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I have no idea where I am. It’s a terrifying realization every single time it happens, and yet here I am once again. My eyes feel like sandpaper when I try to open them—dry and painful as I stare into the light shining through.
I roll over, my body stiff, and the movement is enough to cause my stomach to heave.
I’m going to throw up.
I’m going to throw up.
I’m going to throw up.
With the sudden agility of a child, I jolt up from the bed, moving quickly in search of a bathroom in a space I don’t recognize. I can’t focus on that right now, can’t question where I ended up after another night of drinking.
With singular focus and only seconds to spare, I pull open one of three doors in the room and find an empty closet—a few unused plastic hangers dangling on the metal bar. I move to the next door and shove it open, vomit already in my throat.
I’m not going to make it.
There’s no way I’ll make it.
I have to make it.
If I open my mouth, I’m going to spew everywhere.
Relieved doesn’t feel like a strong enough word for what I feel when my eyes land on a toilet in the small, dark room. I launch myself onto the floor and empty the contents of my stomach, my body shaking, head throbbing.
I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.
The morning after is never the most enjoyable part of a date, but I’d prefer not to throw up in front of the person who saw me naked last night if given the choice.
When my stomach feels completely empty, the anxiety and dread begin to take over. The embarrassment over my situation—over everything my date just heard in here and the scent I’ve just filled this bathroom with—seeps into my organs, and I can think of nothing else.
I wipe my mouth. My skin seems to be throbbing like a pulse, every muscle tense and thrumming. The bathroom is small but pristine. Must be a guest bathroom. I know my bathroom has never been this clean.
Then again, I guess we could be in a hotel, although the place feels more like an apartment or condo than any hotel room I’ve ever been in.
Everything is bright white, like a movie version of heaven. There’s not a single bottle of body wash or shampoo behind the white plastic shower curtain, nor is there anything except a new bar of soap on the countertop next to the sink. I rinse my mouth by filling my palm with water, then wash my hands as I examine myself in the mirror. I recognize the clothes I’m wearing from my closet—my favorite jeans and a purple shirt—but I don’t recall putting them on.
I’m exhausted.
That’s what sticks with me the most. Despite just sleeping for what feels like a century, fatigue clings to my bones and muscles like a claw clip in my hair, its spindly fingers wrapped around my body in a vise-like grip.
I slurp down another handful of water before making my way back into the bedroom, listening for the sounds of whoever else might be in this apartment with me. Will they be the type to make breakfast? Or pick up breakfast? Or will I find a note on the counter telling me to let myself out without even being able to remember the face of the person I spent my night with?
The bedroom, like the bathroom, is nondescript. Sterile nearly. The bed frame is plain, black metal, and the bed set is simple and white. I don’t have to look closer to know it’s cheap and scratchy to the skin, though I don’t remember my night here to confirm it. There are no photos on the walls or memorabilia of any kind. There’s not even a TV. The room is a completely blank slate. A white box.
Suddenly, claustrophobia takes hold of my throat, making it hard to swallow. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen in here.
I force out a slow, steady breath, trying to think. To prepare myself before I walk out there and re-meet my date.
A man, I’m guessing. The lack of decorations feels like a dead giveaway that this room doesn’t belong to a woman, though I’ve never seen a man’s room this tidy either. I’m utterly baffled at how I ended up in this white box without a single memory of last night.
I’m still listening for sounds, though I’m pretty convinced I’m alone since no one came to check on me during my not-silent vomit session moments ago. Either that, or whoever I slept with is a total asshole and can’t be bothered to care.
Way to pick ’em, Sophie.
I can practically hear Jaz chastising me from wherever she is. Maybe I won’t tell her about this one. I definitely won’t tell her.
Crossing the room, I ease down onto my knees and search the nightstand and under the bed for my purse and phone. I need to find out where I am, call an Uber, and get home in time to not miss my entire shift at The Bold Bean. Margie’s going to kill me.
Hell, Simon’s going to kill me. His bowl of food is probably empty by now, and I’m sure he’s currently meowing at me through the abyss, which is only going to make Jaz mad, and then she’s going to kill me.
I’m dead times three, and I have no idea where my phone is.
Fucking fuck.
I must’ve left it in the living room when we came inside. God help me if I left it at the
bar. I don’t even remember which one we were at. Or who we entails.
Oh my god, I have got to stop drinking. Never again. I will never do this again.
