Fiction Story
I awoke in a dark, stale room. The only light was coming from where a strip of cardboard had been torn from the board that covered the window. I saw trees outside, so I guessed that I probably wasn’t in my little desert hometown. The next thing I noticed was the fact that one of my hands was chained to a horrible excuse for a bed, but I guess that could have been expected, considering the circumstances. I exhaled sharply and closed my eyes; the sparse sunlight suddenly felt too bright to my already dimmed eyes. Soon, I heard several bolts rattling on the outside of the wall where I guessed the door was (it was too dark to see anything on that side of the room). The door opened just enough to fit a small tin tray attached to a skateboard. The hand that pushed the skateboard, I had a chance to notice in the dim light from the other side of the door, was a young woman’s hand. Odd.
The skateboard rolled over to me and stopped just within arm’s reach. On it was a few pieces of broccoli, some horribly coarse bread, and half of a cup of water. I’m allergic to broccoli, so I pushed that aside. There’s no point in dying of an allergic reaction if there’s even a chance for me to get out of here. I took a small bite of the bread, and nearly gagged for the dryness, but forced myself to swallow; I couldn’t afford to be picky. After I ate what little edible parts I could pick from the rest, I slept. Sleep consumed me for the better part of a day, obviously still recovering from my head injuries. I harshly awoke to the feel of painfully sharp steel against the delicate flesh of my throat. I opened my eyes just a crack, and saw him. Let’s call him Mr. Creepyguy, for identity purposes.
“Why hello, pet. Did you sleep well?” Mr. Creepyguy asked, well, creepily. I had to restrain my immediate instinct to spit in his face; this guy was holding a knife to my throat, obviously. In my meanest, and most stubborn voice, I tersely responded to him.
“No.” He drew back in mock surprise.
The skateboard rolled over to me and stopped just within arm’s reach. On it was a few pieces of broccoli, some horribly coarse bread, and half of a cup of water. I’m allergic to broccoli, so I pushed that aside. There’s no point in dying of an allergic reaction if there’s even a chance for me to get out of here. I took a small bite of the bread, and nearly gagged for the dryness, but forced myself to swallow; I couldn’t afford to be picky. After I ate what little edible parts I could pick from the rest, I slept. Sleep consumed me for the better part of a day, obviously still recovering from my head injuries. I harshly awoke to the feel of painfully sharp steel against the delicate flesh of my throat. I opened my eyes just a crack, and saw him. Let’s call him Mr. Creepyguy, for identity purposes.
“Why hello, pet. Did you sleep well?” Mr. Creepyguy asked, well, creepily. I had to restrain my immediate instinct to spit in his face; this guy was holding a knife to my throat, obviously. In my meanest, and most stubborn voice, I tersely responded to him.
“No.” He drew back in mock surprise.