The Girl in The Window

Two months, four days, seventeen hours and forty minutes. That’s how long I’ve been here, closed into a room, sitting by the window.

People pass below. The neighbor comes out everyday to walk his golden retriever. He always makes a point to stop, shield his eyes, look up, and wave.

I don’t wave back.

I get no help here. I get a measly amount of company. Most of it being the ones who grabbed me, threw a bag over my head and made me disappear.

I don’t fight back.

Fighting back makes it worse. I already sit in the window with scratches and cuts striping my arms. I wonder how the neighbor sees me, but not my troubles?

I stopped wondering after awhile.

Food is pushed under the door. A well stocked bathroom is connected to the bedroom. I must say, I’m pretty well taken care of. I get showers, I have anything a girl would need.

They make sure.

Sleep comes slowly. I lie away listening to the chime of the grandfather clock, three or two stories down. When that clock chimes, I count my next day.

Days race by slowly, when you’re the Girl in the Window. I’ve come to accept that.

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