Begin Transcription:


Day One



The woman holding me prisoner has commanded me to keep this journal. At first I refused on principle, but as there is little else to occupy me, and this record might prove useful to police and prosecutors when she is finally arrested and tried, I have decided to do so. I do not remember my name or how I came to be here. The mirror reveals me to be a man in his mid- to late-fifties, but my appearance provides few other clues to my identity. My only clothes are a hospital gown, though I do not think that I am in a hospital.

I woke up in this room about eight hours ago. There are no windows, so I do not know what time of day that was, much less the date, month, or year. The room is about 10 X 15 feet, with a high ceiling. A door off to one side leads into a bathroom with a working shower, sink (over which hangs the mirror in which I checked my reflection) and toilet. The only other door is made of steel and bolted from the outside. It has a small sliding trap, or pass-through, at the bottom.

The only furniture in the room is the bed on which I awoke, a table, and two chairs. A flat screen TV is embedded in one wall over the table, but there is no way of working it that I can see. One fluorescent light overhead provides illumination, but as with the TV, the room contains no switch for turning it on or off.

I would venture to guess that nothing like this has ever happened to me before, but I can’t really say for sure. I have absolutely no memory of my past. I have the vague sense that I am an American and that we are in the twenty-first century. Beyond that all the details get hazy.

When I first woke up I behaved as you might guess. I looked around like a scared rabbit, my heart racing, caught between confusion and panic. After a minute or so I began speaking nonsense to no one: “Hello? What’s happening? Where is this place? Wh….wh…how…why…”

Before I had gotten out of bed the steel door opened and she walked in. I guess you would have to call her attractive, though she is far from Hollywood perfection. Blond hair, striking green eyes. A pretty face and a shapely figure. But she is not runway-model-tall, and she is beginning to show her age (somewhere in her late 40’s or early 50’s- it is hard to tell). She was wearing a white silk nightie cut short to reveal her bare legs, under a see-through floor-length white lace robe. The stiletto heels on her white patent-leather shoes clicked audibly as she entered the room.

“Who are you? Where am I?” I asked.

“I am the Goddess Marquesa,” she answered, smiling, “and this is my house.”

“What am I doing here?” Even in my eagerness to orient myself, I was struck by her voice, which sounded eerily familiar.

She laughed softly. “I can’t tell you that just yet,” she replied. “Know only that you are in no danger. This is a friendly place. ” While she spoke she crossed the floor and procured one of the chairs. Turning it away from the table, she pointed it toward my bed and sat down, facing me cross-legged, her hands folded business-like upon her knee.

“Why can’t I remember who I am?” I inquired, fully aware of how strange the question was even as I spoke it aloud.

“I am a hypnotist. An erotic hypnotist, to be exact. I did that to you,” she said, nonchalantly.

This struck me as rather implausible, and I was momentarily inclined to say as much, but refrained on realizing the irony. Instead, I asked the next natural question: “Why?”

Another soft laugh, “That I also can’t say. I will only assure you that I haven’t done it on my own initiative. I am working on someone else’s orders.”

“Who told you to do this to me?” I asked, my voice becoming strident.

“You’ll find out when the time comes,” she replied enigmatically. “Meanwhile have no fear. Relax and enjoy your stay here.”

“How long will that be?”

“It is hard to say. When I see that you are ready I will release you.”

This angered me. “Release me? What gives you the right to hold me prisoner?” My face must have become red, because I could feel the blood rushing to it.

“Calm down,” she said in a tone that was relaxed and friendly. “Whether or not I have a right to hold you here, it is happening, and you are powerless to do anything about it. You might as well try to make the best of the situation. Many, many men would envy your good fortune.” At this last she flexed her leg to call attention to its alluring shape.

Her warmth and flirtatiousness did nothing to calm me down. Quite the contrary. I rose from the bed and advanced upon her, hands raised and clenching into fists. But I did not advance more than three steps before I froze in my tracks, suddenly paralyzed. My mind willed myself to walk forward but my body would not obey. I stood like a statue, trembling with impotent rage.

The woman who calls herself Goddess Marquesa laughed again. “Silly pet. If I was able to wipe out your memory of your very identity, did you think that I would leave you the capacity to assault me?” she asked. Rising from the chair, she walked directly in front of me, so that her face was inches from mine, her green eyes engulfing my gaze. “You are totally in my power,” she whispered, her breath brushing my lips with each word. “The sooner you accept that, the better off you will be.”

I could not form a coherent sentence to answer her, but sputtered furiously, trying to break her spell for another full minute. Sweat broke out on my brow; the muscles in my neck became painfully taut. All that time she remained completely relaxed, hovering inches from my nose, peering at me through half closed lids with a languid smile that projected a mixture of amusement and pity. Finally I gave up and, stumbling backwards, collapsed onto the bed.

“My post-hypnotic conditioning is much too powerful,” she explained. “You won’t be able to approach closer than three feet from me unless I move to close that distance between us. And you won’t be able to touch me without my explicit permission.”

“This is crazy,” I croaked. “I’m an American…I have rights.”

“Not now, you don’t,” she countered. “If you are wise you will accept the situation and do as you are told. If you are a good pet privileges will be granted. If not…” She let the implications of that phrase hang in mid-air. “Your first task will be to keep a journal. Record everything that happens and everything you feel. Pencil and paper will be passed to you through the pass-through.”

“Forget it,” I spat. “I’m not taking your orders.”

She laughed yet again. “We’ll see about that.”

With that she rose and walked over to the door, which mysteriously opened for her as she approached it. I made to rise and break for the exit, but something constrained me; my muscles would not obey my brain. She walked through the darkened doorway without a glance back or a final word, and the steel door slammed shut behind her. As soon as she was out of sight I was free to jump up and rush across the room. No amount of banging on the door or shouting had any effect. When my tantrum was over I sat down on the bed to sulk, which was when the pass-through opened and the pencil and paper I am using now slid through the aperture.

Hours have past since then, though I’m not sure how many. It is not easy to gauge the passage of time in this room. Out of sheer boredom I finally picked up this pencil and paper and started writing. I don’t know who or what I am dealing with. This crazy bitch is using me as a hamster in some kind of twisted experiment. She obviously has a few tricks up her sleeve. But anyone who does something this nuts is bound to make a mistake. When she slips up I will be ready. Then I will (illegible scrawl)


(To be Continued)