I'm lying on my cot like a piece of tenderized meat that Prue intends to pickle and fry to a crispy death and serve for dinner. Sad to say, this doesn't seem so far-fetched. And it's hard to decide which is worse: the pain or humiliation.

Don't get me wrong, the throbbing is so severe, I'm not sure I'll ever walk again. Admittedly, I'm familiar with both. My stepfather has always been on this indecency vendetta, and I've been through some trauma, both in private and in front of hundreds of people. Still, this humiliation is at an all-time high or a debilitating low, depending on your perspective, and it somehow still rivals an agony that is unbearable.

Why did I trust him for even a moment? This could have been his "master plan" all along. Even if it wasn't, he's familiar with the same Prue that I am, and I'm sure he's not surprised.

Then, she began...

The spiked rod was actually the lesser of two evils, at least in the short term. Her one hand was pressing my face into the mattress. And condensed, where the sun has no right to shine, unless you're a filthy, devious little whore, I received my other punishment. Surely, on camera, for Ishmael's very own home collection.

I was willing to give you my body. My virginity. My soul if it would set me free for a time. And this is what I get in return? 

I don't know how many times Prue hit me with that thing, or if I stayed conscious the whole time, and what may have caused a break from reality—asphyxiation, bodily trauma, or mental dissociation. By the time she left, I was floating around in this blurry, shaky state of awareness, worried that if I moved, she'd come back, or I'd break in two.

Is this what he had in mind for me? Why didn't he just save himself all the trouble and beat me himself?

You fucking coward...

It could be minutes or hours that go by. I lose the ability to keep track or dig out any reason to care.

I'm about to check out, the only coping mechanism I have to offer myself. My attempt, however, is interrupted by a swish.

Something white slips beneath my door. It doesn't quite puncture my train of thought—just kill me now—but it puts a little dent in it. I find myself wiggling my toes and checking my ankles.

If I don't pass this first test, it doesn't matter what it is. I won't be able to get there.

Using my thigh muscles to bend my knees, it doesn't go well, but it goes. The bones and joints, from there and below, are responding to the stimuli.

Whatever. I call the test done before I should and slither from bed with my upper arm strength. I intend to figure out the rest along the way.

I have the envelope in hand before I know anything for sure. I won't put myself through any other trials unless I know what it says.   

I flip it over. The envelope itself has writing on it:

The power is out. Everything will be reset momentarily. You have about five minutes where you're not on camera. Go to the bathroom. Read this carefully. Tear it up and flush everything down the toilet once you've committed the steps to memory.

I guess I have to get up, and quickly at that. I've probably wasted three minutes just getting here.

I'm an athlete, I remind myself, preparing myself, with my arms, to get my wounded ass off the floor. I've been kicked, punched, slapped, dropped, over-extended, overworked, belittled. . .

Walk. It. Off. Just like you always have.

I push to my feet with a shriek. Something, I worry, they'll hear downstairs.

Then, like an old lady who could use a cane, I hobble the five steps to the bathroom.

Out of camera view, I plop onto the toilet with a cringe. It was too much weight, too fast, but I couldn't quite control the fall. I suppose I could say that about a lot of things.

I'm sweating now, and my heart rate is still racing toward a finish line that is lightyears away.

Planting my feet down so I don't topple toward another injury, I pull the note from the envelope. Even at first glance, I can tell it's not from Ishmael. The true style is probably disguised, but still, it comes across as feminine:

Hello Sam,

Don't eat or drink anything they give you today. Sorry to say, everything will be drugged. They don't want a fight, and that's exactly what you're going to give them.

This is your last day here. If you don't follow these instructions, your death will be slow and painful. It all begins at sundown.

A small group of us don't intend to let this happen. We need your help, though. There will be a formal dinner downstairs later. Listen for cues or assume it'll take place when the sun is setting. When it seems like it would be the most inconvenient for them, make as much noise as possible. Scream. Break things. None of it matters. Win or lose, you won't be returning.

If everything goes according to plan, the biggest man you have ever seen will be sent in to retrieve you. Fight back, but only within reason. Save your strength and have something sharp within reach. You'll know when it's time to use it.

Good luck.

The note is not signed.

By the second time I read it, it's through tears that finally take a hint and decide to fall.

It's the first time anyone has been fully honest with me. This alone is too good to be true.

Though I have no doubt about my fate here and the timeline, the rest could be a trick. Hope given. Hope taken away. Seems like something Ivy would do just to rub salt in a wound that's deadly already.

I wouldn't put it past her, or anyone else in this household, either. After the thong fiasco—and yes, I'm one hundred percent certain that I didn't leave it on or near anyone's pillow—it's obvious that my undoing is a conspiracy. A sinister game to more than just Ivy, and it's one I'm obviously set up to lose.   

Even if the note is genuine, it's still heartbreaking. Save my strength? After getting beaten to a pulp and not eating or drinking anything all day? It's a miscalculation that could get this team killed along with me.

It's all a lot to bear. I read the note until I'm sure I could recreate it, pretty much word for word, and send the tiny bits down the toilet, as told, but then I break down to a depth I never have before.

It's outright ugly. Once everything is shed—all water, the remnants of last night's dinner, and then the lining of my stomach, and, of course, blood, where it shouldn't be—the emptiness brings clarity. There are only two options—live or die. And despite it all, the choice is a simple one.

