HOUR ONE I set a 48 hour timer on my watch that will count my time. I can only do so by stretching my fingers over onto the opposite wrist. My hands are tightly cuffed to the ceiling. I'm still wearing my literally paper thin hospital gown and nothing else, and the concrete floor and walls are freezing. My only warmth is from a single lukewarm pipe that my butt can reach. It's very uncomfortable. HOUR 4 I've set up a mediocre bed by sitting on a seemingly sturdy pipe and leaning against the wall. At least this way I can get some rest. After all, I remember Dad's mediocre-sounding medical facts that he spouted out endlessly whenever I complained of boredom, or when I was sick or tired. Somewhere in the whirlpool of facts, I picked out the factoid that you can die of sleep faster than you can die of boredom. Besides, what the hell ELSE am I going to do? HOUR 13 I awake and all is dark. My only light in the beginning was a crack in the big door that led to some larger space that had some lamp, but now it is nighttime. Feeling a warm sensation on my chest, I remember that when I fell asleep, my Sidekick slipped down my loose fitting hospital gown. Now it rests in the unfortunately cavernous area between my last rib and my collarbone. In my position, it's hardly ideal to dial the cops. My hands are strung up on the pipes, and I lack pretty much any upper body strength. Seriously, examine me and call me if you find anything even barely, vaugely similar to the thinnest membrane of muscular tissue anywhere on my body.
HOUR 15 I have spent the wee hours of the A.M. trying to reach my fingers into the collar of my gown to grab my cell. But it's no use. My hands are just simply stuck there. After numerous attempts to twist upside or sideways against the mildewy walls, I realize I'm soooo not flexible enough. It's pointless. Oh, WHY everytime I narrowly escape life-threatening situations does another unfortunate, dangerous, or hopeless one occur? HOUR 20 I decided to begin calling for help. I yell my loudest and hardest, but no reply. I wonder where I am. Probably underground, in a basement. At the highest elevation, perhaps a workshop or garage. But it's a quiet town; maybe my screams will be heard. It's a last resort, but I don't know what else to do. Eventually, Max comes in, angrily holding a knife. My eyes widen."No, please, I'm sorry, I'll stop!" I know that my voice is my only chance of survival, since it can be used if I can possibly call 911 or shout for help. He ignores me and begins silently scraping across my throat. I know this trick; my Dad told me about it. By scraping the voice muscles, you can soften someone's voice until it is closed. "Don't!" I cry."I promise I'll..."My voice trails off. If only I could drink some water. He stalked away and I began to cry. I had get out of this position or drink something to relate my voicebox, but then stay quiet so he wouldn't know. But I litterally could NOT move. I couldn't use my legs- they were broken. And the rest of me numb with pain and cold. My sobs were muffled by the scrapes, and tears poured out of my brown eyes like waterfalls. This was an absolute nightmare. I'm going to die here, helpless. I'm not ready to die. Maybe tomorrow when I've said goodbye, but not now. Not right now. I'm losing hope. Suddenly, my Sidekick vibrated, instituting a disturbingly pleasant sensation, adrenaline rushes through me. I use my sudden abdominal strength to push it up into eye level. It was from Josh.