Hostage by Jutta Hauke Arriola

Please Note: Sexual violence, abuse, and mentions of suicide

Day 1610.

We’re all born with zero knowledge. With no fears, no things that give us joy, no nothing. It’s our life experiences that shape us with time. It’s not my fault that I always think I’m going to be stabbed in the back. That’s because I have been before, and I don’t want it to happen again. How am I supposed to know that everything will be fine? That the murderer in him won’t come out for fresh dinner?

I hear the combination lock clickity clack, being fiddled with so that it opens wide. I know how many seconds I have before he sees me - 5 seconds specifically. I’ve counted them before. I take my pages of writing shove them in my pillow case and sit crossed legs smiling, just in time for when the lights flicker on. 

He’s staring at me with that grin he has when he’s been drinking too much of his favorite liquor, Whiskey. He heads over to the little dining table he’s set up for me down here, nearly tripping with each step. The door slams shut behind him automatically.

 I know what you’re thinking; he’s drunk enough, so I can probably threaten him in such a way that he’ll let me go. He’ll tell me the combination of the door, and I’ll be free after four years. But he doesn’t work like that. See, he’s as evil as when he’s drunk to when he’s sober. 

But he said that he would be letting me leave soon.

“Sugar, make me some dinner” he points at the bag of groceries he buys me every week - just enough to survive, but maintain the skinny figure he so adores me to have. Heading over to the simple kitchen he’s built me with time, I hear him chuckle and smack his lips as he sees my rear. He’s been a good captor, he’s given me clothes. The only thing is, they barely fit my body. After about 20 minutes, when I start to hear him getting impatient, I rush to give him a plate of pasta with pesto, and a couple of sausages on the side. He commands me to sit in the other free chair. He likes it when I watch him eat. He likes the suffering in my eyes, begging for some extra food since the rations he gives me are so minimal.

“What have you done today?, the place looks clean” He manages to say as he slurps his spaghetti. I’ve cleaned today. I’ve been hiding small drawings I’ve been making throughout the day inside small holes in the wall, small enough to be able to cover. If I die in here, and he gets another girl, at least she’ll know she isn’t alone. She’ll know what to say to him to keep him happy; she’ll know how to escape. “Ah, not much. I’ve just been brooming a bit, moving around furniture here and there”. 

He shoves the plate at me. He doesn’t look too happy. “The meal was too simple. You’ll have to repay me for my valuable time lost now”. He begins to unbuckle his belt, but I won’t say what happens next. Just because I have to endure it, doesn’t mean you should too.

After about 10 minutes of hell itself, he leaves my ‘room’, locking the door as he leaves. 

I’m losing more hope each day. Only two more days. Two. More. Days.

Day 1611.

Yesterday I said I’d been betrayed before, “stabbed in the back”; and that I’ve lost all faith in the good of humans. But why? I’ll tell you.

I was seven when home life started crippling around me. My brother, the favorite child, committed suicide on a sunny Wednesday. He hung himself. My parents were devastated. Their marriage wasn’t working already, so they split up. His death was too much. I was left with my distraught mother, who lost herself in despair, alcohol, and weed. By the age of 14, I had to get a job, to help my mother out as best I could. She worked from home with a phone company, but they paid so little, and she hardly took her job seriously, so it was up to me. Now, this is where my mother, the only person I trusted and loved, stabbed me in the back.

One day, after work, as I biked home, a car was following me. As any scared little fourteen-year-old girl would do, I peddled as hard as I could. What I used to call home was only about 8 minutes away, I had convinced myself I’d get away from this metallic blue car that was following me. My abductor, who I later learned was named Ron, snatched me off my bike, hit my head with something hard, and knocked me out. Later that night when I groggily opened my eyes, Ron stood before me, “Your mother said she didn’t want you, I can do anything I want to you”. And he left me there. My soul was crushed, any hope of escape was gone.

My eyes are starting to swell up with tears so I stop writing. I put the papers next to me, aligned with the small pencil running out of lead, and read my action plan once again.

The next time he comes into my room, I’m going to do everything he says. And when I say everything, I mean everything. When he leaves, instead of sitting in my misery, I’m going to look at what code he puts in. He’s never careful, I normally remain lying in bed like a limp carcass, looking up at the dirty roof. But this time I’m going to be looking. This time I’m getting out. 

