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I wake up to the sound of an intercom. In my groggy state, I don't register what it is saying. I am not a morning person. I didn't know my apartment complex even had an intercom system. I bet Steve from downstairs was cooking and almost burned down the complex again. That's probably why they're using the intercom.

Oh, crazy Steve, what will we ever do with you?

Wait, but wouldn't the fire alarm be going off? Why is the intercom being used? Everything is hazy. I feel dazed. My eyes rip open when I realize I am not in my own bed. Where am I?

The realization of my situation hits me like a truck and I feel my already pallid skin drain all its color. Memories from last night flood back into my consciousness. Was I kidnapped?

Oh no. This is bad, really bad.

My conscious worries transition to the one and only Mr. Cuddles. In all his glory, he is a very smart cat, but how will he know where the food is? How will he survive without me? Oh, I hope I remembered to put out his cat food. I don't know what I would do with myself if anything ever happened to him.

I groan as I get out of the bed. I'm not really sure I would call this a bed though. It's as hard as a rock with sheets and a pink lacy comforter as a disguise. My back aches from the lack of any support.
Yeah, I wouldn't really call this torture device a bed.

There are also a few pink decorative pillows and they are the only soft thing in this room. I lean back into them taking in my new situation.

This whole room is strange. It looks like someone let a unicorn in here and it threw up on everything. Other than occasional white lining or detailing, everything in this room, from the walls to the bed frame, is drenched in the color pink. I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

A dresser is on one side of the room and on top of its counter lies a bedazzled hairbrush, a fake plastic cell phone, and a few hair bows and clips. I swear this bedroom belongs to a child. When I walk over to the dresser for a closer examination, I try to open one of the drawers. They're sealed shut. That's strange, I think to myself. Why would someone make drawers if they don't actually function for storage? So apparently drawers are now a decorative item. Also, who makes dressers out of plastic?

I shift my attention to the closet on the other side of the bed. I wonder if it has some clothes for me to change into. I look down and I realize I am no longer wearing my diner apron and uniform. I'm dressed in a silk nightgown that sticks to my skin from sweat.

I slowly approach the closet before realizing that there aren't actually doors there. It's just a painting on the wall with attached doorknobs to make it look real. I take a 360 turn to survey the whole room. A lot of the furniture in here is painted on the wall instead of being real. The only real furniture in the entire room is the bed, dresser, and a nightstand. The room is shaped in a perfect square with a little rectangular indent in the wall on the other side of the bed with a mirror and a door on either side.

I look at the wall behind the canopy bed. Something is strange about it. It's not pink like everything else in here. Thank God for that; I was about to go nuts. But what is it then? It looks like a wall made completely of glass. Only the glass isn't see-through. It's completely dark. Is it one of those one-way mirror type of things? I know for sure that I can't see out. I knock on the glass but it doesn't make a sound.

In the foggy reflection in the glass, I see a stranger. That's not me, is it? I run over to the mirror. I gasp as I take in my new look. My long blonde hair cascades down my back straightened.

That's strange. I never straighten my hair.

I tend to prefer my vivacious mess of curls instead. I think it makes me look sassy and gives me that whole "don't-mess-with-me-I'm-a-firecracker" look, which pays off when you live in such an aggressive place as New York City. But right now, even though I do look "pretty", I feel absolutely lifeless.

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