Perhaps he feared I’d call the police, feared I’d expose the truth of his actions. So he locked me in a utility room before leaving.
"Be good and stay here," he said casually, as if he were locking away a troublesome child rather than a wounded, bleeding woman.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving me behind without a second glance.
A cold wind swept through the room, cutting through my thin camisole and chilling me to the bone. The air conditioning in the utility room was kept at freezing temperatures—below ten degrees—to prevent the expensive dance shoes stored there from getting moldy.
But I wasn’t a pair of shoes. I pounded on the glass with all the strength I had left, my cries hoarse and desperate, "Zayn! I won’t call the police, I promise! Just let me out, please! It’s so cold in here—I’ll freeze to death!"
But there was no response. Only the hollow echo of my own voice. Time blurred. The biting cold seeped into my bones, turning my hands and feet numb. My voice faded into silence. I curled into myself, trying in vain to hold onto whatever warmth I had left. It didn’t work.