Day after day, I saw only one person. The choice was extremely calculating, as the young man of Latin descent spoke little English. Three times a day, he’d enter my room and bring me my meals. Each time he’d avoid my eyes and say, “I bring Miss Claire her food.” That was all. No other words were uttered.

Each day while I showered, my room was cleaned and clothes were taken, laundered, and returned. As the dreams of escape faded, they were replaced by desires of companionship. I had never truly been alone in all of my life. There had always been people. Even in Atlanta when I lived alone, I had friends, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers. I never realized how much it meant to pass a stranger on the street with a nod and a smile. As the days turned to a week, I longed for a smile, a nod, anything.

Since my waiter didn’t speak beyond his one sentence, I hoped to speak with one of the invisible people who cleaned my suite. Repeatedly, I tried to catch someone in the act—anyone—but I never did. They were too quick. One day, I was so distraught that I devised a plan. It was quite simple. Instead of showering, I would lie in wait and spring from the bathroom when someone entered the suite. The anticipation was overwhelming. I was so excited at the prospect of hearing my own voice and another responding. Such a simple desire, yet it monopolized my thoughts and took away my appetite. Finally, I left the tray of food, went into the bathroom leaving the door slightly ajar, and waited.

No one came.

Lunchtime arrived and my breakfast tray remained.

The reality struck with a blow more painful than Anthony’s hand. I was a grown woman hiding behind a door, praying for the companionship of anyone. Salty, pathetic tears fell from my eyes as sobs resonated from my chest. As the day progressed, my hope dimmed. At one point I even prayed for the young man—oh, to hear him say “Miss Claire.” I knew it would give me strength. Hearing my name would validate my existence.

He didn’t come.

Anthony had never left me without food, and though I wasn’t hungry, I naively believed that my next meal would soon arrive. The silence and despair combined to create a time and space continuum. Did I sleep? Was this real? Every now and then I’d open the door a little wider to be sure that I hadn’t fallen asleep and missed the invisible people. The sight of my room taunted me: my bed remained disheveled and my cold eggs had turned to rubber on the plate. I believed the people were coming and was so obsessed with seeing them that I refused to shower and even waited until I could wait no more to enter the lavatory.

Still no one.

I continued to wait as the storm raged in my shattered mind.

The Iowa sky became dark and the hard tile floor of the too-white bathroom became my chair and my bed. The plush purple towels served as my pillow as sleep intermittently took over. I dreamed of conversation—not food, shelter, or even freedom. I lay curled up on the bathroom floor fantasizing about speech. I remembered hours spent with friends. I recalled the sleepovers I’d had as a child and a smile would briefly grace my lips. There were nights when I’d talk with my friends, as little girls do, until we were too tired to finish a sentence. On that white marble tile I cried for the times I’d fallen asleep. Oh, to have that opportunity again. I swore I’d never again take it for granted.

During that night the winds changed direction. My consciousness was no longer blaming Anthony but myself. Of course, no one would enter my suite. I was pathetic—a grown woman behaving like a child. Who would want to come and talk with me? I’d hit bottom—or so I’d thought.

I’d later learn that bottom was much deeper than I ever suspected.

The next morning when I awoke on the hard, cold floor with my body aching, I knew the storm had passed. I hadn’t hit bottom but a shelf on the floor of the ocean. It was lower than I’d ever been, but I refused to allow myself to sink further. Instead, I evaluated my elevation and concluded that I would survive, and I would never be alone again.

That didn’t mean that I wouldn’t be without others: it meant I wouldn’t let it destroy me. He may have believed he owned my body, but as long as I was in control of my mind, Anthony Rawlings, or anyone else, would not have the ability to isolate me. With my new resolve, I showered, dressed, and walked into my clean suite. The invisible people had returned. My cold eggs were gone, and I had a warm meal waiting on the table.

That storm taught me another lesson. If I followed the rules, I could expect favorable consequences. I’d already learned about unfavorable ones, and I had more to learn. Instead of feeling defeated, that day gave me strength. My actions had consequences: whether those were positive or negative was up to me. I was in control.

It never crossed my mind to wonder how Anthony knew I was hiding and lying in wait in that bathroom. I just knew that somehow he did. He knew I wasn’t following my daily routine. My only hope at manipulating the circumstances of my incarceration was to appear compliant. I had another new goal.

My theory was soon to be tested. After thirteen days, I heard a knock on my door. The young man who brought my meals always knocked once before entering, but this knock was different. No one entered. I waited. It happened again. When I called out, I was miraculously answered.

“Miss Claire, may I enter?”

Her question was quite comical. I couldn’t have bid her entrance if I’d wanted nor could I deny it. I was on the wrong side of the locked door. Nonetheless, I said, “Yes, Kate (name changed to protect the innocent), please come in.”

The familiar beep preceded the opening of my door. I stood motionless as her gray eyes filled with compassion, silently confirming that I was no longer alone. “Miss Claire, I have a message for you.” Kate’s accent was unique and formal and her words were music to my heart. I didn’t care what they said, only that they were spoken to me. I longed to hug or touch her in some way, craving contact, but that would have been too much—too much for my attention-starved psyche. Unable to verbally respond, I nodded, savoring the interaction and trying to make it last.