Editor's note: this story contains mentions of extreme sexual violence.
Where was she?
Angelina Carter blinked her eyes, feeling as if she'd gone blind. It was pitch black, wherever she was. She lifted her hand in front of her eyes, waving it in front of her face. It was so dark she couldn't even see her hand, though she could feel the slight breeze it created against her cheeks in the fetid air surrounding her.
Putting out her hand she was amazed to find something solid swathed in fabric only a few inches above her face. Following the satiny soft material she found, she felt where it met another hard surface about six inches above her head. Putting her hands out had her knowing she was completely enclosed, as did kicking her feet against the bottom of the box she was in.
She felt panic trying to sweep over her and a swelling of claustrophobic fear so fierce, to give in to it would paralyze her. Turning her head as if she could see her prison, she could feel a satiny pillow under her cheek, the sweat on her face soaking into the fabric.
Then it hit her. The wooden sides, the soft cushioned padding, the satiny pillow under her head, she was in a coffin. Oh God, had someone buried her alive?
Screams pushed at her lips wanting to come out, and her body longed to fight, to kick out at the confining wood, to find some way to break out of this trap, but she refused to panic. She was a doctor, an emergency room doctor; she was used to intense situations. She just had to think, so she could find her way out.
Struggling against the rising panic, she thought back. She remembered being at the hospital. It'd been a long day, a double shift for her and she wanted nothing more than to go home, shower, grab a bowl of soup and find her bed, in that order. She had walked out of the ten-story hospital building, crossing the brightly lit parking lot while fumbling in her purse for her keys.
Her car was in the doctor's lot, not far from the hospital's main doors. A security car patrolled all the lots, twenty-four hours a day since a nurse had been raped a few years back. The lot was as safe as standing in her driveway, probably even safer.
She'd gone to her car, not even paying attention to the cars around her. A doctor's pass was needed to park in here. No one could get in without the
pass unless he wanted his tires punctured.
So what had happened? She went to her car and remembered setting her purse on the hood, scrounging through all the assorted necessities she carried in it, searching for her elusive keys. Had that been it? She had a foggy memory of a huge hand covered with a white cloth coming from behind her.
She was drugged!
Had they drugged her only to put her in a casket and bury her? That made no sense. It's not as if she had anyone willing to pay a ransom for her. She was nothing but an ER doc who made medium-sized bucks that helped to pay off the last of her mother's hospital bills.
She was alone; her mother had succumbed to cervical cancer two years before. Rosalie, her mother, was seventeen when she'd found herself pregnant, the father unwilling to take responsibility, left her to tell her family alone.
They'd kicked her out, wanting nothing to do with such a wicked and evil girl, nor the child she carried within her. But Rosalie wanted the baby. She'd wanted her with a determination that had her finding a job, getting a place to live and taking care of herself and her unborn child. When her pregnancy grew noticeable, she bought a cheap gold band and invented a deceased husband. Her child wouldn't be born with the stigma of being called a bastard, not if she could do anything about it.
Angel, as her mother called her, had been born two weeks early, coming on a windy, rainy Saturday afternoon. Her hair had been curled in tight little wet ringlets around her head, her face wrinkled and her eyes squinted shut as the doctor had held her up in his arms to show the new mother. Rosa had taken one look and had fallen in love.
She'd worked hard to give her daughter, her Angel, everything she needed and some of the things she'd wanted, having sometimes three jobs that she would run from, Angel in tow when necessary. When Angel had gone to school, her mother had worked as a waitress. Angel used to do her homework in a corner booth waiting for her mother to get off her shift.
But the three jobs and the amount of studying had paid her way through medical school, well, most of the way. She'd had to work also, especially when Rosa had gotten ill. Then there had been the round of hospital visits and chemo, treatments and rehab. But Rosa had refused to let Angel give up her dream of being a doctor, insisting she could manage on her own or with the help of old Mr. Templeton, their landlord.
She'd fought the cancer, even as it ate away at her. Day after day, she'd fought it. She'd beaten the odds the doctors had given her, managing to stay healthy enough to watch her daughter graduate and start her career. But it hadn't been long after that when she'd gotten too sick to stay alone anymore.
