Consequences(2)

Slowly, she attempted to sit. The act in itself caused discomfort—more evidence that last night was real. Slowly shifting, she managed to see more of her cell: a sitting area with an overstuffed chair, complementary sofa, small fireplace in the wall surrounded by marble tiles, and a cozy table for two with a crystal vase of fresh flowers. The intimacy of the table caused Claire’s stomach to churn. The bile that seeped into her throat tasted vile. She tried desperately to swallow.

Conspicuously missing were dressers or other furniture usually associated with a bedroom, yet dimly, she remembered being told that this was her new bedroom. Looking around the perimeter of the room, she saw beautiful white woodwork: built-in bookcases, shelves, and three doors. The one farthest from her bed appeared solid, firm, and unharmed after the pounding she’d delivered the night before. There was no reason to believe that it would now be unlocked. What Claire did know, with some certainty, was that it held her only avenue to freedom. She needed to find her way back through that door.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the events of last night. As the memories started to flow from the recesses of her unconsciousness, her new goal became to stop them. She failed—seeing him behind her closed lids.

Anthony Rawlings was so different from the man she met less than a week ago—the handsome tall man, with brown hair, and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. He’d been polite, kind, and gentlemanly. Last night, none of those words could be used to describe him. To say he was cruel would not explain what she endured. One could say demanding, aggressive, abrasive, controlling—but above all—brutal.

Shifting slightly, Claire realized that the slightest movement caused her muscles to ache. Her thighs throbbed, her body was tender, and her mouth felt swollen and raw. She remembered his scent, his taste, and the sound of his voice. Those thoughts instigated a revolt deep in the recesses of her stomach. At that moment, the images of him made her heart race—not in anticipation—but fear.

This was insane. Things like this happened on crime shows and movies, not in real life and not to people like her.

She tried to censor the memories, searching for the ones of him finally leaving the room and her futile barrage on the door. Tears fell from her swollen eyes as the visions replayed in her mind. She laid her head back on the velvety pillow and allowed herself the luxury of more sleep—an escape from this reality.

The next time she woke, Claire knew she couldn’t put off looking behind the other doors any longer. She needed to find the entry to the bathroom. The sumptuous carpet enveloped her feet as she stepped from the bed. Despite the plush carpeting, the weight of her body made her legs cry out in pain. Sadly, she remembered crying out more than once. Her internal monologue screamed with unanswered questions: How did this happen? How did I get here? Why am I here? And how can I get out?

The three doors she’d counted earlier were arranged with two near the bed and one by the sitting area. Claire wrapped a sheet around her aching body and slowly approached the lone door—the massive barrier of solid wood—her passage to freedom. Anxiety induced trembling, causing her hands to shake as she slowly reached for the cold metal of the door knob. If it moved, would she flee wrapped only in a sheet? Hell, yes!

Excitement quickly turned to disappointment as the lever remained perfectly horizontal. It didn’t even wiggle, as many locked doors do. The barrier stood unyielding. Despite the expected outcome, disappointment caused the pain within Claire’s body to intensify. Turning around, she viewed her cell. One of the other two doors had the best chance of holding her desired destination. She opened the first door and revealed a closet, one the size of most bedrooms. It could more accurately be considered a dressing room given the built-in drawers, shoe racks, shelves, and hanging racks. Surprisingly, the racks and shelves were full. These clothes seemed to come straight from a Saks photo shoot, not the kind Claire would or could choose for herself. She was more the Target or Vintage type. These clothes belonged to someone who lived the life of the rich and famous. Who was that someone? Claire wondered why she was in that person’s room, and why she remembered being told it was hers.