Oxygen Masks

Paige

I sat in the window seat in my room after we got home from therapy and lunch, staring at the snow falling outside. Thick clusters of flakes, wet and heavy, thunked against the windowpane. I had my tablet in my lap, open to a mostly blank canvas, and the stylus in my hand. A list of long-term goals. How could I, with my graphic design degree, help other girls like me?

The first few things I came up with stared back at me blankly. Help girls escape, something I had no skills for. Keep girls from being kidnapped, something I had no idea how to do when I barely remembered my own kidnapping.

Dark memories reached for me. I could remember my own kidnapping if I wanted to. I could remember all sorts of things, absolutely every detail of the dozens of times I could’ve escaped and fucked it up because I was too stupid, too weak, or too slow. I could create a how-to guide for staying in the bastards’ hands, if I wanted to. Obviously, that would be helpful to no one but the bastards.

I sho