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This is such a violation. What happened to consent? Not that it’s a big priority in this town, either. We’ve never discussed it outright, but hints, whispers, and insinuations have been more than enough to clue me into the fact that the lack of consent is a huge factor in why my mom left. And she didn’t just leave—she hauled ass to the other side of the country. Just like Winnie and I are going to do. I’m counting down the days until that happens.

I make my way around the car, checking all four doors, looking for my keys tucked on top of or around the tires, but luck is still not my friend.

Frustrated, I round the back to check the trunk. Maybe my Good Samaritan left in unlatched with the keys inside.

I huff a laugh as I curl my fingers around the chilled metal and it gives without the least bit of resistance. My pink pompom keychain is there, but deep, deep inside.

So deep, I have to brace with my knee on the floor of the trunk and wedge myself inside to reach it. I stretch as far as I can, my fingers just grazing the pink fuzz. No matter how I wiggle, I can’t seem to get enough purchase to grab them. The ring must be snagged in the carpet fibers.

A chill races down my spine as I push off the gravel and slide into the confined space, pulling at my keyring, trying to twist it free. I don’t like tight spaces and wedging myself in here takes stupid amounts of self-encouragement… or I’m just stupid. I don’t know, but everything about this makes me uncomfortable.

Carpet fibers and grit dig into my elbows as I shimmy further inside twisting and pulling until the metal split ring final comes free.

My sigh of relief is cut short when my foot is hoisted up, throwing me off balance. My cheek slides across the rough fabric and the sting of carpet burn blooms immediately. Tears spring to my eyes for so many reasons, not simply the raw skin marring the left side of my face. No, it’s too dark in my trunk. And tight. And I didn’t fall in here as a result of my own clumsiness.

“Hey!” My scream is angry, but not nearly loud enough. And the pissy hey should absolutely have been a loud, resounding cry for help. But I don’t get the chance to try again because before I can turn over, or shimmy my way out, I feel a bee sting at the side of my neck. That’s not cool because the weather is, in fact, way too chilly for bees to be out and about.

Fuck my life.

Panic washes over me as I try to push myself out of the trunk only to find I don’t have the strength. I’m weak and uncoordinated.

A harsh laugh sounds from behind me as hinges creak. And I’m plunged into darkness punctuated with the unmistakable slam of the trunk closing.

My heart races, and I can’t catch my breath. I’m not new to panic attacks; living with my father and his particularly cruel forms of punishment introduced me to them early on. But I’ve also done whatever I could to protect myself.

Because every girl living in a town like this needs to know the basics. Hell, we need to know the advanced stuff too.

I manage to shove the keys between my fingers, ready to swipe at whoever opens this trunk. I might be small, but I’m more than willing to fight dirty. My hand feels foreign, not just from the diminished coordination, but because there aren’t enough keys. Only my first two knuckles are armored. While that’s still something, and I’m sure it would suck to get hit with them, it means I’m at a disadvantage. One of the keys was deliberately removed. Then the bright happy ring was planted deep, deep, deep out of my reach.

I lash out, hitting at the door of the trunk, trying desperately to pull attention to me… Fuck. There’s no one out here. I’m alone in the most pitifully frightening way.

It doesn’t matter. I hit and kick and scream at the top of my lungs. Crying for someone to magically appear, begging to be heard, hoping to draw attention or break free from this tight prison that smells like stale tire rubber and old motor oil.

I gasp for air all while knowing I need to slow my breathing.

I fight, more with myself now, trying to find some calm so I can think rationally about how to fix this.

The engine rumbles to life, the tires almost immediately crunching against the gravel, as my car rolls forward.

With me locked firmly in the trunk.

Sweat breaks out across my skin as trembling ratchets up to full-body tremors. Though it’s far too dark to see anything, I force my eyes closed, blocking out the clawing blackness and taking control of what little I can.

It takes more effort than it should to sweep my hands along the interior of the trunk, the roof of the trunk, the back of it. The plastic handle for the emergency release is gone, not even a stub of the cable remains.

Movements go from slow to clumsy, thoughts jumbling much the same. Every bump in the pitted gravel path back to the paved road tosses me around the tight space. I try to brace but weakness overtakes my control and my hands slip, arms and legs going limp, as my consciousness ebbs and flows.

God help me, I can’t move. My grip on the keys fails, and they fall to the floor with a thud. I will my arm to move, or my hand, or even a finger. But paralysis sets in, and my eyes slide open, stealing the last bit of control from me.

Tears slide down my temples as the tires finally hit the paved road and the jostling stops.

I’m going to die.

Here… or somewhere else.

Fully awake.

Completely aware, but unable to do a damn thing about it.