I knocked on the door, again and again.

“Pablo, I’m hungry,” I kept on repeating, a little louder each time, “Pablo, are you there?”

Just shout and I’ll come, he said. Well, I called out, and yelled out, and banged the door and the walls, but he never came. Pablo Antonio Juarez Molina was a liar, a traitor, and a fucking idiot.

I was pretty sure I’d been up for hours, yet I hadn’t even had as much as a whiff of breakfast. Maybe it had only been a few minutes. Time went by painfully slowly in between the lavender walls of my cozy little jail cell.

I’d stared out the window for so long that I could have drawn every single treetop in the forest from memory. I’d trained myself for staring contests, watching my reflection in the mirror, for probably an hour or two.

In the end, I counted up to two hundred and fifty-eight seconds without blinking. That rounds up to a little over four minutes, after which my eyes were red and stinging. I’d grown accustomed to my disfigured face, to my swollen eyebrow, my butchered nose bridge, and my half-shut eyelid.

I’d had one bath and two showers, including one during which I had tried to scrub the dried-up blood that had dribbled down my T-shirt. I had sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at my shorts, hesitating between soaking them in the sink or just throwing them out the window. Given that it was my only outfit aside from my satin robe, I’d chosen the first solution.

I’d tried to carve little sticks in the wall with the nail of my thumb, to keep count of the days like old-timey prisoners did, but a small shard of paint got stuck under my nail. It was so painful I gave up halfway through my first stick.

I had made the bed, undone it, made it again, messed up the sheets rolling around on them, made the bed again, bounced on it like a trampoline, broken one of the slats, and given up on making the bed again. I didn’t usually make it when I was at home anyway.

I napped, I cried, I danced, I screamed, I lost my mind and found my sanity time and time again. At least I wasn’t in the basement, with gravel digging holes into my knees and zip-ties cutting through my wrists. At least I wasn’t home, eating microwave-cooked ramen for the fifth time that week, sitting in front of my laptop while watching an eternally buffering episode of the Office. Although after a few minutes, I decided that I would have gladly killed someone in exchange for uncooked ramen and a framed picture of Steve Carrell.

I had started to imagine the interview I’d give once I left this hellhole. Sitting on the bed with my legs in a duchess slant, seeing myself in a designer dress instead of my baby pink bathrobe, I spoke to an invisible interviewer sitting on my night table.

I’d be a more confident, charismatic version of myself, and I’d explain my experience with a touch of humor, captivating audiences with tales of Pablo’s insanity and my own descent into madness after several days locked up in a tower. I’d poetically evoke the palm tree grove, and how I carefully planned my escape.

The audience would hang on to my every word, and I’d smile with dignity, with a tear in my eye, as I tell them all about the darkest times of my life. And when I’d have finished my tale, they’d erupt in joy and applause, a standing ovation to my wit and my courage.

“Who are you talking to?” said the man who stood at my bedroom door.

Pablo raised his eyebrows and smiled, as I quickly turned as red as a lobster in boiling water. I almost fainted from the embarrassment.

“...Myself,” I answered timidly.

“You do it too? I thought I was the only one who did,” he chuckled.

“Quite a lot of people do, actually. It’s called maladaptive daydreaming,” I explained politely.

He leaned on the door frame and smirked.

“What do you daydream about?” he asked.

Just say it. Kidnapping. Hostage situations. I’ve been planning escape strategies for situations like this ever since I was a child.

“Pablo, do you have any food?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject. “I’m absolutely starving.”

He swiveled around and picked up a large platter off a wooden desk in the corridor. My heart almost stopped when I noticed two thick, juicy, nicely seasoned, perfectly marbled steaks, and generous portions of pasta covered in a creamy, cheesy sauce.

The plates smelled as heavenly as they looked. They were beautifully presented, down to a delicately placed parsley leaf on top and pretty swirls of sauce on the plate’s edges. It looked straight out of a fancy restaurant, and looked like it fit in the top ten most expensive meals I’d ever had.

