Madison paced the confines of her bedroom, each footstep marking another second of her captivity. Sobs wracked her body as she moved, her fingers absently scratching at the back of her neck where a gnarly scab had formed—a wound she didn't remember receiving. The room felt smaller with each passing hour, the walls inching closer, the ceiling pressing down.
She retrieved her cell phone from the nightstand, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and opened the LIVE FEED app. The screen flickered to life, reflecting her troubled face back at her—eyes red-rimmed, cheeks slick with tears, hair disheveled. The "LIVE" indicator blinked in the upper left corner, a digital pulse counting the seconds of her broadcast.
"She's gone too far!" Madison's voice cracked, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.
She flipped the camera, panning across the boarded-up window. The plywood was an ugly wound in the wall, a physical manifestation of her mother's madness.
"I mean, this isn't a stunt," she continued, her voice steadying as she spoke to the invisible audience. "This is really happening."
Madison carried the phone into the bathroom.
As soon as she stepped inside, her reflection flickered in the mirror—a pale, ghostly echo of the face she knew. She aimed the camera at the second boarded window, evidence of her imprisonment.
"I'm trapped... like a rat!" The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
She switched the camera again, her face filling the screen. The bathroom's harsh fluorescent light cast shadows beneath her eyes, aging her beyond her years.
"If anyone's watching, please, please send help!" Desperation crept into her voice. "I'm at 5348 Roanoke Road... in Springfield... I... I don't know what they'll do to me. I'm so scared!"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she pressed on, aware that these words might be her only lifeline to the outside world. "I'm young. I, I cherish my life. I want to live! I WANT TO LIVE!"The echo of her plea hung in the tiled bathroom, bouncing off the walls and back to her ears. She stared at her image on the screen, a stranger's face looking back at her—hollow-eyed and haunted.
Back in her bedroom, Madison sat cross-legged on the bed, the wreckage of her earlier rage surrounding her. Torn posters curled on the floor like dead leaves. Shredded magazine pages formed a paper snowfall across the hardwood. Her desk lay overturned, drawers spilled open like gutted fish. Glass glittered dangerously on the floor, catching the light from her bedside lamp.
She nibbled at a fingernail as she stared at her phone. The message feed scrolled relentlessly, a digital river of hate and disbelief:
Totally fake lol attention whore much?
Get better acting skills! Who boards up windows from the inside stupid.
Madison tapped furiously on the screen, her thumbs moving faster than her thoughts.
"This is not fake news!" she said aloud as she typed the words, as if hearing them might make them more convincing.
She scrolled further, her face hardening as she read. More messages popped up, each one a needle under her skin.
Nice marketing campaign what movie is this for? LOL such a joke, smh.
Publicity stunt FAIL!!!!!!
"No, this is not a joke," she muttered, thumbs flying across the glass. "Really? Publicity? Marketing!?"
She glared at her phone in disbelief as new messages appeared.
Sending prayers! Praying for you sweetie. God bless you.
"Sending prayers!?" Madison's voice rose in pitch. "Send help!"
She tapped angrily at the screen, her desperation growing with each passing second. No one believed her. No one was coming. She scrolled through the torrent of messages, then abruptly froze.
Maybe lose some weight, stop making videos, and start dieting no one wants to see your fat face!
She hurled the phone away from her as if it had burned her fingers. It bounced on the mattress, the screen still glowing with incoming messages that she could no longer bear to read. Madison buried her face in her hands and wept—not the performative tears of her broadcast, but genuine, body-wracking sobs that left her gasping for air.
The phone continued to light up with notifications, each one a reminder that the world outside her prison was watching, judging, dismissing—but not helping. Never helping.
Chapter 25