Eight days without food. Portia hears her stomach grumble; it hurts. Specks of the sunlight shine dimly in the basement through chinks. A fat, cold chain around her ankle connected and locked to the iron floor-to-ceiling pole behind her. So even if Isaac left the door unlocked it still wouldn’t matter.

She’s down on her knees. A Gray scratchy blanket, causing itchiness to her skin, is on her legs next to the white pillow. For how many days she’s been here, Portia has lost count. Chained in one spot for so long, the smell of her body invites flies to come over and keep her company.

But no matter how sordid and smelly Portia would be, Issac would barge in empty handed without any food, man-handle her out of her dress, strip off his own pants and lay on top of her and force it in to penetrate.

After he’s satisfied he’d unlock the chain, pick her up and throw her in the shower; allowing her two minutes of bathing as he watches her.

Portia cries, tears fall on the mat she’s on. If she can spot a cockroach roaming by, it’ll serve as breakfast. Just anything to eat. She looks around the basement. There’s nothing. Even if Isaac’s fridge was there an inch ahead of the chain’s limit and length, she’s still have her lips to chew and spit to swallow. Suddenly she hears a whistle of the mouth. The basement’s door swings open.

Tell us: do you think she’s being rescued?