“Oh, wow,” I slobbered. “Are both for me?”

He threw his head back and laughed out loud. “No, I just thought I’d take some time to have dinner with you. If you’re still hungry, I can get you more.”

“Dinner?” I asked. “What time is it?”

“I slept in a bit, sorry.” he shrugged. “I hope your day wasn’t too long.”

I graced him with my fakest smile. “It would have been a nicer day if it had started with breakfast, but it was okay.”

It wasn’t okay, for god’s sake. I’d all but bashed my head into the wall out of boredom and desperation. I’d aged about three years in the span of a few hours. I’d never even daydreamed with such vivid realism. There was a whole TV show crowd in this room just a few minutes ago. This single day would take years of therapy to heal from. It was not okay.

“Sorry about that too,” he sighed as he picked up a wooden chair from outside the door and put it next to the vanity. “I wasn’t very organized.”

I nodded back at him and started eating my pasta. Survival comes first, and complaining could wait until a bit later. The taste of the steak was almost orgasmic. It didn’t even have anything to do with my hunger or lack of things to get excited about these past few days - the pasta was the single best thing I’d ever eaten.

“Wow,” I said as I rolled my eyes with delight. “Your chef is amazing.”

Pablo lifted his head up and smiled from ear to ear.

“Thank you,” he answered softly, “I’ll tell him.”

I cut off a nice piece of steak and let it melt on my tongue. The cooking, the seasoning–it was perfect. I nodded in approval again and noticed he was blushing.

“What is it?” I asked, with one eyebrow frowned.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m glad you like the food.”

I put my fork down on the plate. It seemed unlikely that the middle-aged, tough, mysterious, unpredictable, and borderline frightening man I’d spoken to before was suddenly turning red in the cheeks at a simple compliment towards his employee. Impossible, actually.

“Did you cook this?” I asked.

His gaze locked into mine, and all I could see was his beaming pride. His genuine smile, the sparkle in his eyes. The way he nodded with innocent excitement was almost endearing, and definitely contagious.

“It’s really good,” I told him.

In his unchecked yet embarrassed joy, I saw an opportunity. Pablo might be easier to manipulate than I had first imagined. He looked like a young boy on his first date. Even I, who wasn’t very experienced in love, didn’t blush so naively at compliments–even those given by men I actually liked. Although I wondered, was it really manipulation if the feeling was genuine?

“I burnt the pasta’s sauce,” he explained with a grin. “I had to do it all over again.”

“Oh, that’s why you were so long,” I answered sarcastically, raising my eyebrows.

“I’ll come earlier tomorrow, I promise,” he apologized, biting his lip.

“I hope so,” I answered in a way that came out a little drier than I had intended. I lowered my tone, and continued in a softer voice. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I’m happy I’m out of the basement, but it’s a bit boring all alone up here.”

“Do you want me to spend more time with you?” he asked after he was done swallowing a mouthful of pasta.

“No, not really, I was thinking more of some... activities to do during the day.”

For a fraction of a second, his face broke. My words hit him like a punch in the stomach, and his sweet smile was wiped away for an instant. As he put back a fake face on to keep up his appearances, I felt sorry for him, and guilty of having put a damper on his mood after sending him into such a high. Me, the hostage, guilty of breaking her captor’s heart. I felt sorry for having ruined this date with the man who’d ruined my life.

“I don’t want to bother you more than I already am,” I added as an excuse.

He shrugged. His sudden coldness and distance sent shivers down my spine. Pablo truly was an emotional chameleon, who in seconds could swing from child-like cheer to ice-cold stoicism. Maybe I wasn’t mad at myself for hurting his feelings, but rather for jeopardizing my own comfort and security.

“You can do drugs,” he said, “If you want to.”

I raised my eyebrows with manifest surprise. “Honestly, I was thinking more of normal activities, like drawing, or Netflix. Do you have Netflix here?”

He dropped his cutlery onto the plate and stared at me a little too intensely..

