Inside, I found what I was looking for—my phone. He had confiscated it, locking it away so I couldn’t call for help, all to ensure he could rush to her aid without my interference.
How absurd.
This man, the one who claimed to love me, had left me stranded in unbearable 50-60 degree heat with no way to escape. If I hadn’t smashed the car window with a desperate burst of strength, I’d have been a lifeless, shriveled corpse by now. But even then, he had taken the phone back.
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.
Soon, I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. A strange warmth crept over me, gentle and deceiving. I knew this was the beginning of hypothermia, the body’s final trick before succumbing to the cold.
I couldn’t fight it. My strength was gone and all I could do was lie there, staring at the darkened ceiling, feeling the fragile thread of my life slipping away. My eyes fluttered shut. And then, nothing.
***
When I opened my eyes again, the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose. The harsh white lights of a hospital room flickered overhead.
"You’re awake."
A man in a white coat stood beside me, his features calm yet kind. He held out a glass of water with slender, steady hands.