Three months after that, Rosa was dead. The only family Angelina had was gone. The woman who'd been her inspiration and her strength had died a painful, messy death.
Then there had been hospital bills and college loans to pay back, eating at every bit of the money that Angel pulled in. She was just, finally, able to put a little away. How could anyone ransom her?
Her stomach roiled at the heat of the enclosed place. Sweat trickled down her forehead and pooled to soak into the satin under her, making her even warmer. What she wouldn't give for a breeze of fresh, clean, cool air.
A thump outside the casket startled Angel. She pressed her ear against the side of the coffin, trying desperately to ignore the nausea that boiled gleefully in her stomach. She heard it again, clearer. It sounded as if someone was slamming doors.
Heavy footsteps sounded much too close for Angel's comfort, and she scooted to the middle of the coffin, closed her eyes lightly and deepened her breathing as if she were still unconscious.
The coffin moved a bit. Angel heard the sound of metal against metal and then felt the wonder of fresh air touching her cheeks as whoever lifted the lid over her head and chest. She didn't move, barely restraining the flinch as bright light blasted into the small space, hurting her eyes through the lids.
She felt eyes upon her, gazing at her as she lie there. Her scrubs were soaked with sweat and clung to her body. She felt a thrill of fear. Would she be raped? Were they going to kill her?
"Nice tryin', Doc, but I heard you banging around in here earlier," a voice said, well above her head. It was a deep voice with a hint of a southern accent, and maybe a touch of redneck as well.
Angel didn't move, not willing to quit playing possum so soon. But her eyes flew open and she scrambled away as a big palm suddenly grabbed her breast, squeezing the plump mound harshly.
"Ha!" He laughed. "I knew you was awake."
Angel stared up at the man who loomed above her. He was huge, his shoulders so wide they almost looked unnatural. He wore a suit stretched at the seams, the shirt unbuttoned around his massive neck. His face was the stuff of nightmares, scarred across one cheek that severed the muscles, causing one side of his face to seem as if it slid off his head.
His eyes were tiny, piggish and a dull brown, but they gleamed with humor as he stared at her.
"Come on, doc. The boss is real impatient, and he wants to talk to you." He reached out with one beefy hand and grabbed her arm, almost yanking it out of its socket as he dragged her over the edge of the coffin, letting her feet drop to the ground.
She swayed, his hand the only thing holding her upright, and her stomach flopped at the suddenness of the move. She raised her hand to her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose trying to stop the waves of nausea that made her feel as if she'd vomit.
"It's the drug, doc. I had to give you lots of it cuz you were a fighter. You'll be okay in a bit. But the boss, he ain't gonna want to wait for you." He turned her toward the door, half walking, half dragging her toward the exit of the room before she had a chance to see it.
She was left with the impression of white walls, a huge sink, and the big oak coffin she was trapped in lying in the center of the room on a rolling cart.
Then he pulled her through a plain wooden door and into a hallway that seemed almost sterile. White linoleum lined the floors, white paint on the walls, no paintings or pictures or even windows to be seen.
He directed her through another door, as Angel finally found her footing so she could walk beside him instead of being dragged. It didn't change the way he gripped her arm though, and she knew she'd have some pretty bruises when he finally let go. She didn't have much of a chance to look around because her captor pulled her to a stop in front of a set of double pocket doors made of heavy oak.
He dropped her arm, tugging down on his jacket as if worried about how he looked. Slicking down a lock of unruly, wiry, brown hair, he grabbed her arm once more, reaching out with his other hand to knock on the door.
There was no noise on the other side of the pocket doors, and for a moment, Angel wondered if her captor had the wrong door. But then she heard a murmur of a voice through the heavy oak, and he opened the door, pushing Angel into the room in front of him. He used enough force to trip her over her unsteady feet to falling onto her hands and knees.
Her hair came loose from the neat French braid she'd had when she'd walked out of the hospital, the silky strands falling around her face and hiding it from the men who stared down at her. It was deep red in color, coppery highlights shining in the depths of her locks as the light shone upon her. She managed to flip it back out of her way, glaring at the huge oaf who had tossed her to the floor so easily, shooting daggers at him from her emerald green eyes.
