pears into the variegated crowd of people; a massive, intense crowd of people they are.
I’ m washing my hands. I squeeze some blue soap on my palms. They feel strangely too cold and too real. But who cares, I have to get back into the dreamland fast. I quickly rub them together and rinse them off under the sink. Blackout.
How did I get knocked out while washing my hands? I try to find traces. What have I been missing? I try to go back. No, it doesn’ t ring a bell. Oh wait, maybe it’ s her. She’ s faded and cloudy but she’ s there.
A stranger— a total, complete stranger— had been in all the places I was. Behind, in front, far away, everywhere in my memory of scenes. She had followed me all throughout. She followed me to the toilet, went in as I went in, and washed her hands as I washed mine next to her. She smelled like lilac and cigarettes. She moved in a gingerly manner, I had simply thought she had OCD. But there was something eerie about her.
Now that I’ m thinking about it, I can remember her clearly from the pool of crowd: thick red scarf covering her mouth and jaw, oversized sunglasses, and a sunhat on a cold, winter day. I didn’ t think it strange at the time, but now looking back, I wonder why I didn’ t think so: she had such an unordinary, distinct look. Then, I remember, a foray. A quick, sudden attack. Struggling in the snare of exceedingly strong, metallic arms, a glimpse of white and red, then flash of black.
Suddenly, I realize that this stuffy taste of crude peppermint in my mouth must be: Chloroform.
Now a few things I understand from this trip down the memory: somebody wanted to kidnap me on purpose. Somebody with a red scarf on. Somebody with strong arms and a scent of lilac and cigarette. They locked me up in this room— probably to take me into custody and to use me to get money off my dad. They won’ t give me food or water; they probably won’ t care if I die. Someone knows who I am and what I can do. Someone knows who my dad is.
Someone knows that I’ m the one and only daughter of a former Hollywood star. A star who has fallen due to gambling and drugs, yet one who still has three resorts, four houses, a vast amount of fortune, and a daughter and a son. A star who could easily afford a lifetime of wealth for anyone, if he wanted to.
So it’ s likely that I won’ t be able to get out of this room for free. They could charge at least ten million dollars, maybe more. Perhaps I would be found too late, stale cold and dead. I see no way out; I see no way in. No way to survive for more than a day. I can’ t do anything in this room but to sit and face the morbid facts unless something happens. Long after the sound of gushing wind reaches an even rhythm, I lie awake, trying to think of a way out.
51
If only I could call someone. If only the window was low enough. If only there were doors. If only I didn’ t have to go to the toilet. If only my dad wasn’ t famous. If only I didn’ t leave home today. If only I hadn’ t gone to Disneyland. If only it wasn’ t Christmas.