ISABELLE DONOVAN
WEDNESDAY JUNE 29, 2022

I wake up and begin my usual morning routine. Open my eyes, stretch out my body, toss the sheets off the bed, walk over to the window. I stand there for a long time, simply gazing out into the woods. I can't see much and this doesn't do anything for me, yet still, it's what I do each and every morning. I also like to see if JD's car is here or not. It helps me map out how the day is going to go. On this particular morning, I see that he's here. This brings me a sort of comfort I didn't know I was seeking.

I knock twice on the door, signaling to him that I'm awake. I glance at the clock. 10:10 a.m. I've been sleeping in later and later since arriving here. I used to be up at eight o'clock every morning, my body long adjusted to the biological clock I'd instilled in myself over the years. But now that I'm not waking up for work every morning, my body has begun to relax and simmer down. Eight o'clock has suddenly turned into ten and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The door opens and JD appears, sizing me up, then allowing me out of the bedroom to join him in the living room. I realize that this, too, has become routine. Gone are the days of me being trapped in the room all alone for most of the day. We've somehow reached the point of comfort and trust. He allows me to be out here because he knows I'm not going to try to run away.

Or am I?

Perhaps that should be my plan. Gain his trust until I have him eating out of my hand. Then, when the opportunity strikes, I bolt.

As tempting as that sounds, I know it's not realistic. I can't even get out of this cottage let alone navigate my way back to civilization. Besides, JD says I'm here for a reason. This is all because of Scott. I guess part of me actually trusts him.

We sit at the kitchen table and he slides a cup of tea towards me. I receive it and hold it between my palms. He knows exactly how I take it now, no longer needing to inquire.
"What day is it today?" I ask, as I do most days. I've still been keeping tallies on the wall behind my bed, but I like to confirm with him, make sure I'm not losing my mind.
"What is it with you and obsessively keeping track of time?"
I shrug. "I need to know. It helps me structure my life."
He stares at me. "It's Wednesday."
"The twenty-ninth?"
"Yes."
So I thought. "Almost July," I remark.
"Indeed."
I take a sip from my tea. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine thank you," he takes a sip from his as well. "And how are you?"
"I am just dandy thank you for asking." It's a game of pretend. Pretending we are elsewhere. Pretending we are anyone but the people we truly are.
"Good to hear." He picks up the newspaper and begins flicking through. I scan the front to see if there's any news I recognize.
"You're not going to find anything," he says without glancing up. "It's last month's."
I sit back subtly. "Why are you reading last month's paper?"
He flips the page. "Why not?"
"Can I have another book? I finished the last one you gave me."
"Sure."
I swirl my tea around, staring into the mug. "Do you have anywhere you need to be today?"
"Perhaps."
"Stop being so evasive with me. Can't we just have a normal conversation?"
He stops reading, then slowly folds the newspaper and places it on the table in front of him. "What would you like to talk about, Isabelle?"
"Anything. I don't know. I hate when you act like this. All distant and blasé. Are you bipolar? Serious question. Some days it's like you're a completely different person."
He laughs slightly. "No need to get so worked up about it." He stands. "What would you like for breakfast? Bacon and eggs?"
I hesitate. "Okay."
"Splendid."

He walks over to the fridge and begins pulling out ingredients. I watch him carefully, studying the way he moves. The kitchenette is small. The cottage is small. Everything in here is small, including me. And then there's him, who stands out noticeably, the one large thing amongst an array of bite-sized.

I envision the miniscule amount of effort it would take for him to harm me. A mere squeeze of the neck, barely a push of a pillow over my face. The flick of a wrist towards the gun, finger on the trigger in one quick motion. It would only take seconds for him to end my life. It would be so easy

I think about ways I, too, could kill him, but it's not as easy to formulate. I think of alternative ways, not as evident as asphyxiation or shooting. I imagine feeding him hot soup mixed with antifreeze. Serving him bacon and eggs sprinkled with rat poison. A rum and coke laced with arsenic.

"Over easy or sunny-side-up?" he says from his spot by the stove.
"Surprise me."
He makes up two plates and walks over to the table. Over easy. Just how I like it. He slides the plate over and takes a seat across from me. We lift our forks in unison and begin eating in silence. Day Thirteen in captivity? Or just a regular Wednesday morning.

______

Later that afternoon, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I think about many things. When I was a kid, I used to have big dreams of what I'd be when I grew up. I wanted to be a doctor or an astronaut, or even president. See, that's the most magical part about being a child. The blissful ignorance and naivety that surrounds you like a bubble. Your dreams are innocent and your aspirations are honorable. The expectations we have of life are really quite simple at that age. We are unaware of the looming dangers that are out there in the world, waiting for us. Did I truly think I'd grow up and become president? No. But did I think I would step out of my house one day and get abducted? Also no.

But here I am.

I've been having strange dreams lately, which really isn't that out of the ordinary, given my current predicament. Yet still, I've always liked to reflect on my dreams, trying to dig into my subconscious and analyze the true meaning behind them. I'm no Freud, but I think I do a half-decent job.

Most people claim that they do not dream. This isn't true. Everyone dreams, but most people forget. I think my brain does a pretty good job at remembering most of the time. I used to keep a dream journal when I was younger and record everything in there. I'd wake up in the morning and the first thing I'd do was grab the journal and jot everything down as quickly as I could so that I wouldn't forget. Dreams fade, you see. They happen and they are so vivid, but just as quickly, they fade away into the abyss as if they never existed at all.

They say that dreams are our unconscious fears and desires. That in our sleep is the only time we are truly able to delve into our subconscious and witness these things. You can attempt to analyze your dreams, but there are many things that play a factor, such as stress, nerves, excitement, etcetera. Perhaps all of these factors are why I've been having certain dreams. Perhaps this is why I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, on the cusps of something I can't quite grasp. It only lasts seconds, the lingering memory of where I just was. I get a faint glimpse of a man or a location, and then just like that, it's fading, gone.

I wish I had a journal here with me now. Maybe then I'd be able to jot down my dreams and better analyze them. In last night's dream, I was being hunted, which if you ask me, doesn't need a whole lot of explanation. A few nights ago, I had a dream I was walking through a field, as peaceful as can be, surrounded by sunflowers. I always recall the feelings more than the scene itself. Even if I barely remember the dream, I usually remember how it left me feeling, the presence of anxiety or serenity lingering long after the dream is over. I carry it with me in my waking hours, and it usually determines how my day will go. The other day I felt calm, but today I felt anxious.

There is a very plausible explanation for the source of my bad dreams. I've been abducted and am going through high points of stress, plain and simple. But I went to school for psychology and have studied these things in great detail. There is also another very plausible reason that might explain these odd dreams. It's the same reason why I've been obsessively keeping track of the date, counting the days since I've been here.

I was due to start my menstrual cycle last Wednesday. That was a week ago.

I'm seven days late.