Trapped in Paradise

Chapter Two

Grace wakes up slowly. Her mind is groggy, encased in cotton wool, and her whole body feels heavy. It's not an uncomfortable or painful feeling, it's more that she's simply not aware of anything other than a slither of consciousness.

Even as memories begin to trickle in from the uneventful hours in the library to the consequent hours in the van, she still remains unresponsive. She barely has the mind to truly understand that she's likely been heavily dosed with some kind of sedative.

As her senses filter back, she becomes aware of a gentle glow of light beside her head. Beneath her is something soft and silky. It wasn't unlike sleeping on a cloud, except she felt comfortably warm. Somewhere close by, she hears classical music drifting on the sleepy haze. Everything is dream-like, and she can't get her head around it.

Hasn't she been kidnapped? Isn't she supposed to be locked in a damp concrete room, left to shiver in a dark, oppressive silence? Shouldn't she be in pain, at least?

But it's almost as though she's simply relocated. As if she wasn't dragged from the street and forced into a van, but rather willingly moved from her god-awful state home into a place with a damn four poster bed.

And hell, the place was crazy comfortable and warm and she felt safe, which was ridiculous.

"Hello?"

Her voice is croaky, and her mouth is drier than paper. She tries to figure out how long she has been asleep for, but she's never had the best internal clock, especially while sleeping. That's why she can sometimes study for five hours straight and have no sense of the time moving steadily onwards.

She's still barely conscious, but she's gripping the edges of being cognisant with all the strength she has. The effort makes it harder for any attempt to go into fathoming the danger she's in. Because surely she's in danger? Even if they don't intend to kill her, she likely won't come out of this unscathed.

"Hello?" she tries again, louder this time. "Anyone there?"

Still, nothing and Grace isn't entirely sure that anyone will come. Maybe they've given her a room and plan to simply leave her there to succumb to dehydration and starvation.

Fighting nausea that encases her with increasing strength from every movement, Grace struggles to sit upright. Her vision swims, the drugs evidently still running rampage in her system. She tries to take in the room, to find something indicative of the reason she's there.

The walls are beige, but they appear more orange from the lampshade. The hardwood floors look shiny and clean, and beneath the bed lays a soft, light brown rug. There's a bookshelf next an oak door, and an empty desk next to the other. Grace itches to test them out, but there is no way she could get out bed now. Not without passing out or throwing up everywhere.

She settles for merely observing the room now: she can inspect every inch once she's well enough to stand up. There are no windows, no clocks, no way to find out if it's daytime or nighttime. It's weird, feeling like she's being held captive by time.

Because of this, she's not sure how long it takes for her head to clear enough for her to climb from the bed. Her feet touch the plush rug beneath her, and it feels good, but she ignores it. Luxurious as this room may appear, it's probably a prison. She was taken from her life and brought here against her will.

Standing up slowly, Grace is able to stave off the worst of the dizziness. She stays still for a moment and then takes a tentative step forward. She doesn't throw up, and she counts that as a win. She takes another step, and then another. Her bare feet find the cold hard wooden floors, and she looks around again.

First, she needs to test the doors. One of them has to lead outside. She's confident they're locked, but she won't be foolish enough to just not try.

The first one she opens leads to a large bathroom. Bigger than her shared room in the state home. There's a large circular bathtub with jets on the bottom. She's never been in a jacuzzi before. Not that it matters, because she won't use that. The porcelain white toilet and sink are on the opposite of the room, and there is a small glass cabinet with everything she could ever imagine needing. She turns away from it, because they've obviously stocked for a long-term visit, and she doesn't intend to use any of it.

She tries the next door, and she's unsurprised to find that it doesn't budge. She bangs on it a few times, but no one shows up.

She kicks the door, not that it makes her feel much better. She leans against the wall, breathing steadily. She learnt in biology about the fight or flight response, but what is she supposed to do when neither option is available? Panic? Cry? Pray to be rescued?

She cancels that thought immediately before she becomes slightly attached to it. No one will rescue her. Just as no one will notice she's missing, similarly, no one will care if they discover she is. She's not going to be rescued by a loving parent, a best friend or a caring teacher. She has none of those. Which means that as long as her kidnapper wants her, she'll be stuck. She can't imagine being able to overpower anyone, so fighting, while she's not writing it off, isn't exactly a viable option.

And that line of thought is so unlike her. She's never been one to give up so easily. She's worked harder than anyone she knows, studying longer than anyone else in the school, taking up as many extra hours as she can at the coffee shop, struggling to save and get into university. She's never given up on anything, that's how she's managed to get so far and jump ahead of her peers.

But she feels suddenly helpless. Vulnerable. She hates this, and yet, what is she supposed to do?

Grace is ready is crawl under the bed and sob when suddenly, there's a knock on the door.

"Miss Grace," a British voice calls genially. "Your gracious host has requested your presence."