I don’t know what she’s looking for. Some secret I don’t even know I have. A confession I’ve never made. Maybe she just likes the quiet control. The way a person’s voice cracks when they realize they’re completely powerless.
“You’ll leave when I’m done,” she said. “But you won’t tell anyone. Because I’ll know if you do.”
I believed her.
You never really notice the little things about a person until you’re tied to a chair in their basement.
Over the past two days, I’ve learned a few things. She’s done this before. The notebook is filled with names, dates, and entries labeled “JBD” — her personal case files. She calls herself a “collector.” Not of things. Of people. Of their fears. -JBD-202- I Was Tied Up By My My Neighbor Hana
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t hit. She just asks questions. Endless questions. What keeps you up at night? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Who would miss you if you disappeared?
Yesterday, she brought me a sandwich and a glass of water. She untied one of my hands to let me eat. I thought about grabbing her, but her eyes — flat, calm, patient — told me she’d already planned for that. There was a knife in her lap. Not a threat. A fact. I don’t know what she’s looking for
Hana sat across from me on a plastic stool, legs crossed, holding a spiral notebook.
I remember the sting in my neck. A needle. Then the floor rushing up to meet me. Maybe she just likes the quiet control
My name doesn’t matter. My address doesn’t matter. What matters is this: Hana is not your friendly neighbor. She’s not the girl who borrows phone chargers. She’s a curator of fear, and I am JBD-202 — just another entry in a book no one will ever believe exists.
Today, she asked me to write this. “Document your experience,” she said. “Be honest. For the record.”