She really wants to get out Chapter 1: The beginning “Help! Help me, please! Anyone… Please,” my screams got quieter; my throat ached and was raw. I was jailed in this misery, chained to my fears, and held by locks. I peered into the darkness that had become a normal sight and imagined where I was in this world. I didn’t know who this man was, I had never seen him before; only that I was his prisoner and he was the warden.
His cold hand gripped my shoulder. The tighter his hand got, the smaller my hope got. My body was constrained and oppressed against his and like all the other times I knew there would be no escape. Every time I would wish that it would just be over. He was a snake, he was a damned soul. His hand went around my throat, it settled at the forever bruised hand that wrapped around my neck. It stung, but I got used to the pain. I expected what was coming next and when he had his way with me he would put me away.
He took me from my home, and beat me into this prison that he called a home. I would be forced back into my closet. My days consisted of waking up with him, then being shut back into my hole. Hours on end, sometimes days; I didn’t know, it was so dark and I was tired all the time, then he would come back and let me out. I wish he wouldn’t let me out. My little closet had a small cot that barely fit my frail body on it, and the small blanket kept me warm when the coldness slithered its way into me. The walls used to be white, from what I could tell, now they have blood stains and dirt; handprints of the forgotten souls before me. The darkness always surrounds me in here, but I never let it consume me. I keep myself alive on the inside; I had to.
I heard the jingle of the keys go into the lock on my “door,” and I prepared for it swung open and revealed my nightmares. He didn’t look like your average kidnapper. He didn’t have a mustache or a weird hair-do. His hair was gelled back into perfection; there wasn’t a hair out of place. His clothes were always crisp and unwrinkled; giving the assumption that he didn’t work hard. His face was unmarked, except from where I did my damage to him. The long gouge from his left eye to his cheek gave proof that I didn’t give up without a fight. Otherwise, he had no stubble on his chin, his eyebrows weren’t bushed and overgrown; there was nothing but his piercing blue eyes that made you want to cower back, and his sadistic smile that gave you some warning, that made you think he could do something like this. He smiled when he saw me; he always did; as if he won a prize at the fair, his face glowed when he saw that I was still in my prison. I don’t know if he smiled because he thought I was pretty, I didn’t know what I looked like anymore, there were no mirrors in the house. I could imagine though. Before, I had long blonde hair that was fine and shimmered in the sun. My pale blue eyes were big and full of wonder, and my skin was dotted with light freckles. I know I didn’t look like that anymore. I’ve been stuck here for a long time; there were a lot of marks on me and the side of my closet, and marking the time I’ve been stuck in this hell. I think it might’ve been a year by now. From what I could see on me, the nails were ripped up and bloody from trying to escape. Bruised covered me all over, my skin was stained and tainted. My body was frail, feeble, and fragile; but I wasn’t treated with care anymore. I only knew pain now.
The only memory that was still vivid in my mind from my old life was lying in the park with Chris, looking at the shape-shifting clouds. The grass was so green and soft against my exposed neck; the birds singing their beautiful melodies and squirrels bounding tree to tree. He took my hand in his and gripped it tight. That was the first time he told me that he loved me. Looking into my eyes, with such sincerity that I knew he wasn’t bluffing when he said those words. That was my bliss.
I can faintly remember what color the sky was that day, or the smell in the air right after it rained. I haven’t been outside in a long time. I haven’t had the sun shine and warm my cold face in a long time. All this hatred inside me made me want to escape, or hurt him like he hurt me. I was slowly and carefully planning my exodus. I would wait for him to slip up, on anything, and then I would take anything sharp and plunge it into his body.
I silently planned my attack while I was in my dark closet. Slowly I welcomed the darkness and it crept into me. At one point I thought about the darkness consuming and making me like him, but then I remembered that I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself go down without a fight. I wouldn’t let myself be like him.
I waited maybe four more days, and then my liberation day came. He was in a rush for some reason, and forgot to chain me back into my closet and I was free to roam the house. He even forgot to lock the drawers in the kitchen, but he made sure to lock the doors and windows; only, he forgot to watch out for me. It was the first time in a year that he messed up and I wasn’t letting this chance get out of my grasp. At first moment, I went and explored the treasures that the unlocked drawers held.
I climbed back into my closet with brilliance and wait for him. I can do this. I want to do this, I need to do this. I need to get home to Mom and Dad; to Chris, I thought. The meat tenderizer was a pleasant cold against my skin; I welcomed this kind of chill. I hid my weapon, my beckon of hope, in my sleeve. I sat there, the anticipation building, but I couldn’t let my emotions betray me; I have to act like I always did, like I have no hope in the world. Suddenly, he stumbled through the door, and came to the closet. Pulling me out of my “room,” he slithered his way in front of me, and with an intake of breath he prods me against the wall, the same wall that was imprinted with my body and all the others before me. My head bounced against the wood and there was a ringing in my ears. My eyes flashed and I had anger flare inside me, I was boiling with hatred for this bastard.
“Now, come over here,” he slithered. I did as I was told, if I didn’t obey, I would get hurt; he told me this probably a thousand times. I took one step, then another. With each step I gripped the metal in my hand; my hand wasn’t sweaty with nerves, it was dry to the bone with anger. He salvaged a slow blink with his drunkard-ness slowing him, and I raise my arm and swing.
Bringing it down with all the might I could muster. It connects with a smack and crunch, but I don’t stop there. I’ve been here for a year with him. My rage finally boils over and I keep swinging, each time getting stronger and each time, he crumples a little farther. His screams don’t fluster me. He only says one thing in the midst of his pleading.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. I don’t hesitate, I don’t falter; with one last strike, it connects with his jaw and I heard the beautifully sickening crack of his neck. The weapon tumbles from my grasp. I blinked once, I’m free, I whispered inside my head, and then I ran. I kept running, now I have to escape the darkness that follows me.