“Yes, we people of the jungle have Netflix,” he sneered.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll get you some crayons and some Disney DVDs.”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s fine,” I stuttered. “It’s perfect.”

He gawked at me in silence, leaning on his elbows. It was uncomfortable enough that I myself had to stop eating.

“It’s boring, Gordita,” he scowled at me with a half-grin. “I’d really rather know you’re doing drugs, or at least something fun.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’d rather have crayons.”

“What are you going to do with crayons? Shove them up your nostrils? Come on, be real. You’d die of boredom. You’d throw yourself out of that window if only your booty could fit through it.”

I blinked at him in disbelief.

“Okay, sure, I’ll smoke weed, if that’s what you really want,” I groaned as I gave up.

“Weed?” he scoffed, and I noticed he was starting to relax again. “You’re so mild.”

“I know,” I whined jokingly. “If I was a spice I’d be salt.”

He started to smile again, and the whole room suddenly felt warmer–like when the sun finally peeks out from behind a cloud and basks you in its light.

There was a small moment during which we awkwardly ate in silence, both staring directly at our plates as if the other wasn’t in the room.

“I’m curious, though,” he mumbled. “You still haven’t told me. What do you daydream about?”

“Awful things,” I shuddered.

“Interesting. Like what?”

“I figured when I was little that if I daydreamed about something, then it would never happen. So I tried to imagine the most horrible thing possible. Like... getting kidnapped. Losing my mum or my dad. Something bad happening to Ana.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down at his plate to avoid my guilting gaze.

“Yeah, I’d cry uncontrollably in my room, and then feel better because I felt protected. It’s funny, and kind of sad, because everything actually did happen, in the end.”

“So...What do you dream of now?”

I shrugged as I chewed on a large piece of steak. “Things I hope will happen, I guess.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Pablo,” I sighed as I rolled my eyes at him, “I know you know what I’m talking about.”

God, it was awkward. He stared at me with a smile that was as mischievous as it was stone-cold. Why ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to?

“What do you daydream about?” I said in an attempt to break up the building tension.

He leaned back in his chair and thought for a while.

“The next step,” he answered proudly.

“Ooh... Mysterious,” I chuckled.

His face relaxed a little, and his smile once again lit up the room.

“When I was a kid, I dreamed of getting a bike. Once I got my bike, I dreamed of having a motorbike. Once I got that, I dreamed of getting a job - that I could drive to on my motorbike. Once I found a boss, I would dream that one day I would be the boss. I dreamed I’d get bigger, smarter, richer, more powerful. I dreamed about getting a house, then a house with a pool, then a villa. Now I dream about the next party, the next business venture, the next investment. How can I make it bigger, better, crazier? It’s a good drive to my... extravagance.”

“Maybe I should have done that,” I mumbled.

He didn’t answer. He had the talent to make his silence unbearable; and he had a gift for spiking my curiosity. No matter how much I despised him, I couldn’t help but want to know more about him.

“So you’re a businessman?” I asked.

“Of some sorts,” he answered.

“Was I a business venture?” I retorted, in a tone that was a little angrier than I had meant.

He stared at me and licked his lips:

“You were a bad investment,” he said with a half-grin.

“Maybe I’m just a long-term one,” I suggested jokingly.

“Clever girl,” he whispered.

He popped his last piece of steak into his mouth, and slapped his thighs as he stood up.

“Well it’s been nice seeing you,” he announced as he walked away, “Goodbye.”

The room shook as the door slammed shut, and I jumped a little bit in my chair. The conclusion of our little ‘date’ left a bitter taste in my mouth, like when you’re really invested in a movie but you don’t understand its ending.

I felt suddenly exhausted by the interaction and the effort I’d had to put in to try and understand him. I was nauseous from the back and forth in Pablo’s behavior, and feverish from the hot and cold signals he gave off. I quickly finished my plate, which only had a few spaghetti left on it anyway, dropped my satin robe onto the floor, and jumped into bed.

Locked Up

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