I’m not getting out of here alive. I already know that. I’m cold and nausea is my constant companion. My head aches, one eye is swollen almost shut, and I have been beaten and tortured. I don’t have the energy to give a damn anymore.
A shudder grips my body hard and sends a stabbing pain through me. I moan. I can’t even curse the shivering; it means I’m still alive. It’s when the shivering stops that I’ll be in trouble.
Don’t give up. Never give up.
It’s not my voice I hear in my head. It’s Angelique’s.
A young woman crouches on the floor next to me—the woman from Anne’s photo of Iris, Hazel, and Charles. I’m huddled on my side, doing what I can to retain what little body heat I have left.
I’m fairly positive the woman in the dark-green vintage dress isn’t real. She’s a hallucination. A dream. But I’m not complaining. A ghost from the journals is better than Lincoln and Not-Lincoln coming into the room.
Angelique strokes my arm. My eyelids fight to stay open.
“Be strong. Follow your heart.” Her voice is the whisper of a breath through leaves. She gives me a sad smile and rises to her feet.
A blond man is standing near the wall. Johann. I’m pretty sure that’s who my mind conjured up. He’s also wearing clothes from the 1940s. Gray trousers, gray vest, blue shirt, beige tie. He’s watching her, his face lit with love and adoration.
A tear slides to my hairline. Troy used to look at me that way.
Smiling, Johann holds out his hand to Angelique. She takes it, and they fade away.
“Thank you.” The words are so quiet, I’m not sure if I said them or just moved my lips.
Another shudder goes through me, and I moan. I need to warm up. That might help me survive. But I don’t have the strength to even get to my bruised knees.
My hands are still zip-tied in front of me, the skin around the plastic angry and raw. A day or two more like this, and I could be facing a nasty infection. My body won’t have the energy to fight it.
I have no idea what day it is. I lost count after the third day. Maybe it’s Monday. Or Tuesday. Or maybe I’ve been here for weeks. It feels like weeks.
For the first two days, whenever the two men left me alone in the room, I scoured every inch of the space. Searched for a way to escape or attack the men when they came in to torture me again. I found nothing.
Day three was spent plotting my escape. I came up with nothing.
Day four…I didn’t have enough energy by then to do much more than breathe and dream.
Once again, I let my thoughts slip to my happy place. It’s not the same place I used to disappear into myself while in prison. I’m not thinking about searching for shells on the beach with Amelia. I’m sitting in front of a fire with Troy, cuddled against his warm body. On the other side of him…is our two-year-old son.
What do I see?
Troy reading our son’s favorite picture book to him. The mess of golden-brown hair on top of our son’s head. The sexy grin Troy flashes me as he turns another page. His strong calloused hands that know how to make my body tingle. Bailey and Butterscotch snoozing on their bed by the fireplace.
What do I hear?
Troy’s deep and melodically smooth voice as he reads the story. The funny, squeaky voices he uses for the animals’ dialogue. Our son’s giggles. The crackle of the fire. The dogs snoring.
What do I feel?
The rough denim under my fingertips as I tap out the Morse code for ILU on Troy’s leg.Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-taaap.
I smile at the image. My body is too cold to keep the tilt of my lips on my face for long. The smile fades away, but the image in my head doesn’t.
The rough denim transforms into the chilled concrete beneath my body.Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-taaap.
I think back to one of my favorite Hans Christian Anderson stories from my childhood. “The Little Match Girl.” The orphaned girl was cold and homeless, hungry and alone. The small amount of money she earned came from the matches she sold. When she had only three left, she lit them one at a time. The first match brought to life the image of a warm home and a fireplace. But the flame quickly died away.
She struck the second match. The image that appeared was of a yummy Christmas dinner and a huge roasted turkey. But like with the first match, the image quickly faded away.
The third and final match brought the little girl a loving family. Before the flame flickered away, she died while imagining her mother’s warm embrace. She died with a smile on her face.
