INVENTORY DAY

TATIANA

The room is not that interesting. It's not. But I've also mentally recorded every single item in it, so clearly I am lying to myself.

There's a bed. A wardrobe. There's a window with a latch that doesn't budge, and I know because I spent time on it before accepting that whoever designed this room did not want anyone to leave it.

So frustrating.

The last time I was locked away like this was when I disobeyed father and tried to sneak out to go watch a concert with Julian. 

It was the first date Julian asked me on and our first fight ever. I still remember his words.

“If I mattered enough to you, you’d come.” His hard voice was still over my phone’s speaker. I had told him then that we should come clean to my parents. Who knew maybe the respect they had for him would have compelled them to allow us to date. My words only got him madder.

I felt his pain and I wanted to ease it so I left home.

My family guards caught me before I made it off the property and reported me to my father. He made sure I didn't see a soul for a week straight as punishment, and told me it was for my safety.

The same thing Kain hinted at the other night.

Come to think of it. Something is wrong with the men in my family. They are too obsessed with control. 

When I break away from here and put Kain behind bars, Julian and I will start a beautiful family. 

Away from this mess, I will finally be free to live my life how I want to.

I sit cross-legged on the bed and continue my list.

Window, sealed. Door, locked from outside, no visible hinge on this side. The ventilation shaft above the wardrobe is approximately the size of a dinner plate and therefore useless.

The wardrobe has a wooden rod inside it for hanging clothes. It could function as a very unconvincing weapon if I ever got my hands on someone who was standing very still and not expecting it. 

Kain probably wouldn't be too inclined to be used as a physical example. 

The bedframe is metal, but I cannot lift it. I tried.

He did not take my hairpins. This is either oversight or deliberate. I genuinely cannot tell.

I get off the bed and walk the length of the room. It's not a small room, actually. The ceiling is high. The floors are stone under the rug. It smells like wood polish.

It's obvious a woman decorated it. There are curtains. They match the rug, which is an absurd detail for a prison.

I go to the wardrobe and open it again. The clothes inside are all wrong for me. Too large. 

Someone else's, or bought without knowing my size, which given that I arrived here unexpectedly seems more likely. 

There's a soft grey sweater on the top shelf that might actually fit. There's also a collection of items that are clearly not mine and clearly not his, because they are women's clothes but not the kind a man would choose for himself.

I am more and more convinced he had a woman here at some point.

So I'm not your first victim?

I pull out the sweater and put it on over my own shirt because the room is cold and I am not going to suffer in the name of principle. Principles are for people who are not locked in rooms with sealed windows.

I am running out of things that could function as tools and I am running out of optimism. That's not something I ever thought I would say about myself. 

I have never had to go through any difficult thing in my life, at least not of this magnitude. My parents made sure of it. 

But I do not have them anymore. 

Mom, Dad. I miss you. So much. 

I end up crying on the floor again even when I know it won't bring them back or set me free. 

The man who controls every variable in this situation and took everything from me is somewhere in this house and does not seem particularly interested in explaining himself.

My father is dead. My uncle is dead. My mother is dead.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand before I restrain from giving into another bout of tears.

I have already done that once today and I would like to ration my breakdowns if at all possible.