Assault in a Bottle
“Don’t touch me…don’t tch meeee….Gehhh offf of mmmeee”, I drunkenly protested, but despite my sibilant shrieks no-one could hear me. This hulking and hapless individual was crushing me against the side of his battered sedan and using the advantage of his plentiful size and force to propel me into an industrial wreck of questionable preoccupations.
I was frantically moving as if on a dance floor constructed of sheer panic, but to no avail. My limbs were functioning like limp spaghetti and my vision was blurred like a puddle of oily water. I could barely orient myself on a spatial level, but more significantly my cognitive defenses were completely weakened. The harder the monstrous brute laboured to shove me into his dump of a vehicle, the higher my panic level rose. As someone who possessed a lifelong fear regarding the intentions of and solicitations of random men, this scenario was my worst imaginable nightmare.
As the unknown assailant finally succeeded in ramming me into his claustrophobic mode of transportation, a series of alarming, yet illuminating images filled my mind.
Firstly, I recalled euphorically and audaciously laughing and talking with my two close friends, Tasha and Rosie. We had been sitting in an intimate corner of the bar, far from the debauchery and general degenerate behaviour exhibited by the more affected patrons. As my friend Rosie liked to declare, “The more excessive the antics of a party-goer, the more desperate for attention they are”.
~The next thing I knew, my friends were gone and I was left to fend for myself among the dazzling and corrupt world of the intoxicated party-goers.
Cue to the vertiginous shot of my unstable body leaning over a porcelain toilet and evacuating the contents of my stomach into its fathomless depths. Proceeding my cataclysmic purging of the drinks I’d consumed, I remember drunkenly lurching to my feet and exiting the stall in a flurry of movements. Ears ringing and head throbbing, I vacantly made my way to the door and crept along the shadows of the disease-ridden corridor. I suspiciously glanced into each crevice swallowed by blackness and saw no-one whom I recognized, but my own drunken self sloppily peering out from a grimy mirror. I was an absolute mess in contrast to the polished, glamorous version of myself I’d entered the bar looking like. From running mascara, to untamed hair, to alcohol stained clothing, I could have been the poster child for a drunken mess. More pressing though, was the predicament I found myself in.
~After that, pitch black and silence dominate my mind and prevent further memories from resurfacing. I must have passed out.
The present: “Out…passed…passed…Out”. Help. How? Uggnhgfbvvg…ugh”. My incoherent mutterings trail away as the blessing and curse that is unconsciousness surrounds me yet again.
Thirty minutes later: “Oh my god, I am in this psycho’s apartment. I can hear him rustling around in another room nearby. How long do I have before he returns and undoubtedly executes his filthy intentions?”
Quickly taking note of my surroundings despite my foggy brain and solid block of fear lodged in my throat, I perceive that I am in a spartan room with no windows and only the one door. Swiftly confirming that the door is locked, I scuttle back to the center of the room and take a sweep of the space once more. The only artifact which seems to occupy the sterile space is a medium sized shoebox adorned with a bow and a small card. With trepidation, I inch over to the foreign object and begin by opening the card. It reads: “Hello Ariel, I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know you through your belongings. I hope you appreciate having them returned to you.
Yours truly,
Your secret Admirer”.
Bile rising at the base of my throat and hands shaking in complete revulsion at the sentiments contained within the note, I cautiously remove the lid. Its contents leave my mind reeling and my blood running ice-cold.
Inside the seemingly mundane shoebox lies the amalgamation of my life. From vintage photographs depicting an earlier time in my existence, to more recent and very intimate photographs sent to a lover, to school records extending as far back as elementary school, to personal items such as my favourite panties from when I was thirteen, everything that represents my private evolution as a human being is there.
As my inadvertent, yet highly appropriate shriek builds in volume, a sinister chuckling can be heard coming from what sounds like the west side of the apartment. My muscles spasm in fear and my eyes glaze over melancholically as I hear the heavy footsteps approaching my chamber of captivity.
The ambient falsetto of urban housing suddenly pierces my awareness and I can only hope that someone will find me before it is too late. A flash of a previous “security” conversation I’d had with my girlfriends flits across my consciousness and as the footsteps gain in proximity, I hold the hope of my friend’s intuition and fortitude close to my heart.
