopeful. Not hopeful enough. The door had been boarded over too. I was trapped here, in this small, blue room with nothing I liked. Maybe that was it. This was some sort of torture room where I am trapped in here until the day I die with everything I absolutely couldn’t stand. Someone’s ultimate game where they watched me for hours everyday cry and slam my fists into the wood with rage. 

That was my first day in this room. I have now been here for three hundred and fifty-seven more since then. Nothing has changed. The only new knowledge I have is that there are other rooms and other girls trapped in some insane man’s torture chamber. He brings food and water and an empty bucket twice a day. I don’t get to shower, run, or leave the room. I think I have gone insane. 

But please, if you are reading this note, my name is Madison Montgomery. At least I think it is. I would have killed myself already if there was some sort of tool for me to use. Please, send help. I have to get out of here.