My father just HAD to be rich and influential, didn't he? He just HAD to have a daughter who would grow up in his shadow, never seen as anything more than an avenue to get to him. I just HAD to be that daughter...
I think about this often. Sometimes I think about it when I'm just out in public and people treat me like royalty in an attempt to get me to put in a good word to my dad. Sometimes I think about it when I'm going to sleep, or trying to go to sleep as five different bodyguards come in to check on me.
And sometimes I think about it when I'm tied to a chair in a basement in who-knows-fucking-where, like right now.
I woke up here.
I vaguely remember the bodyguard who raised a 2×4 piece of wood over my head and brought it down with alarming force while I was laying down in bed. But that's the last thing I remember.
I wonder if he thought he was killing me, or if he knew just the right amount of force to knock a nineteen year old girl out?
I suppose I should be asking more important questions like WHY one of my own bodyguards hired by my father would do this to me. But the truth is, I didn't care. These are the types of things I had nightmares and paranoid ideas about all my life. This was gonna happen eventually. I'm not really sure why it was happening NOW, but I guess maybe I'd find that out.
Maybe my dad fucked someone over like he explained to me he 'had to do sometimes'. At this point all I could do was speculate, because here alone in this musty room which I assumed was a basement because of the two sets of steps leading upwards, no one was gonna explain anything to me.
My hands were bound with something I couldn't quite place, but it wasn't rope or something cliché like that that you see in the movies. They were tied with whatever it was behind me in between the supports of the chair. My legs were bound and tied as well to the bottom support.
I was still wearing the small white shirt and pink satin pajama pants that I was wearing when I was in bed, back home. My butt was already cold; whatever this chair was made of, it was sturdy and freezing.
After a few moments of the inevitable struggle coupled with the unrealistic instinct that one could escape, I discovered my range of movement was sparse. I could slightly move my hands as one unit behind me, couldn't move my legs at all, and I could- if I wanted- get a metallic burn on my ass from shifting back and forth on the seat of the chair. My feet were also cold, since they were bare and resting on the concrete floor.
Oddly enough, my mouth wasn't gagged or anything like that that you'd expect in this type of scenario. I guess I almost anticipated it would be, because I had made no attempt in the last several minutes to talk. And why would I? No one was here to talk to.
"HELLLLLLLP!" I shouted, by obligation. I didn't think any 'help' would come, but it seemed the right thing to do in a time like this.
Wouldn't you know it - none did.
I tried to turn my head to see what was binding my hands. In the scant lighting the room provided, all I could tell was that it had a shine to it. Was it metal of some kind? If only I were an owl, I could turn my head all the way around and see. Or that possessed girl from the Exorcist.
I tried, but the laws of anatomy stayed the same, and I was unable to get a good look at what it was. So I looked back straight ahead and surveyed the room more.
The lighting - provided by a single dim fluorescent bulb in the center of the ceiling - didn't reveal much. I could see what might be a bench or a table directly in front of me, the stairs were on my left side, and to the right... a toilet.
