Amid my own abduction is probably not the best time to consider quitting therapy, but I’ve never had more proof that it’s not working.

With only minutes to think of convincing arguments for this psycho to let me live, I’ll be honest…

I’ve got nothing.

We both stand.

Them, staring back at me with an expectant expression under the dim light of a dangling bulb.

The condensation from a pipe drips onto the concrete in the shadowed corner, punctuating each elongated second of awkward silence.

If the looming murderous stranger weren’t unsettling enough, the mirrored room we’re in, that appears to have been a basement level ballet studio before budget cuts, reflects the direness of my situation back to me in perpetuity.

I feel my mouth open and, as usual, brace for whatever words are about to emerge.

“Sooo. Is this, like, a hobby for you?” I hear myself ask my abductor.

_‘Maybe it’ll be a quick death,’ _I think hopefully.

Their eyes narrow, but they don’t speak.

I just nod like that was a thoughtful response on their part.

“I’ve been crocheting a lot lately,” I offer, “maybe you could try that instead? It’s a bit drafty down here. I could show you how to make yourself a sweater?”

There we go.

Can’t kill someone who wants to help make you a sweater.

It’s too thoughtful and labor intensive.

They’ll appreciate that.

A blade, previously flattened on their thigh, now threateningly glints off the limited light.

Alrighty.

Acts of service and quality time aren’t their love languages.

Got it.

“Okay, look,” I start a bit shakily, “I can’t think of a reason not to kill me, alright? But maybe that’s a better reason than anything!”

They tilt their head thoughtfully at that.

Such a way with words, this one.

Barreling on while I have their attention, I plead, “I haven’t done anything yet! All these years I’ve been alive, but never truly lived. All I have to show for my time is resilience I’ve built against hardship and a hope that things will get better. For what? Dying in a creepy mirror basement? No offense, but there’s got to be more than this.”

Emboldened, I add, “For both of us.”

They frown at that, finally looking down to the cracked concrete between us as they consider my point.

Suddenly, the basement door creaks open.

We simultaneously look up in its direction.

My heart fills with hope for the first time in as long as I can remember.

A woman is framed there, visibly horrified at the sight below.

I blink a few times as her features come into focus.

“Mom?”

As if my words woke her from a trance, she frantically rushes down the stairs at that, too quickly for me to warn her of the threat she’s descending into.

Her eyes don’t even track the presence of my abductor as she closes the distance and wraps herself around me in a violent hug, pulling back a bit to look me over for any damage before freezing.

“You’re not supposed to come down here, remember?” She voices thickly without looking me in the eye.

I snort and share a sarcastic look with my abductor over her shoulder.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Mom notes where my attention went and turns her head in that direction slightly, as if only now realizing we have company.

Her complete lack of manners right now is honestly embarrassing me.

She turns back to me with a warbly smile.

“Come on,” she encourages, cuffing my wrist to encourage me with her as she walks back towards the stairs.

I open my mouth to express my confusion but close it just as quickly, just like she taught me.

Allowing myself to be dragged while attempting to look at the other, suddenly shy, occupant in the room.

Mom blocks my view of them with her body, too accurately to not be aware of the presence she’s ignoring.

“Wait. Do you know who that is?” I whisper to her.

A tear falls from the closest eye that looks upon me then. “I’ll tell you upstairs,” she promises.

She takes the first stair just as the mirrors end, leaving me able to see my abductor in a twin of the situation I’m in.

Their arm, holding the blade, being similarly restrained.

I inhale the stale air sharply, dazedly looking down in bewilderment at my captive wrist.

There’s a knife of my own, firmly in my grip.

With watery eyes, I look up into the rectangle of light above, mounting the first step in acceptance of my temporary win against the psychopath in my reflection.