The Accused

Brooklyn

I couldn't believe it. I still can't. I stare at the empty doorway of the damp room. Then back at my hands. They were bound tightly. So were my legs. I couldn't focus. God. What had he said his name was? Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown who had jeopardized my whole life. Though existence would have been a better word. My life as of now consisted of today, and today consisted of waking up in this place, with hands and legs bound and a gag in my mouth and being told I had killed someone. Who? I didn't bother asking. Mostly because that crucial piece of information didn't penetrate my heavily drugged mind. Brown said my name is Brooklyn. Honestly at this point I don't know what to believe. I start hyperventilating. Asthma. No inhaler. I panic. The coughing is getting worse. Calm down. Deep breaths. Okay. First things first. Get out of this dump. I look around. Nothing. I reach down and try to free my legs. Needless to say, that didn't work. Instead I fell head first onto the floor. I touch my forehead and winced; it was sticky with blood. Groaning I somehow manage to sit up. Then my eyes fell on a blunt hammer. It wasn't here before. Either it appeared magically or my mind was too drugged to notice it. The somewhat still sane side of me told me it was the latter. My fingers groped for the weapon. It took me quite some time to perform the simple task, understandably. My head was spinning. I was coughing up blood. Somehow with the hammer in my hand, I crawled over to the only window of the room. I stuck my head out and saw the vague silhouette of a man.  Mr. Brown. Slowly it disappeared round the corner and from my life.

Summoning all my strength, I swung at the window pane with my hammer. Next thing I knew, glass shards are flying everywhere. I held my arms up to shield my face but feel the sharp shards scratching my arms. After the shower of glass, I slowly tear away my trembling hands from my bloody face. My breath is coming out in ragged gasps now. I grab the nearest shard and with much usage of colourful words manage to cut myself free. It was then that I noticed that my left leg was bent at a funny angle. I try to move it and pain flares up my calf. Tears start to well up in my eyes. No. I'm not crying. I stood up shakily. My leg buckled under my weight but didn't give away. As I tried to walk I stumbled a little. I walked through the open doorway and peered down. An endless flight of stairs led to the unknown. I wasn't going to make it with my broken leg. It was impossible. But I didn't really have too many options. I took a deep breath and plunged in. Turns out the flight wasn't quite as long as I had imagined. With a lot of cursing, stumbling and falling I finally reached the end of the flight. There was a rusty door. Unlocked, weirdly. Maybe they thought I'd never make it out. My fingers wrapped around the ancient doorknob and twisted it. I felt the cold night air on my face as I took in everything. Not that there was a lot to take in. It was a deserted driveway. No streetlights. My footsteps echoed as I surveyed my surroundings . The nearby houses were quiet and silent. Eerie in the pitch black darkness of this  night. I exhaled. I knew I had to go somewhere. Not too concerned with where I began walking.