She didn’t notice the man watching her, a tall man standing erect across the street, observing with dark intensive eyes.  After swallowing her last warm sip of coffee, tapping a twenty on the bar, laughing with her waitress, she strolled out of the diner; the man watched carefully and followed.
About sixty-years-old, she recently retired; retirement allowed her to appreciate her life and successful career.  Her career, though, had taken over her life for so many years, that now that she was retired, she promised never to work again.  Every morning she drank a cup of coffee in her favorite diner on her way to the post office - man, she loved writing old fashioned letters, waiting in suspense for a response.  Never been married, she had found solace in reading and writing her letters.  She wiped her ink-stained hands on her shirt, but years of writing left them smudged.
Her daily stroll was instantly flooded with warm thoughts - the sun of the spring morning,  the exciting letters in her pocket, and the fact that she seemed to be the only one out walking today...
She turned the corner into the shade and a cool sense of unease filled her; involuntarily, she turned around.
As his shadow enveloped her, a tall skinny man floated toward her.  The man’s expression flooded with disbelief, with an elongated smile plastered on his cheeks; the woman remained motionless.  His large fist pulled back, she tried to scream, the hand lurched forward smashing into the side of her head.  Her vision blurred around his large amused smile.  Then everything was dark.
She awoke in a dimly lit room - the only light streamed from a small window near the ceiling. Was she in a basement?  The small room was empty; a damp and stale smell filled her nose; the cracked, discolored walls were barren.  The only object in the room was a long heavy table.  Her left hand was handcuffed to one of the legs of the heavy table; her right rubbed her throbbing head. 
Stepping from the shadows of the doorway, the man that assaulted her dragged a chair into the empty room and sat down.  His large smile was still pleased; he looked hungry, staring obsessively, longingly, wanting.  In his spidery fingers, he played with a broken pen anxiously.  She looked away from him, unable to bare eye contact with his eager expression.  Then, he spoke; his voice was low and delicate as if he had rehearsed this moment many times before.  
He spoke long and monotone, until ending with his terms: “I won’t let you go until you do it.”  She turned from the heavy table toward her kidnapper, immediately denying his wishes; she promised herself she wouldn’t do that again.  The crazed man inched close to her, yelling foul words, breathing warmly and stalely, spitting on her cheek.  Then he retreated back up his stairs, and she was left alone.  After failing to reach a pencil on the other side of the table, she tried to pick the lock from the handcuffs and tried lift the heavy table and tried to scream for help; she then just waited and sat and waited.
Without warning, the man returned.  The light from the window grew dark, and in his clenched hand was a plate with a peanut butter sandwich.  She devoured the small meal and remained silent.  Again the man pleaded her to fulfill his wants, but again she denied.  Frustrated, the man snatched the plate from her hand, smashing it on the ground, cursing and stumbling back upstairs. 
Her handcuffed arm numbed from lost circulation  - was her hand turning blue from lack of blood or from years of pen stains?  The hard ground stung her back - at night, she got little sleep.  She was in his basement for three days; every morning and night he gave her a sandwich - sometimes bringing a book as well - and in return she denied his wishes.  She lay on the ground sore, hungry, tired - her handcuffed wrist was bloody and burning.  The man’s obsessive smile had transformed into a hardened stare.
On the night of the third day, he tiptoed back downstairs, handed her a sandwich, and was denied by her yet again.  Reactively, the man lunged toward her, punching her in the chest, kicking her side, cursing her disobedience, smacking her with a familiar book.  Lying half-conscious on the ground with her nose bleeding and her ribs bruised, she finally agreed to the man’s desires.  His chilling smile reappeared and a hoarse laughed emitted from behind his teeth.
“You know, you are my favorite author.  It absolutely killed me when you decided to stop writing.”  Her bloody face filled with disgust, no gained pride from his compliment.  The man ran upstairs and returned with a piece of paper and pencil in hand.  He placed the supplies on the table and commanded, “Now do it.”
She began to write.