Who is this captive?
"For GodÂ´s sake, open up already!" I slammed my fists against the metal door. Fucking ouch.
Dirty had gotten up to the craziest pranks in the past but this was seriously getting out of control. This was out of bounds. Defied description.
For the past five minutes I had been screaming and raising hell, to no avail. I wouldnÂ´t know the exact amount of time, of course, given the circumstance that I was not wearing a watch. I hardly ever did. I had people to keep me updated about the time, people who told me when it was time to go whereever I needed to be. Certainly, this was a blessing and a curse at the same time. This, however, was clearly not the time to muse on the subject of my status as a famous musician.
I allowed my voice and hands a break and settled down on the bed. I hated waiting. I wasnÂ´t used to being kept waiting.
I let my eyes wander slowly over the contents of the room. Finally the mirror came into my field of vision. I got up and stared at my own reflection in the glass.
I was still clean-shaven. CanÂ´t say I have a heavy growth of beard, which, actually, is just fine by me. My hair was less messy than I had expected it to be. All dark brown. I had grown out the red strands a while ago. I pushed the bangs out of my eyes. "The color of a healthy bowel movement," as I liked to describe them. My face has an oval shape, a clearly defined jawline and IÂ´ve been told that I have an adorable smile. I guess thatÂ´s right or how else would you explain that I send thousands of girls screaming out loud when I flash my pearly white teeth at them? ItÂ´s safe to say that IÂ´m quite fortunate when it comes to looks. Judging from what I saw in the mirror I could really use getting my eyebrows plucked again though.
I glanced over the furniture again, becoming severely scared. This looked just like the place some dangerous lunatic would hold you captive in. Except for the TV set. That was strange.
Before returning to my previous position in front of the door I turned it off. The buzzing noise was getting annoying. And I was annoyed enough with this whole situation.
I recommenced drumming my hands against the sterile metal, my flat palms hitting the ice-cold surface this time.
"IÂ´m PETER FUCKING WENTZ, you asshole! IÂ´ve got family and friends, not to mention millions of fans, who will turn every stone on this planet to find me!"
No answer. I was not giving up yet. Even though my hands hurt like hell. I stopped pounding on the door.
"What is this place? Where am I?" I yelled out.
Then I just lost it.
Along with my growing anger and desperation the sound intensity of my voice increased, "IÂ´LL KILL YOU! YOU HEAR ME? LET ME OUT OF HERE!"
Of course, death threats have never helped any captive so it didnÂ´t surprise me that nobody answered. Exhausted I slumped down next to the door. I pulled my knees up to my chest, placed my hands on them and buried my face in my palms. Seconds later tears of frustration found their way down my cheeks, giving my lips a bitter taste and turning my face into a damp mess.
This was not the act of Dirty or any of my other friends, my band colleagues Patrick, Andy and Joe. It was far too serious for that. The maximum amount of time Dirty had me locked in somewhere had been between five minutes (trunk of his excuse for a car) and a quarter of an hour (walk-in closet at a venue).
This was the work of some insane person. Maybe an obsessed fan for all I know.