The Villian and the Victim

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 2 (v.1)

Submitted: January 02, 2012

Reads: 110

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 02, 2012





Waking up was not pleasant. I mean, if it’s a school day and it’s at five or six in the morning, it sucks. But this was beyond that. This was waking up with a headache straight from Hell, with an added bonus of peculiarly fuzzy vision. As I raised my arm with groggy, slow motions to wipe my eyes, my arms seeming heavier than normal, I heard the sound of grating metal. I froze. The noise stopped. Experimentally, I moved my arm again. The noise repeated. Frowning, I scrubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands, ignoring the noise.  Pulling my hands away, and letting them drop to the ground, I blinked, squinting until the blurriness entirely cleared.

“Well, fuck.” Not the first words that come to mind when you imagine what you’d say, finding that what used to be just an odd noise was actually the sound of chains, that happened to be connected to you. Or maybe you would say that. I thought it was automatic to just cry. But the only thing I felt was shock, numb panic, and, thank God I was still myself, sarcasm. What would Mommy Dearest think now? Would she be a little more thankful to have me? No doubt, she would cry. And I mean, really, there is no doubt; she’s a crier. Fighting the urge to break down myself, figuring I could save that for my ‘last moments’ or whatever they called them on the news, I looked around and almost laughed. Except for the chains, the attic I was in was truly adorable, if a little dusty. There were these old, flower-print thin as paper curtains covering the single window in the room. The stairs down to the rest of the house were perfectly furnished, and there were two other doors on the wall to my left. True, the wallpaper was cracking and starting to fade, but all in all, it was a nice attic.

I tried to remember last night as best I could, with this raging headache. I had seen that creep that usually hung around there, the one who supposedly was in my grade, but had yet to be seen inside the school since fourth grade. He was taking ridiculously long trying to seduce the elderly cashier woman into letting him shoplift, so I forfeited my Twinkie and walked away from the line. Being careful to stay out from under the store’s fluorescent lights, I watched the man and another young girl talking by the edge of the parking lot. As he reached out to touch her, she backed up and simultaneously swatted his hand away, turned, and walked away. The look on his face sent an unexpected shock of terror through me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

He was angry, that much was obvious. But also.... Hurt. Resentful. Jesus, we were twins. I definitely knew that feeling. Counting out four beats in my head before walking out of the store, I knew I was being stupid. I knew the possible outcomes of talking to strange men in dark parking lots. I had told my mother to go home without me; I wanted to walk. Really, I had just wanted the damn Twinkie. Look how that worked out.

I walked out in near slow motion, waiting for him to notice me. When he finally did, I had walked to the edge of the curb, pretending not to see him. Of course, I didn’t just blurt out, “Hello, what horrible traumatic event turned you into a monster?” But I had wanted to ask. I wanted to understand. I played dumb, all the way up until he asked me to help him get something out of the back of his car. Then, for a moment, the mask slipped. I was surprised, maybe even afraid. Regaining my composure, I smiled and tried to make my eyes twinkle with innocence. I had said something, the equivalent to an agreement. And just after that… I don’t remember. Jerk probably hit me from behind. Shaking my head and curling my hands into fists of anger, I pulled myself to my feet after several tries to fight off wooziness. Walking to the banister, never letting go of the wall or the railing, I looked over the edge of the banister. The door at the bottom of the stairs was open. ‘Really,’ I asked myself. ‘How easy could he make it?’ Just as I made it to the top of the stairs, the shackles on my feet and arms quit, yanking me to a stop. “Oh,” I said out loud, into air.

“Well, might as well get his attention…” Screaming from the top of the stairs, I imagine his neighbors weren’t going to be rooting for me, with the racket I was making. I wanted him to know right off the bat; he had kidnapped the wrong person. Grabbing an ancient-looking rusty knife from the back of the attic, I came back to the top of the stairs just as much larger footsteps were coming to greet me. “Be quiet,” he hissed, sounding more desperate than angry. I took in his appearance, and once again had to stifle a laugh. His thin hair was in every direction, he was wearing a ratty old bathrobe that looked like he had it because no one else wanted it, and his glasses where hanging off one ear.  Had I really been that loud? Impressive.

Scowling, I growled while wielding the knife in front of me, “Listen buddy. You took the wrong girl. Tell me right now where I am!” Instead of bumbling and stuttering, he simply said, with a mix of surprise and hatred, seemingly at the knife, “You found the knife.” The knife? As in, he only owned one? Cocking my head, watching him, I asked, “What?” in a sharp, overly loud voice.  He jumped slightly, and seemed freakishly jumpy. Like, crack addict jumpy.

A slight ripple of guilt went through me. I had provoked this, made it happen. Wincing, I smiled apologetically, and handed him the knife. In case you’re wondering if I made that up for comedic value, no I didn’t. I’m really that stupid. The second he got the knife in his hands, it was like his whole demeanor changed. He glared down at me, with surprising levels of intimidation and fury. I barely caught the threat he hissed at me, before I felt a searing pain in my side.

Now, most people don’t understand the full meaning of searing. It was beyond hot pain, but at the same time ice cold. It was fast, and it nearly put me in shock. Staring down at the clean cut on my shoulder, now beginning to seep blood, I looked back up at him. “What the hell was that for, man?!” Backing up just avoiding the knife he now held in front of my voice, he snapped, “You do not touch this knife, ever. Get back upstairs. Now.” At my hesitation, my mind still fuzzy from the experience, he screamed it in my face, loud enough to make walls shake. “NOW!”

With a yelp of fear that I at first wasn’t sure was from me, I raced back up the stairs, nearly tripping on the chain. Sitting in the farthest corner I could get to, shaking like a leaf in the wind, I blinked back tears that poured down my face anyway. Whimpering pathetically, I realized just how bad the situation I had gotten myself into was. For some reason, some strange cosmic force told me to look up, right out the window. I saw the corner of a brown-shingled roof that was cracked in places, and looked oddly familiar. And on the window there was my painting I had done- Wait. My mind flooded with thought at this small detail. My house was right next-door.

Groaning dejectedly, I tipped my head back against the wall and stared unblinkingly out the window. Meanwhile, the part of my brain still semi-functioning was laughing it’s ass off at me. All I could think was, ‘you tried to escape, and ultimately ended up twenty feet away? Really?’ On the other hand, I wasn’t entirely surprised. This would be something I had the potential to run into. Laughing silently, I smiled at the pure strangeness of the entire situation, feeling the pull of my skin under dried tears.

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