Live.

Doing nothing means I'm dead, so the note wins. There's no guarantee that it's real or will work, but it gives me some odds to play. Even if it's a fraud, well . . . at least I'll be the source of some serious damage. I'll get to break things and stab someone perhaps. It'll probably be the only thing that's damn near satisfying in this whole experience. Worth it, even if I die.

I clean myself up and walk it off in precisely the direction of the camera. I smile for it. It'll be the first thing to go, and I can't wait.

***

How do I spend my afternoon?

In the black, lined robe and underwear the maid delivered, I've been pacing around gingerly, ignoring the tainted food, and compulsively checking the gray tint of the sky.

It feels better than sitting. Lying down, only on my stomach—all I can probably manage—seems like a PTSD nightmare waiting to happen.

So, pacing it is...

My thigh is still sore, probably from last night. My backside is still throbbing, and the swelling is something fierce. My lower back has been an on-and-off mess since my cheerleading mishap. Though it somehow avoided a direct hit, the rod was certainly no remedy.

I've learned that I can support my full weight on both legs, and one leg at a time. It just takes deep breaths and intense focus. Other than that, I'm good to go.

Yeah, right...

Ignoring that cynical voice of reason, I keep at it and listen for those cues. Cars arrive. The activity downstairs is a distant but constant hum and rumble, more than usual for this time of day.

There is no sun this afternoon. It's one gray, ominous cloud after another, at a speed that seems in-sync with the howling wind. Something to look forward to.

The robe I'm wearing is the best article of clothing they've given me yet. That alone is telling, even if the note never came. I'm dressed to impress, modestly and with easy access, despite the triple knot around the waist that I keep fiddling with. The length and thickness suggest that I'll be relocated outside somewhere, and they're at least pretending to care about my overall wellbeing.

I applaud their theatrics. My mind is pretty busy, but time is also dragging, so there is ample opportunity to reflect on things that shouldn't concern me. Who is downstairs? And why are the Fowlers trying so hard to impress them?

As the minutes wear on, the notion gets buried by heavier stuff. I think it's almost time...

I'm certainly no astronomer, but it appears, despite the cloud cover, that daylight is waning. The din of kitchen clatter escalates and then stabilizes. When I start hearing the scrape of chairs and the ting of silverware, I head to the bathroom.

From beneath the tub, I collect my stash of "weapons"—a fork, rusty nail, and a cracked tile. I surprisingly have pockets and underwear. The good fortune seems wildly disproportionate to the crappy hand I've been dealt, every freaking round, but I have to trust that my luck will hold and improve from here.

It has to, or I'll be dead. 

With the fork and nail in the left and right pockets, respectively, and the tile in my underwear, I pick up the toilet tank lid and carry it to the camera. On my tiptoes, I'll just be able to reach it with the end of the porcelain.

"You like to watch, you sick bastard?" I shout at it. "Do you know what I think of that?"

Smash. In one swing, the lens shatters. In a few more, I've dislodged it from its mount on the wall.

Setting the tank lid against the cot, I pick up the camera, unhook the cables, and throw it at the window. It shatters on the first try.

I've daydreamed of this moment before. It was always possible, but there would have been consequences. A camera they'd replace within hours, a window they wouldn't fix, a thrashing for the trouble, perhaps even more obscene and sadistic than the one earlier. Now, there's the possibility of a reward—freedom. If that falls though, I'll piss them off and cost them money, and that's a consolation prize I'll cherish, even from the grave.

I pocket the most lethal pieces of glass and keep going, knocking the shards from the window frame. Then I remove the curtain rod. It's a heavy old thing, and I bring it to the wall, and start swinging. The walls are solid too, but with hatred and hope fueling my rage, I'm able to make a few holes.

Moving to the dresser I never had much of a reason to use, I pull out both drawers and throw them around until they splinter . . . until they cause damage of their own...

I move to the cot, flipping the whole thing over. It lands with a crash that loosens debris from the damaged walls. Next, I bring the thin, disgusting mattress to the broken window, squeeze it through the jagged gap, and let her fly...

It's all a waste of my precious strength, but it feels so good.

Before long, though, my adrenaline rush fizzles out. There's just pain, from my temples to my shins, and cresting in the middle. I'm not even sure I got the job done. No one seems to be coming to "teach me a lesson."

Pushing through the dire need to collapse, I take a few more swings with the curtain rod. I move on to the doorknob. The likelihood I'll knock it off is nil, but it does make a lot of noise.

Sure enough, there's an upward trudge in my direction, loud from the first step—the echo to my efforts.

Is this the monster the mystery writer brought to my attention?

Considering the power and hostility of each thump, it's hard to say I hope so.

It obviously isn't Ishmael, who I'd unlikely hear at all. I consider this good news, but...

The "man" steps into the hall before me. His feet block nearly half of the door crack. The keys jangle for a small forever. Through it all, I can hear his wheezing grunt. He sounds like a bull about to charge.

I withdraw to the wall and brace myself.

The lock clicks open. The door drifts inward with a creak. Mr. Goliath has to duck to fit through the doorframe. A boot comes into view. I could, no lie, probably sit in it. And the creak of the wood is almost painful to listen to. I'm legitimately concerned about the integrity of the floor. 

If this is the "plan," I'd hate to see "the backup."

There probably isn't one. This is "it."