They’re Gonna Eat Me Alive
“Ugh,” I moaned, then ended up coughing something into my hand. I looked down. Blood. What the hell? I looked around where I was, I was in some kind of... cellar, cage. Locked up. A very small cage in fact. I was feeling closed in, I needed out! I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. “Let me out!” I yelled, but no one was around to hear. I started breathing heavily, looking around for an escape. On the cage door I saw a huge lock. That means there has to be a key. Lock+key=out. I looked around the dark room, which was lit by one light in the corner. Then my eyes fell on a huge box, on top of the box was the key. My eyes widened on it and I ran up to the bars of the cage and stuck my arm out, trying desperately to reach it. But my arm was too short, I couldn’t reach. Just then I heard footsteps. Someone’s coming. Maybe the asshole who put me in here?
A man appeared in the doorway. If I wasn’t in this situation, I would have thought he was hot. Way out of my league though. From the looks of it, he was probably late twenties, early thirties. I was only seventeen. He was tall, wore dark, shaded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and black boots. He had dark brown short hair. Damn, he’s hot.
“Who are you?” I managed to get out in a strangled whisper.
He didn’t answer, just sat down on the floor about a foot away from me and stared at me.
“What do you want?” I made my voice louder. I glared him down, envying him. He was on the outside, un-trapped, free to go wherever he wanted. I was not. I was on the inside, trapped inside a tiny cage, like an animal.
“I don’t want anything. You need to talk to my boss.”
“Well then, let me talk to your boss.”
“Can’t. None of his clients are allowed to actually see him.”
“Clients?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I’m not the only one.”
“I hate to break it to you, princess, but no. You’re not that special.”
I was hating this small talk. I wanted to tell this guy to let me go or kill me. “What does your boss want with me, then? Or us, if there are others.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said mysteriously.
I sighed. My throat felt so dry. I wanted some water. But I couldn’t let this guy know I had any weaknesses. “So, I’m just supposed to sit here, and wait? For what? Is this guy some murderer, or... pedi file?”
He gave me a hard, dangerous look. “I said, you’ll find out. Stop asking questions,” he ordered.
“If you were trapped in a small cage, you’d want answers too,” I snapped at him.
He shrugged and looked away, merely ending the conversation.
About an hour later, something buzzed. I looked over at the guy. He reached into his pocket and took out a walkie-talkie. “Yeah,” he said into it.
“Time to move her,” a man said on the other line.
“Got it covered,” he said, shoved the walkie-talkie into his pocket, got up from the floor and walked over to the box where the key lay. He picked it up and crouched in front of me, putting the key in the lock, unlocking it. Was he seriously letting me go?
He apparently saw the desperate look on my face. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he told me quietly. “I’m just moving you to another location.”
“What other location? Do I still have to stay in the cage?”
The lock unlocked, he took the key out and put it in his pocket. Then he opened the cage door, grabbed my arm with one hand, and dragged me out. It felt so good to stand up.
The guy still had his hand gripping my arm hard, and he led me out of the room. I looked around. Down the hallway was a set of stairs. He dragged me to the stairs and up them, there were a lot of doors on the second floor. He led me to about the fifth or sixth one on the right side of the hall, opened it, shoved me inside, came in himself, and closed the door behind him. I looked around. There was a one small bed in the middle of the room with a nightstand beside it. On the other side of the bed was a lamp. On the left side of the room was a door, probably a closet. The guy led me to the bed and sat me down on it. He crouched in front of me, still gripping my arm and reached to open the nightstand drawer. He took out handcuffs. I started squirming, trying to get away. No way was he handcuffing me. No way. But he held my arm tighter, reached to the bedpost and handcuffed my hand to it. My eyes started tearing up and I started sobbing. I didn’t want to seem weak, but I couldn’t help it.
“No,” I said, sobbing. “Please. Please don’t do this. Please let me go.”
He looked me right in the eye, and he actually looked apologetic, like he felt sorry for me. Then he broke his gaze and reached in the nightstand drawer again. Was he going to handcuff the other hand? I sobbed again.
This time his hand held a needle. Oh my God.
“No!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. “No, please! Don’t.”
His face was blank, he grabbed a hold of me again, hard to do while I was squirming, trying to get away from him. But I was handcuffed to the bed, nowhere to go. He firmly grabbed my arm and poised the needle.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, right before he shoved the needle in my arm. His face went blurry, and then everything went black.
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