I don’t know where I am. The air smells sickly-sweet, a scent that reminds me of bubblegum but not quite. It’s unsettling. My mouth is dry, my lips sticking to each other as if they’re trying to retain whatever moisture I have left. I’m lying on something soft, yet I ache all over with every small movement I make.

I have to open my eyes. I know I do.

The last thing I remember is being in a field with the sun scorching my back. In the distance, I could see the city, but it seemed forever out of my reach. I was alone. Free, outside at last, but without anyone there to guide me.

‘You’re safest with me, pumpkin. The world will only hurt you. You know that.’ My father’s voice in my head is loud, as always.

My eyes shoot open as I remember more.

He’s dead. I escaped a shootout. The safe place suddenly wasn’t safe. So I ran and ran and ran until I couldn’t run anymore. There’s a gaping hole in my memory—the room I’m in right now couldn’t be further from the place I was last conscious.

I push through the physical discomfort and sit up, scanning my surroundings. The walls and ceiling are cream and covered in rainbows of polka dots. I run my hand across the soft bedsheets. The single bed is bright pink with a panda headboard. A pillow in the shape of a koala lies smushed where my head was just seconds ago. A child’s room?

I swing my legs off the bed and stand up. Swaying on my feet, I take a few steps forward to examine the free-standing shelf unit in the corner, full of colorful stuffed animals.

“Hello?” The word comes out like a whisper. My voice is so hoarse.

I turn around, trying to keep steady as the room wobbles with each move of my head. There is a desk in the opposite corner and unless I’m dreaming, a glass of water is waiting for me on top of the sleek white surface. I run toward it, pushing a small pink swivel chair aside, and gulp the liquid like my life depends on it. I guess it does.

I slam the emptied glass on the desk, gasping and ready for more. But there isn’t anything else to eat or drink. I pull the desk drawers open one by one, hoping to find a snack, but there are only coloring books and pencils.

Fuck this. I’m out of here.

I cross the room in three fast strides, feeling more like myself and unwilling to entertain this strangeness anymore. I press the handle and pull, ready to face whatever or whoever is on the other side.

The door doesn’t budge, so I press and push instead. My heart rate climbs up, but I refuse to panic. The water sloshes in my belly as I go all out on the door and waggle the handle like a madman. It rattles but doesn’t open. It’s obviously locked, though the lock is not as sophisticated as what we had at the safe house. I press my back to the door and slide down. What the fuck is this? Is this the reality of the outside world? Am I being punished for escaping safety? Or is this some kind of sick joke by whoever killed my father?

The cute room turns creepy as I look at all the colorful furniture with new eyes. Everything in here screams joy and playfulness, but there’s no fucking way I will feel any of that while I’m locked in like a prisoner.

Anger mixes with fear as my mouth fills with saliva. I scramble across the floor on all fours until I reach a waste bin under the desk and spit inside, knowing full well that if I don’t, I will vomit the water I just downed. I take deep breaths, shaking on the floor like a leaf. What do I do? I’ve never in my life felt so alone. Dad was always there. I always thought I had to get away from him, but now that I know he’s never coming back, I don’t know what to do. How to act, how to process.

My stomach twists painfully and I hug the bin to my chest, keeping unshed tears at bay. I can’t cry. I’m already dehydrated. Also crying doesn’t solve anything. I learned that early.

With nothing else to do, I look around again. There is a nightstand I haven’t explored and small windows half-hidden behind rainbow-striped curtains. I get up on shaky legs, hope propelling me forward. Maybe I can escape through a window.

As I peer outside, the kernel of hope within me shrivels and dies. I see the city skyline, the beautiful blue sky, and the blinding sun. I’m so high that if I jumped, I would be nothing but a pavement pancake. It’s one kind of escape, I guess, but I don’t want to die. I look at the bizarre shelves full of stuffies again. Maybe I’m already dead? No, the pain is too real. The fear is too close to the surface. Dying surely is more peaceful.

There is a plastic blob in the shape of a fat kitty on the nightstand and before I can check the rising rage within, I grab it and throw it at the door, nearly dislocating my elbow from the exertion.

Why the fuck is this happening to me?

The fat cat bounces off with a clunk and rolls down the floor, soft light emanating from inside. So it’s a lamp. An unbreakable lamp. Great.

But it felt nice to toss, so I drag the desk drawers open and throw all the pencils and books to the floor in a frenzy. I kick the chair away from me, stubbing my big toe.

Where the fuck are my shoes?

I take the chair and throw it at the door, my rage making every color in the room fade to an angry shade of red.

“H-hello?” A cracking voice comes from the middle of the shelving unit and I freeze in place, listening in.

“Hello?” I respond, my words coming out smoother than last time but now shaky as I can’t keep my voice from trembling.

“Please don’t destroy our room,” the shelf responds in a feminine voice.

I take two tentative steps, trying to figure out which creepy stuffie is speaking.

“Where am I?” I ask, determined to keep it talking.

“Safe.”

As the response comes, I spot a small pale blue plastic ball in the shape of the moon. I pick it up and turn it around in my hand. One of the craters is a camera, and a myriad of other ones are the speaker holes. I’m sure there’s a mic in there too.

“Let me go or I’ll break this,” I say between gritted teeth and squeeze. It’s a fucking baby monitor. For me, a nineteen-year-old.

The whole room makes me feel sick as I remember my father’s warning about perverts.

“You’re a girl, and men will want many things from you. Whatever you do, you shouldn’t allow them to touch you. Don’t ever let them close. Because they’re all predators.”

“Even you?” I remember asking.

“Not me. I’m your protector. While I’m near you, no one can hurt you. I’m telling you this if there ever comes a time that I’m not with you.”

Well, Dad, you’re dead and I’m alone now. In a fucking creepy room, speaking to a plastic moon.

“Let me out!” I shout into it after my previous threat gets no response.

I wait a few seconds, then clench my jaw and raise my arm. With a white-knuckled grip on the monitor, I take aim.

Whoever is on the other side doesn’t get to see and hear me. They have to open the fucking door to check on me. And that’s when I will make my escape.

I take the stance my father taught me when we played catch and throw the moon straight at the window.

I won’t fly, but it will.