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I don’t speak to him for two days. I can’t. I’m too angry. I’m not sure which one of us I’m more angry with, however, him or me. He’s right: I should have begged him to take me home by now. I should’ve done it the first time I opened my eyes. But I haven’t, and that means something. Something disturbing I haven’t quite figured out. Or maybe I don’t want to figure it out. The implications aren’t good. Or maybe I don’t want to know what he’d do if I asked him to take me home. Maybe he would, and I don’t want him to. And maybe my brain just needs a vacation from all the maybes, because not a single thing makes sense anymore. I hardly know which way is up. On the third day, he takes me outside for the first time. Bundled in a heavy wool blanket and a sweater and sweatpants he brought
- Writer
