She finds food.

White bread, boiled chicken breast, and rice. That’s what sits on a tray in the cubbyhole beyond the hatch.

My stomach growls at the sight. I reach out, feeling the warmth of the chicken—it must have been cooked recently. I carefully place the tray on the bed, eyeing the cubbyhole’s interior.

The side walls are painted concrete, rough and unyielding, while the back is made of metal: clearly a second hatch. ‘No handle,’ I think with a sinking feeling. There’s no way to open it from this side, no immediate escape or solution.

I sigh and glance back at the meal. ‘Could be worse,’ I tell myself, trying to muster a bit of optimism.

Without any cutlery, I use my hands. I tear off a piece of bread, using it to scoop up the unseasoned white rice. The chicken is dry, the rice flavorless, but hunger drives me to finish everything. I find myself eating slowly—both due to the taste and simply to fill the time. I don’t know how often these meals will come, so I make sure not to waste a crumb.

Eventually, however, the meal is done. I place the tray back in the cubbyhole. For a moment I consider keeping the tray and leaving the hatch open. What would my captor do? Come through the door to take it? I don't imagine that annoying them would improve my situation—at least for now—and so I close the hatch. The little bulb once again turns off.

I find myself lying in bed singing to myself to pass the time. My own personal karaoke can only interest me for so long—even with all the hits: Queen, ABBA, the musical Hamilton...

I know I can't have been here for longer than a day: even without a clock, my body can tell me that much.

The camera has kept me from going to the bathroom until now. Wait, no—'using the bathroom' implies it was a room in and of itself. Instead there is just the toilet in the corner.

Finally I give in. My white sundress thankfully preserves most of my modesty as I lower the cotton panties to my ankles and sit. Relief falls over me as I hear the trickle become a stream, yet I can't help but avert my eyes from the black lens watching me from the corner.

'This is degrading.', I say out loud. 'Is this what you want, you fucking sickos?'

I imagine someone entering through that door any moment now. I see myself yelling with all my fury at them. Yet still: I receive no reply. Nothing to indicate I had been heard.

One would expect that when kept clueless and captive against their will, it would be impossible to calm down. I should be crying, or screaming, or punching the walls right about now. As it turns out: a situation becomes the status quo surprisingly quickly. Before I know it, days have passed. I sleep, am fed once a day, and I try desperately to fill long hours with dwindling entertainment.

I look at the floor, covered with mushy little figurines I made from toilet paper and water. I tried origami to no success. 'Maybe in a couple more weeks I'll manage it', I laugh to myself. Then I frown.

This was the first time I had imagined I wasn't getting out of here. How long did it take? Three days? Our internal clocks get out of sync without a reference point. Could I trust that food was delivered twenty-four hours apart? Maybe it was every thirty? There is no way of knowing.

What does the outside world think happened to me? Do the police know I'm missing? Does my family think I'm dead? Will I ever see them again...? I wipe a tear from my cheek. My studies are ruined, I miss my friends, and frankly... I'm starting to reek. I doubt they will be fitting a shower through that hatch any time soon, but some soap would be nice.

'Fuck!', I shout into the void. I could feel my sanity dripping away, bit by bit. I bet there will be an origami swan in this room two weeks from now, but I can't say for sure that the person making it would still be me.