Uncovering You: The Contract

Chapter Twelve

(Present day)

Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve spent like this.

I have not felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair for half a month. I have not seen another human being or heard any voice but my own for fourteen endlessly long days and nights.

Sometimes, I sing to myself, just to break the oppressing silence. It is quite likely I am going insane.

Every day since the promise of twenty-four inches I have woken to a freshly-stocked tray of food. I receive my daily allotment of eggs, toast, and celery, too. I eat that on the far side of the pillar to temper temptation.

My body is shriveling up. I am always cold. The smallest movement is a burden. I reek.

At this point, I am starting to doubt the wisdom of my resolve. The battle that goes on deep inside my mind is one of my own making. The clarity of purpose required to resist is becoming muddy.

If I sign the contract, I sign my life away. But, if I do nothing, am I not giving my life away, too?

I am so lonely. My only friend is the crater in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, at least, lets me know I’m still alive.

What a sad existence this is. Grime and sweat is caked upon me like a second skin. Sometimes, I crawl to the edge of the border and stare at the food. If I stretch out my hand, I can almost touch it.

The only thing standing between me and it is that one piece of paper.

One little piece of paper, requiring one little signature.

Is this what a prisoner of war feels like? Is this the same sense of hopelessness that rules the lives of those at Guantanamo Bay?

Or, is this something much worse?

My stubborn refusal to wield a pen is killing me. I must have fantasized about what I might do a thousand times:

I scratch my signature on the paper. The lights come on. My captor reveals himself, and congratulates me for accepting fate. In my mind, he has no face. The range of the collar is extended. I get my food, and then—

No.

The idea of being someone else’s property, someone else’s pet, and continuing to wear this horrible collar is nauseating. It is the sticking point that my conscience cannot overcome. I will not serve as the passive vessel to the perverted fantasies of some sick freak.

It is quite ironic. The collar is the object that keeps me bound. But, were it not for the collar, I am certain that I would have signed the contract days ago.

A sharp stab of hunger pulses through my body, triggered by one unintentional breath drawn through my nose. I shiver and hold myself tight.

How much longer can I resist? My blood sugar is dangerously low. The slightest movement leaves me desperately dizzy.

I close my eyes and think back to the circumstances that brought me to California in the first place….