Eleven

Cornered in a tight spot where the coffee addicts take charge,

Eyes wide with motive,

Hands shaky from the adrenaline,

And pacing back and forth awaiting for the first sip of the day,

I can hear in the near distance someone says .. A large americano please!

I say to my self, A large americano? what kind of psychos are running this place,

After minutes of being shoved left to right I finally found my way over into a quiet section near the bathroom,

I take a deep breath and unload,

I place my normal size americano next to my laptop while aligning my chocolate covered crosssnt,

This is already turning out to be a wonderful day,

I open my laptop for my weekly blog to read from my favorite writer,

Contemporary Illness,

A blog centered around a kinky twilight zone that drops every Sunday at 8pm,

I get so excited I get chills that run up my arm and the back of my neck every time I think about what's going to happen next,

I open my laptop up and sign in to my browser,

Once I get to the web link my computer starts to glitch,

In and out of static and blank screens I become aggravated and plug in my headphones to get some tunes going while I wait,

Before I can exit the screen I can hear some mumbling in the static,

I turn my headphones up louder,

It's a womens voice saying help me,

My eyes grew bigger and bigger as the screen clear,

It almost looks as if we are in the same location,

Red front door at the entrance, large americanos circulating, and yellow bathroom doors,

My heart starts racing with fear and excitement,

She always tours secret locations to film and or write each scene,

The Contemporary Illnesses writer might be in danger here somewhere,

She yells again through the screen,

Help me!

I jump out of my chair so fast that my laptop and my coffee hits the ground,

Help me!

The music from the coffee house was so loud that we could barely hear our own thoughts,

I scan the room with my eyes looking for a door,

My plan was to walk in like I knew where I was going,

In reality I had no fucking clue what type of turn my morning was about to take,

Looking suspicious is the last thing I need especially if I'm getting myself into something bigger than me,

I slowly walk around the shop listening behind the walls and the doors,

I finally come up to a dark wooden door labeled with the number eleven,

I take a deep breath and twist the knob,

There was a room with another door,

Then another door,

Then another door,

And finally I reach a blue room that had one final door,

I hear her yell again,

This time more clearly,

Help me!

My legs are now shaking with fear,

My forehead is dripping sweat,

And my lips are trembling,

This door was labeled consent only,

I reach for the door and before I can get the knob fully twisted she falls out of the door onto the floor,

She was naked,

Hair glossed in sweat,

Eyes drenched in panic,

A stiffness took over my body and I could not move or talk,

It was her,

The writer of my dreams,

The curator behind all of the work that I follow,

My inspiration,

She grabbed the calf of my leg and begged me to help her,

Her touch snapped me out of my state of shock,

I looked deeply into her eyes,

I whispered everything was going to be okay,

Before I could pull out my phone to call 911 I reached down to grab her by the hand to ask for her autograph....

*Consent: Permission for something to happen, or agree to do something.

Photo by Francesca Woodman