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GENEVIEVE
Fucking assholes.
My head aches something fierce, and the whole left side of my face is swollen and throbbing. I focus past it, used to pain. You develop a high pain tolerance when you encounter it often enough. Although it’s been some years since I’ve been in this situation, my body still remembers.
My hands are tied above me, the skin on my wrists raw from the rope, and my legs are weak and covered in goose bumps as a shiver runs through me from the icy chill in the room. My teeth begin to chatter, as if focusing on how cold it is only makes it worse.
It’s fucking freezing.
The assholes broke into my place, tried to steal my stuff, knocked me out, kidnapped me, and couldn’t even be bothered to cover me with a blanket? The cunts. Yanking on my wrists, I shake off the daze from the clinging darkness and cold. The bed I am tied to squeaks and moves over the old wooden floor, and I freeze, expecting them to come bursting in.
While I wait, my eyes rove around the room, taking in my surroundings and any possible exits.
There are old, tattered posters plastered on nearly every wall. Posed, half-naked women stare back at me. I snort. It looks like a teenage boy’s room. In fact, the dusty, dirty wooden twin bed I’m lying on is covered in tattered football bedding, so maybe it is. The ceiling is off-white, with that crown moulding all old houses have. Simple sconce lights hang on the wall—one of them has a burned-out bulb, and the other is barely bright enough to see anything at all—giving the room and all the half-naked women an almost sinister look. The floor is made up of cracked and mismatched wood panels that have seen better days, with just a hideous round rug to try and cover the nails and missing chunks. There’s a matching chest of drawers pushed up against the back wall, with an old, boxy TV sitting on it, an old PlayStation, and games. There are no family pictures hanging on the walls or framed anywhere, and the layers of dust indicate no one has been here for a very long time.
It makes me sad to think of the child who used to live in this bedroom—a child who just left everything behind untouched like a shrine…or a vault.
Shaking my head clear of the morbid thoughts, I focus on the noises in the old house.
When no one comes, I yank and kick at my restraints, flailing in the bonds to free myself. I hear distinct male voices whispering far away, and it infuriates me in such a way, I can’t control myself. My friends always said I attacked first and asked questions later, and that’s exactly what happens as I start to shout at them. I barely know what angry words are leaving my mouth.
Still nothing. The sounds of the creaking ancient house and the whistle of the wind through the old, glass windows are the only noises I hear.
The bastards are ignoring me!
It makes me seethe. I clench my teeth in a snarl as I twist and turn, only mussing the bed and myself even more, determined to free myself. As I do, though, it hikes my dress higher and higher as the chill winds through my body, until I don’t know if I will ever feel warm again. The dust in the room, which was tossed up by my struggle, threatens to make me sneeze, but I hold it in out of spite. Fuck this dust. Fuck these assholes!
Knowing I’m not getting free and I’m only hurting myself by using precious warmth and energy, I slump down and once again look around for something, anything, to help me get free. My eyes go back to the dirty windowpanes, seeing the fields beyond it for the first time.
Fields.
Fuck, we aren’t in the city anymore.
We aren’t even close, if the rolling hills in the distance are any indication. Oh no, we must be in the country and far from civilisation. It’s smart, I suppose, but it only serves to fuel my anger. The bastards not only kidnapped me, but they have also locked me away in the middle of bloody nowhere!
Where the hell have they taken me, and more importantly, what do they plan to do to me?
My head takes that time to throb, reminding me of the fucker who punched me. The deep pain makes even my teeth ache. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have a black eye. It wouldn’t be the first nor the last one, but still. It’s been a while since I’ve had to use makeup to hide bruises earned on the streets, and I thought I wouldn’t have to ever again. I’ll get him back for stealing that possibility away.
My heels will be the least of his worries.
But first, I need their attention and to get free so I can hightail it the fuck back to civilisation. They must have driven a car. Maybe I can leave their asses here. Clearly, screaming and threats aren’t working, and trying to escape alone isn’t a viable option, so I need to play nice and tug on their heart strings, if they have any. After all, I heard them say they didn’t want to murder me, so if I make them think I’m hurt, or worse, they will come running, right?
Weak female act, here we come.
Playing the damsel in distress is not something I’m good at, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Please! Please help me!” I beg, allowing my voice to crack in fear—real fear. I don’t know what these men want with me, so the things that come to my mind, the darkness I saw as a child, allows me to channel true terror. “I’m so cold! Please, my face—”
I hear footsteps and allow my voice to choke off in a hiccupping sob, tears glazing my eyes as I push them back before I remember I’m pretending to be weak, so I let them fall. They drip down my face and carve a path in the sheen of sweat, dust, and makeup.
The door opens with a creak. It was unlocked, which is good. The big guy is framed there, haloed in the light from the hallway behind him. He hesitates, and I whimper a little. He snorts in disgust before coming in.
“What’s wrong?” he demands gruffly.
I hesitate for a moment, catching a glimpse of his face.
He’s fucking hot.
