The Branch of a Willow Tree

CW: Kidnapping, death.

Time stopped soon after I'd awaken here, hoisted high above a concrete floor. My body folded in a such a way I think I'd rather be dead.

From a poly rope, I sway. Imprisoned in a dowidly handcrafted crate of polycarbonate and steel. The front piece differs from the rest, a material comparable to high-density polyethylene, yet it's withstood each attempt at being torn.

I run my fingers over the ridges I've created in it, longing to feel even the smallest amount of fresh air.

Maybe the heftiness of this piece isn't an accident at all, as I believe it to be. Perhaps it's a purposeful failsafe. A trickery, sparking the idea that I'd have the slightest chance to escape.

But suppose the material is cleavable, the plunge to the cement would undoubtedly kill me faster than he will.

He desires longterm suffering. For me to dissolve this vexatious contraption with my tears as he observes me from the outside. To listen to my roaring screams as he smiles, basking in the glory of the horror he brings.

What are your plans for me?

This question has become a part of me, lingering here always. It, too, fails to break free of the barrier surrounding us.

I say us because thoughts are all I have. They stay with me, attempting to reflect the world differently—the sinister, obligatory world he created for me. A world so contradictory to the one before it that the former remains only as a figment of my imagination.

Here, simple things are illusory. Feeling the warmth of the sun, admiring stars in the nightsky, watching trees transform as summer gives way for the fall—it's all impossible.

Nothing from my previous world exists here.

And he doesn't tell me much, but I assume those things don't exist in his world either. A world where he's presumably trapped in a plastic encasement of his own, one conceived by deep-rooted anger and misery.

I like to think his world is much like mine and he has no choice or control over the decisions he makes, no matter how gruesome. That he inflicts pain on others because his runs so deep he's on the brink of drowning in it.

Sometimes, I imagine he needs a friend. Much like I do. Someone who burdens themselves with his agony so his is lighter. One who has such an impact on him that it casts all the evil from his soul.

But then I see him. And I realize he may be incapable of loving at all, incapable of creating a bond strong enough to withstand real friendship.

The way he looks at me, there's no compassion in his eyes. He shows no repentance for preserving me all this time, as if I'm an artifact in his own personal museum.

Maybe that's exactly what I am to him.

Not a potential friend, someone who can carry the burden of his agony, but a piece of history he's stolen and plans to destroy for selfish reasons.

He stands in front of me now, his arms stretched upward. His words are muffled as he speaks to me—something about life.

So I think about my life, and his. How neither is more valuable than the other. Or have I not discovered the value of my life versus his?

Either way, if this is life, both of us living in seperate worlds, incarcerated in identical enclosures, him without a conscious, nor consequences, and me with only my thoughts...

If this is life, how valuable can it really be?

***

The night she vanished, she'd attended yet another college party with newfound friends. Ones who had each taken her under their wing, promising protection as she embarked on this new endeavor of attending college fifteen hours away from home.

They drank, and drank some more. She danced and flirted with a boy near the bar, and laughed until her cheeks hurt.

As the party came to an end, she slipped into an abyss of darkness. Not some natural process, the light was deliberately put out—all things wicked hide easier in the shadows. And just like that, she was gone without a trace.

Her so-called friends would say she left due to being unable to handle the college life. But those who truly knew her saw deceit in their words.

Those who cared begged for answers, prayed for justice. Still, nothing had been done.

"She's an adult," police would say. "She can come and go as she pleases."

With days and weeks passing by, for her family, the urge to find her grew ever stronger. They'd find themselves frequently wondering where she was and what happened to her.

Rumors flew that she'd run off and eloped with the boy from the party. "Might have a couple kids by now," one of her friends joked.

Another rumor, a more plausible one, puts her at the center of a love triangle gone wrong.

No matter how many rumors there were or how many seemingly reliable leads were called in, the mystery of it all appeared too impossible to unfold.

No one knew what had become of her, or that before her disappearance she'd somehow lost herself amongst the willow trees. Their leaves covered her, twisting their branches around her and trapping her in their embrace. They weeped with her, promising protection and guidance.

It wasn't until she'd reached that impotent dead end, placed into that woefully created box, that she realized the ones around her weren't willow trees at all, only disguised as such. They were sweet berries of deadly nightshade, injecting her with their paralyzing poison.

She was a threat too crucial to ignore. To them, she was a problem. And they had a menacing, permanent solution.

There was a prominent lack of remorse from those who were responsible for her disappearance and assumed death. They wouldn't dare admit what they had done, nor speak of her at all. No matter what, they'd continued to hide away in the secrets they kept, with plans of concealing the truth of that night, and all the nights after, forever.