C a p t u r e d

7: Broken Shards

Chapter Seven- Broken Shards

blood

1. The red liquid that flows through the bodies of people and animals

2. A vital or animating force; lifeblood.

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Adrenaline circled through my veins.

Was this where I would die? Or was this my new world?

Surprisingly, I was feeling a bit manic. I knew that I could take on this vampire bitch. All I had to do was stab him.

My mind was whirring. I opened the iron-clad kitchen doors, but they were locked. Then I padded down the hallway- away from where Tyson went.

I needed something sturdy. Something to keep me safe. Preferably a sharp weapon.

The walls around me seemed to suffocate. Small lights hung from the ceilings. Abstract art was coiled around the furniture. Tiny windows were etched into the walls.

As I searched through enormous chests of knickknacks and ancient antiques, my body trembled incessantly. I felt dizzy.

Maybe it would all end here. No... Maybe I should end it all here.

If I found a blade or a shotgun, it might not get me out of here. But I would definitely be able to try and hurt him.

That sounded nice, even. Welcoming. Stepping into a new, cold embrace.

And Tyson wanted my blood, right? I'd let it drip right out of his skin. That'd be the perfect way to fuck him over.

Unfortunately, no weapons were in sight. I took to pinching my arm, over and over, hard enough to draw blood.

F. U. C. K. T. Y. S. O. N.

Seriously. Fuck him. Where the hell were the weapons?

I locked myself inside one of the downstairs rooms. I listened to soft murmurs as footsteps crept back and forth. I studied the little space, concluding it to be a closet.

Brown hooks protruded from the walls. Multiple robes hung from them, all dark and picturesque. Each one was an antique. Must have been a million dollars each.

A desk stood in the corner, white as a dove's feathered ass. Cartons of pens and sketchpads littered its surface. The walls were painted a deep maroon, like blood.

But the scariest part about the room was on the walls. On all four, thousands of tiny pictures, messy sketches hung. Frame after frame was decorated with ribbons and precious jewels.

I stood up from my perch on the side of the bathtub, touching each picture. Some were of young girls. Others were of elderly men. As I skimmed past each one, the diversity of ages and races was apparent. Lines were written below each picture, in rushed scrawl.

Acacius. Trader. 20 CE-63 CE.

Kichiro. Captain aboard immigration ship, 1832.

Nergüi. Neighbor in Magnolia and Donor from 1155-1167.

Ji. Sister.

I studied the last picture, my eyes widening. The woman was in her fifties. Her eyes were shaded in deeply, like she had no pupils. A deep scowl contorted her face. It reminded me vaguely of my own parents.