Laura's knees ground against the moving treadmill. The buzzing rubber pad didn't feel hot anymore. All she could register was wincing, biting pain. Her thin flesh had been worn to bloody bone under the weight of all of her 238 pounds. Laura's right hand had long fallen limp against the handcuffs that bound her left hand to the merciless exercise machine. She was still crying loudly but after twenty straight minutes, her voice was beginning to rasp.
"Please! Stop! I can't run anymore!"
Laura couldn't help but keep wondering how she wound up here, in this situation. This cold, dark room containing nothing but a chrome treadmill with no control switches, a bed and a small windowless bathroom.
It had started out as a normal day. She went to work at the temp agency. She flirted with the nice guy who she knew she would never attract in a million years, but who nonetheless played along with her advances with child-like naivete.
And she left, heading for home.
On her way, she had decided to hit the Ralph's supermarket. It was an impulse stop, at least it had felt impulsive. She had a lot of impulse stops. And they always seemed to end with Laura purchasing two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Though she never listened to improvisational rock in her life, Laura's favorite flavors happened to be Cherry Garcia and Phish Food. One, she reasoned, technically qualified as a serving of fruit, and the other was by contrast an utterly decadent medley of gooey marshmallow, silky milk chocolate and rich fudge fishies that melted in Laura's mouth like heaven on earth. So Laura was completely stunned when, on her way back to her car in the Ralph's parking lot, she felt the gloved hand clasp over her mouth. At first she thought the syringe that plunged into her neck was a knife--
Then, it felt like Laura had instantaneously time-traveled to the room, waking up with her left hand cuffed to the treadmill. Her fat body hanging from her shackle. Laura's hand had turned white and was without feeling. She had gone so long without blood to that area, for several moments she worried she might never have use of her hand again. She feared it might have to be amputated.
The pain and worry had gotten her up on her feet, at which time she realized she was dressed in a grey spandex jogging suit which clung unflatteringly against her rolls. Another moment and the treadmill was moving under her. She nearly fell, and had to walk to keep from falling.
The treadmill had started slow, but soon went faster, and faster still. A digital readout on the treadmill showed the rate she was walking. Laura did a good job of keeping up until the machine had her at 5.2 miles per hour for thirteen minutes and twelve seconds. That was when she collapsed the first time. The burning rubber against her knees was enough to get her back up on her feet for a little while before she fell again.
And that was the way it went for a while. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
But Laura could no longer summon the will to run any longer. She wished she could. In fact, she couldn't remember a time in her life when she had wanted to run so badly.
The machine eventually stopped and as it did, a panel on the dashboard flipped open like clockwork. Inside there was a shiny key. It took a few moments for Laura to notice the object as she writhed in pain. She soon figured out that the key went to her handcuffs. Laura freed herself and crawled, moaning for help over to the bed, instinctively climbing up onto it, collapsing, leaving a nasty bloody trail behind her.
Laura passed out.
When she awoke, she was once again cuffed to the treadmill. Her knees had been professionally bandaged. Sliced fruit and water had been left out for her, within arm's reach. She hungrily devoured both and, a few moments after digesting, the treadmill kicked on again. Fear flushed through Laura. She ran. And she ran. And she ran for a little bit longer than she had managed the last time. And on this occasion, when she fell, her knees didn't hurt quite so badly, thanks ironically to the bandages.
* * *
After countless months of similar routines, Laura woke one day to find herself back in the Ralph's parking lot. Her car was there. She was sitting in it, reclined in the driver's seat. Her keys dangled from the ignition.
Laura's first instinct was to shout for help but the parking lot was deserted. Her purse was sitting on the passenger seat next to her. She opened it, finding her phone, noting the time: 5:37 a.m. Laura's fingers drifted, dialing 9-1-1. But before pressing the 'call' button the morning sun that was searing her eyes caused Laura to deftly pull down her sun visor, putting her face to face with the vanity mirror.
Laura held her breath. Who was this beautiful woman staring back at her?
Laura gaped at herself for forty five minutes, admiring over and over in disbelief the sharp angles of her jaw and cheek bones.
Her finger remained frozen on the 'send' button of her cell phone. Laura looked down, realizing she could see over her seatbelt into her own lap for the first time since she could ever remember.
Deep emotion welled inside Laura. It began as a joyful tickle, like giddy laughter. Then it blossomed into a warm eruption of elation. The most surprising thing she felt was the gratitude. She wanted to scold herself for feeling it. She knew she should be angry, at least, if not hateful for what was done to her. Up until this very moment she had known nothing but fear and trauma. But, staring into the mirror, somehow she felt an instant understanding.
Laura drove home, but honest to God she felt like running.
