Climbing Out The Window

Five life lessons I learned from my kidnapper

She brought me some soup to my room the night I ran. She sat with me watching as I sipped on the thick broth. It was duck soup. I wasn’t sure if it was laced. My heart racing in my chest as she chatted about work, asking me her usual evening questions. I knew I had to appear normal for everything to go as planned. She had already moved my room to the upper floor of the house, to be closer to her she said, but I knew that she knew people back home were looking for me.

I held my breath as she kissed my forehead goodnight so she wouldn’t notice my shallow breathing. Her warm hand cupped my cheek and she stared into my eyes, as if she was searching for answers inside my mind. “I love you, Sweetie.” I won’t ever forget the sound of her voice. “I love you too.” I said back. I meant it.

After she left my room, I waited until she was asleep. I grabbed my bag from under the bed and tried the door. Locked in. I had no other option, my fear of heights didn’t matter: Risking it all, I climbed out the window on the top floor, down the drainpipe, sprinted down the street towards the beach where my ride was waiting and escaped back to Canada.

I got my dream job at 20. A personal assistant to a name I can’t tell you because if you googled her, you’d know who she was. I got to work remotely most of the time. Other times I traveled with her and shopped for her and gave my opinion on home decor, outfit ideas and meal planning. Eventually, I had proven myself enough because she started to ask my opinion in her personal life, then her business… and then everything. She needed me all the time.