The door was the first thing he tried. Cushioned and gold rimmed with no knob, it held firm as an iron gate to all attempts to open. There were no windows in the room, just the opulence of unrecognisable paintings and velvet patterned wallpaper. A door-less arch led to a small bathroom, white and pristine. A bed, too wide for him alone.
The scent in the air had been with him since he awoke and hadn't lost its potency. Sweet, like flowers, a variety he hadn't the knowledge to place. The perfume of a woman he might have once walked by, feminine and full of allure.
The only true unease he felt was for the evidential fact that he wasn't panicking. Here he was, in a room he didn't recognise, obviously not free to leave, and with no memory. Still, he stepped calmly across the wooden floor, barefoot but satisfyingly warm, exploring his surroundings with dulled curiosity. Examining two distant figures in some classical painting, he idly questioned if this was a cell. Had he been kidnapped? This wasn't a basement or cellar, no bare light bulbs or cold concrete floors or binding.
Despite the protests of the logical parts of his thinking, he was comfortable here. Sitting down on the bed, he waited for the anxiety to crest and overpower the intoxicating atmosphere. He was still waiting when he realised he was now lying back, his arms spread and fingers caressing the sheets. Staring dreamily at the ceiling, the only alarm came from the sudden sound behind him. A voice from somewhere in the wall.
'Is there any body there?'
He sprang from the bed, feeling the first jolt of adrenaline since he awoke. He turned to the wall, pausing to discern where the voice had came from. No holes or speakers or vents he could see. He stepped closer and, gazing vaguely into the floral texture of the wallpaper, offered a reply. 'I'm here.'
He had heard a woman's voice; somewhat muffled, but clear enough. High and cautious, but not infused with any noticeable distress. This changed following his brief reply.
There was a pause before he heard the voice again. This time, it was intoned with obvious concern.
'Where have you taken me?'
He wasn't prepared for the question. He'd thus far thought of himself as a victim of some kind, even if his senses hadn't quite been on the same wavelength. His thoughts stumbled to object to the idea of being this woman's jailer. His memory may have been a blank, but he knew he wasn't that.
'I woke up in this room. I don't understand what's happening. I don't think I can get out.'
Another pause, longer this time.
'I don't understand what's happening either. I woke up here, and...' Faintly, he was sure he heard her breath, deep with exasperation. 'It's like a room in a mansion. The door won't budge. This is fucked up. Isn't it?'
'Yeah.' He once again took in his environment. A long, deep breath and he said, 'I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I feel like I should be tearing the door down, shouting, something. My head's kind of in a haze.'
The pauses were becoming an accepted part of the conversation. His thoughts weren't gathering easily and he wondered if the same thing was happening behind the wall.
'We've got to do something. I mean, haven't we?' She sounded unsure. It was clearly a question rather than a statement.
'Yeah.' He was locked again in a daze, now with his face almost pressed against the wall, closely examining the velvet fibres. He blinked hard and deliberate. 'Yes. Yes! I'll try the door again. Are there any windows or vents on your side? Anything?'
'No. Maybe?' Her voice drifted away. She said something further, but he couldn't make out what.
The door showed no signs of relenting as he pushed, then pounded with his shoulder. The force was impeccably cushioned; he could do this all day and neither the door nor him would suffer. There wasn't anything to grip, to pull. Scanning the room, he searched for a suitable tool to help pry it open. The room - his cell - wasn't a place of function. It was comfort. Decadence. The bathroom may have housed something useful, something makeshift. He was beneath the open arch when he heard a click. The sound of a lock, unlocked.
She hunted for an escape, fingering the frames of paintings and halting, breathless, to test the air for a draft, a noise, some kink in the atmosphere. On hands and knees, she peered underneath the bed. It was immaculately clean, not even a trace of dust, and nothing to see but the other side of the room. She had expected to find a letter, maybe a cassette or videotape or whatever it is serial killers use these days to inform their victims that they are, in fact, fucked.
Already defeated, she climbed onto the bed and tucked her knees to her chest. If there was a way out, the man on the other side of the wall would surely find it. For a moment, she simply closed her eyes and inhaled more of the scent that permeated the air. Her head rested back against the cool metal of the headboard; befittingly ornate, probably made of a precious metal and worth more than her car, if she had owned a car, or had an apartment, or family...
She thought of men. And the gym. The fragrance reminded her of strength and virility. Men sweating and exerting themselves to look better, be better. Wanting to be admired, hungered for... touched.
Her eyes opened only for the sharp, metallic click which came from the door. She braced herself for further sounds and the possibility of it creaking open to reveal something she didn't want to see. They, it, whatever - she had nowhere to hide and nothing to defend herself with if her assailant made an appearance. Seconds passed and she realised she could have been under the bed by now, but did she really want to be? Cowering and no safer than if she stood with arms aloft, offering herself freely.
'Hey!'
