I Don't Belong Here

I was scared. So scared. Terrified.

It was so dark in the trunk, and the darkness swallowed me whole like a giant monster. The only sounds I heard were the tires on the road, the engine, and my ragged breathing.

I touched my head again, where my kidnapper had slammed it against the car window and made me see sparks. The pain told me that I was alive, and I wanted to stay that way.

I would not become one of the ghosts. I just had to think of plan B. My handbag was not with me – it had my phone inside.

I turned so that I was facing the back of the car seats. Through a tiny crack between them, I had a view of the car’s interior where I glimpsed a piece of pink material to my right. Was that my handbag?

I pushed my fingers into the crack, but I could not fit my hand through. It hurt, but I did not stop pushing. My life depended on my phone. My fingertip brushed against the side of my handbag. I almost cried out in frustration.

I shoved against the car seats, but they would not budge. I tried to kick the inside of the trunk, but could not escape. I kicked, and kicked hard, my strikes accurate at first.

As my fear grew and my hope shrank, my kicks became frantic and aimless. Then I kicked the back light. It buckled.

I recalled reading somewhere that the lights could be kicked out so that victims of a kidnapping would stand a better chance of being seen. How had I forgotten about that?

I braced myself and kicked again—hard and on the right spot. The car’s back light fell out.

I peered out at the road but couldn’t see houses or cars. We were in a rural area. Was there anyone who could save me?

I stuck my hand out of the opening and waved it around. I tried to stay positive and tell myself that someone would see it.

And someone did.