He said he’d let me out by the end of next month, but I don’t think he means letting me out alive. I think he’s going for a more spiritual meaning. He’s going to kill me. I know it. He’s killed the others, and he’ll do the same with me. But I refuse. 

I’m putting together a PB&J sandwich, as I hear the familiar sound of the combination lock being turned to open the door. I rush in the five seconds that I have and sit on the wooden chair at the table with the sandwich. “You’re so sweet sugar. You made me a sandwich”. “Of course I did, you work so hard, you deserve a treat” I know this is what he wants to hear. Even though he does nothing every day. I can hear when the front door opens and closes, and he only leaves about once per week. He visits me when he feels his ‘urges’ or needs some company. He’s useless. He’s a slug. Munching on his sandwich, he pats his leg; motioning for me to come and sit on his lap. So I do. To my surprise, he gives me a few bites of the sandwich, to which I have a bit. Once he’s done, he tells me to get undressed and head to the small broken mattress I have in the corner of my room. I obey. He takes his sweats and shirt off and gets on top of me.

Compared to yesterday, hell is over faster. About 5 minutes. I guess he was ready to go. I lay limp on the bed, as he dresses himself, and heads over to the door. I watch attentively. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. The door shuts behind him. 

Tomorrow morning will be the day of action. I’m getting out of here.

Day 1612.

12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right. 

I don’t know what to do when I get out. He’ll be knocked out with drugs and alcohol, he won’t hear a thing, but what do I do when I get out of the house? I’m around eighteen now. I doubt mother was ever even looking for me, or ever told the authorities about my sudden disappearance, but I guess it wasn’t as sudden for her. She must have known. Dad might not even remember me, let alone believe me. He had a habit of calling me a liar. Both of them have internalized that I’m long gone in their ways. My only option is the police. He needs to be put behind bars. Ron’s killed other girls. I’ve found nails that don’t belong to me, blood on the wall, and loose blonde hair when I’m a brunette. Who they were is uncertain, but I have to make sure they get their justice served.

It’s been about six hours since Ron was here. My room has a small Vent leading to the outside, too high to reach, but high enough to see the slight glimmer of the rising sun, and the lights of the streetlamps outside. I grab my papers with all the information about this place; what Ron looks like, his full name, what I remember from the car ride, his blue metallic car, what my room looks like, and most importantly, the combination of the door. 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right.

I put on the jumper I had from when I was taken after work - it fits small after 4 years, but it’ll keep me warmer than just having small shorts and a spaghetti strap top. I’m nervous. I’m scared. What I’ll do after my freedom is so unclear, that I don’t know if it’s even worth the hassle. The risk. 

Nevertheless, heading to the door, I put the combination in. It’s chanting over and over in my head like some sort of cult conjuring something. “12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right 12 to the right, 1 to the left, 36 right.”. I murmur under my breath.  A click of release sounds. The combination worked.

I’ve never been upstairs, so I don’t know where Ron will be sleeping or if he’s even sleeping. Creeping up the wooden stairs, I try my hardest not to step on an old piece of wood that’ll make it creek. It’s fifteen steps I need to climb up. Fifteen taunting steps. Finally, at the top, I run to the door, not caring about the noise my pounding feet are making after me. The key swings at the keyhole, and twisting it right, I creek the door open. Sunlight creeps into the house. It’s such a pretty morning. I can’t help but squint. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the radiant sun, the silky blue sky. I look down at my arms, so pale, so skinny. Maybe I’ll be able to get some colour in a few months. There are barely any clouds in the sky and I struggle to take in all this clean oxygen. The room where I was locked had a dusty vent, but it never really cleared out any oxygen. 

I’m so trapped in the beauty of the outside, that I don’t hear him.

I don’t hear him pick the gun up; I don’t hear him walk towards me, I only feel the first shot pulse through my chest. Covering the wound in shock with my hand, the second one snips me in the neck barely missing me, for the third one, he shoots at my head. I see my vision begin to fade and feel my body crush on the floor. 

The only and last thought I have is: “You can’t trust he’ll let you out. You’ll be betrayed.”