With a deep breath, I prepare for the utmost embarrassment as I walk out of the bedroom and down a short hallway into the small kitchen on my right. It’s narrow with a peninsula and, like every other room here, completely, blindingly white.
“Hello?” I call, my voice scratchy. The apartment is silent as I study the faded beige couch in the living room next to the kitchen. There’s no television in here either, but I spot a small shelf of old books in the corner. My purse and phone are nowhere to be seen.
Chills line my arms as I spin back around, checking over my shoulder. The curtains are pulled closed, and if it hadn’t been for the light in the bedroom telling me it was morning, it could easily pass for the middle of the night. My eyes trail the walls until they land on a black box that runs the full length of the wall across from the couch. Almost like a mini split air conditioner, but much longer.
I have no idea what it is and have never seen anything like it before.
I check the couch cushions next, but like everything else, it’s surprisingly clean. No sign of my purse, phone, or a single crumb. Whoever lives here would probably feel the need to wear a hazmat suit in my apartment.
Tears prickle my eyes at the idea of abandoning my stuff. How am I supposed to call an Uber or reach out to anyone if I don’t have a phone? Not to mention the risk of identity theft and credit card fraud now that god knows who has my wallet.
Never ever again.
I’m so angry with myself. Still, I don’t see what choice I have. Whoever lives here could be gone for hours for all I know, and I don’t even know for certain that my purse made it back here.
I don’t even know how I made it back here.
Lately, my life has been a string of bad decisions, but I’m usually not so irresponsible that I black out or end up in a stranger’s home. With a final look around, a shift of cushions and checking of mostly empty kitchen drawers, I give a resigned sigh and make my way toward the door.
In a last-ditch attempt, I grab a napkin and fish a pen from one of the kitchen
drawers, scratching down Jaz’s phone number with a note that says,
If you find my things, please call.
I consider saying thank you for last night, but that feels strange considering that I have no idea how last night even went. I’m mildly sore between my legs, which tells me we probably slept together, but I don’t know if it’s worthy of a thank you, so I leave it at that.
With nothing else to do, I make my way to the door and grab at the handle. I twist the knob, but…it doesn’t move.
Looking up, I realize the lock is on backward and I’m staring at a keyhole in the knob and a dead bolt above it. It takes several seconds for me to process this before the panic sets in.
No. No. No. No. No.
What the hell?
I jerk at the handle again and again, but it doesn’t budge. I rush to the kitchen, searching for anything that might help me pick the lock. I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I try a knife first, stabbing it into the keyhole and twisting, but it doesn’t move. The knife bends slightly, but the keyhole is entirely unaffected.
I try a pen, with less hope, and give up after seconds. Next is a fork, which works about as well as the knife, which is to say it gives me a second’s hope before smashing it to bits.
I look around the room, searching for anything else that might help. When my eyes find the black box on the wall again, I do a double take. It’s different now. Red digits fill the black screen.
5—4:23:58
A lump of dough lodges in my throat. What does it mean? Is it a code? Is it…some sort of alarm code? There’s no keypad here. I have no idea what these numbers mean or why they just showed up.
What the fuck is going on?
I feel as if I’m on the set of some stupid sci-fi film. Oh, Jaz is going to think this is all hilarious…if I can ever find a way to get out of here and tell her.
“Hello?” I call again, my voice trembling as I stare up at the numbers. “Can
anyone hear me?”
With no answer, I cross the room and open the curtains. Behind both curtains, there’s a single pane of solid glass. Beyond the glass, I see only trees in every direction—no other houses, no roads, nothing.
There’s no way to open the windows. I have to go through them. I have to find a way to break the glass, to damage this person’s property. Could I be arrested for this? Or sued? I have no money to be sued, and I certainly don’t have time to be arrested.
I picture myself on the news—my mugshot and the story of how I destroyed someone’s windows because I couldn’t find the back door of their house after a wild night of partying. They’ll make me look insane. People will blame me for drinking too much. My parents will tell their friends I’m going through a rough time without ever checking in on me.
I’m not entirely sure I’m not dreaming at this point.
I don’t have a choice. I need to get out of here, and there are no other doors.
Just to be sure, I walk back to the bedroom and check every door, even the one to the bathroom which I’m now very well acquainted with, but there’s nothing. This door and these windows are the only way out.
I swallow, trying to slow my rapid breathing as I search for something to safely break the glass. If someone is nearby, they’re almost certainly going to hear this. If that someone is the person who locked me in here, if they locked me in on purpose, ...
