Los Hijos de México

I awoke on a thin futon mattress lying on the hard floor, accompanied by an assortment of body aches that I tried to tell myself I was far too young to be experiencing.

Once again, I was in an interior room with no windows and a single door, but at least this time whoever my current captors were had left the lights on.

The room didn't contain much and what it did contain was incongruous. In addition to the futon, there was a plain wooden dresser that, with a little sanding and new coat of varnish, would actually be nicer than the new IKEA junk that I'd be able to afford whenever I got back to New York, assuming of course that I did get back to New York.

Anyway, the room also had a mirror, which upon further inspection, was flimsy plastic, presumably so that I couldn't break it and use the glass as a weapon; a bathtub, old and worn, with the once-white paint abraded away in places by long use; a toilet, which was similarly old, but recently cleaned, by the scent of chemicals wafting from it; a sink, again, old yet clean; a television that was probably a tenth the size of the one The Asshole had, but which I could probably have smashed to get the glass which they had taken steps to deny me with the mirror; and, incongruously, an old stationary bike and a brand new yoga mat presumably so that I could get exercise while remaining locked in this room.

One wall contained a door devoid of any knob or fittings, ensuring it couldn't be opened from inside, even if I somehow gained a key. The adjacent wall was bare, except for a small, rectangular slot about as thick as my arm and covered on the far side by a piece of wood. I presumed that it would be used to provide food without any chance of my escape.

All in all, it seemed that, whoever my captors were, they intended to keep me confined to the room for an extended period.