All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
A splitting headache. A spinning room. Blurs.
This is what I awaken to. Where am I?
What I remember: Chains and voices. But whose voices? What chains? Am I being held captive? When struggling to retrieve my memory, I find it only makes the headache hurt worse.
I almost manage to push myself up to an elbow, but fall feebly back down to my side.
The walls are blood red, but interior design is the least of my troubles. Objective one: Find out where I am.
But doesn’t that require moving? I can’t even feel my legs. I can’t feel my body at all for that matter. The numbness is making it hard to budge; hard to think. My headache is still present, and throbs like crazy with even the slightest motion.
I tilt my head back to look up at the ceiling. I can’t even tell how high it is. I’m still a little dizzy. It feels as though all the blood in my body has just rushed to the back of my head.
A sudden face flashes like a burst of lightning in my mind. It’s a bearded man. I experience instant chills and distress pulsates within my wrenching heart. I’m not associating this face with pleasant emotions. But why?
Why is it so hard for me right now to remember? Do I have amnesia?
I have to do something. I’m lying on a hard floor in a cramped red room that’s swallowed by silence.
Though I can’t stand up, I can crawl. And that’s what I attempt to do. That is, until I realize something is holding me back. Chains. They’re bound tightly around my wrist like lethal chokers.
The good news is, things are becoming clearer. Around me; not in my memory. The connection between the chains, the warehouse and the man is still a mystery. The only conclusion I come to is that I was wrapped in chains in a warehouse by the man and thrown into this red room. But why would he do that?
I am Jeffrey Stern. Good, I remember my name. Let’s take it one step at a time. What was I doing earlier today?
And the flashes start back again. Like a rewinding tape, I reminisce on my day. The warehouse! Of course! It was the address of the place Dad told me to meet him. And then I recall the phone conversation I had with him this morning. He sounded awkward, like in some sort of anguish. Where was Dad now? From what I can tell, I was alone in this room.
It isn’t long before I’m able to gather the strength to sit up. I lean against the nearest of the floor walls and heave a heavy sigh. I begin to be able to feel my body. I’m drenched in sweat and burning up. My hair is as short as ever, but it clings to my forehead and hangs like ivy in front of my face.
I struggle to break free from the chains when realizing they are also bound around my ankles. And when I lift my gaze, I can make out what seems to be a door. It is also red like the walls, but unmistakably there is a knob.
Perfect. Things are getting better. I can finally feel my legs, and slide around to inch toward the doorknob.
I throw up my wrists to rest upon the knob, but when I try to turn it, it doesn’t revolve. Not one bit. I can’t accept this though. I give it a forceful jolt. It turns no better. OK. This could be bad.
I fall back to my bottom and something pokes me. When I turn over to my stomach I realize that it is a small, golden key. Perfect! My way out!
I scoop it up in my fingers and shove it into the door, while struggling to balance on my wobbly legs. The key isn’t to the door. It doesn’t fit. Duh, Jeffrey. Why would someone leave the key to the door in front of it?
I’m a hostage. And I tell myself that because I realize the sooner I accept it, the sooner I can focus on finding a way out. But this room is small, I have no resources, and the door is strong. Plus, who knows who or what is on the other side?
It’s time to gather what I can remember of today and use this key to find my way. This could take a while.
I stare at the doorknob with determined eyes. I have to get out. It’s time to escape.