They call it Stockholm syndrome.
Thrashing, I awoke to the pungent smell of alcohol and cigarettes. A shadow hid, cackling in the cobbled corner of the basement wall. A flash of silver caught my eye as the figure intruded my space.
"Colly only girls whimper, are you too chicken to face me?"
I was momentarily blinded by shock as he swung at me, toppling over, forming a cage-like stature around my body, the dagger now hovering above my lower abdomen.
Swirling patterns, jagged lines all were traced onto the canvas of my skin. Wild eyes. I cried in agony, the pain unbearable as steel met skin.
It soon subsided as the blood gushed out of my wounds. Though a different case was to be said for my emotional scarring, the cuts would never be healed, the fragments I had lost in myself never surfacing for repair, not after him.
I was left to die in the dingy cellar.
YOU ARE READING
Hostage
Short StoryIn the mysterious world of Collin Edge, a cherished girlfriend and a crafty lunatic he must overcome the adversities in his life. Throw in the element of capture and his past and walk along the chill watched path of a boy who was merely in the wrong...
