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I like to fantasize about Sonny abusing his position as a police officer to take advantage of me. One such scenario is that I'm walking home alone from a party; I'm tipsy and it's dark, the night is cold and wet, so when the gentle voiced police officer I see on patrol every day pulls up alongside me and asks if I need a lift home, I gratefully accept and get inside. He's asking me questions about my night and the party, making conversation as I warm my hands on the heater. Although it starts off jovial, the longer I sit and sober up, the clearer it becomes to me that something is off - I don't recognize this area of the city, and I never told him my address. Where is he taking me? I take my phone out of my pocket, quietly, slowly, but quickly he notices and forcefully grabs it out of my hand, silently putting it in his glovebox. The fear starts to set in.
He eventually pulls up to a house in some nice suburbs. I don't recognize the neighborhood. Clinging onto the last shred of hope that this might be a terrible misunderstanding, as he helps me out of his car I tell him this isn't my house. He tells me not to be silly, and although he's smiling softly he moves his jacket in a deliberate motion, flashing the pistol stored in the inside of it. It's not just a threat, it's a promise - if I make any commotion, he'll kill me. Any lie he tells about what happened will be believed by his co-workers. After all, who wouldn't believe Officer Brisko?
Reluctantly I follow him inside and through his house. At first I'm expecting him to take me upstairs to his bedroom, endure a night against my will and get out knowing I can never talk about what happened, but he leads me straight past the staircase and through his kitchen. There, hidden in the utility room on the side, is a second staircase - leading down. Stumbling down in the dark, we emerge into a dim basement room; lit with a single bare bulb, the only thing resembling furniture is a bare mattress on the floor by the radiator, a single dirty-grey blanket in a pile on top. It looks used, like someone has been there before me. The room smells of damp and old sweat, the smell of a previous, filthy occupant still permeated into the concrete walls.
With that cheerful voice, as soft as ever, he says "I told you I was taking you home, didn't I?" and laughs. It's light-hearted sounding, like it all could be a prank, but he's pulling the handcuffs off his belt and reaching for my wrist.
When my friends report me missing two days later, he's the one that helps file the report. He lets one cry into his shoulder, holding her, assuring her that he'll do everything in his power to find me. In actuality, he already knows exactly where I am.
