I feel my lungs caving in, the muscles in my legs coming to a shuddering halt. Sobbing uncontrollably, struggling to breathe, I collapse into a heap on the wet ground. It's useless. It's completely hopeless. There's no point running anymore. There's...
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If someone came to me on the streets a few weeks ago and told me that in the span of a week I would attempt suicide three times, be kidnapped by a maniac for reasons still unbeknownst to me, and forced into a game of psychological warfare.
Well honestly, I would probably believe them.
There's a lot you don't know about me, and a lot that I don't want you to know about me. But to put it into simpler terms, I would say that I am very unlucky.
And it seems my luck is yet to change.
It is easy to see that the women seated around the table are handpicked. Exotic beauties in each of their own ways.
It would not surprise me that he picks his victims out like dolls on a shelf.
An woman sits to my closest right, chewing the inside of her cheek nervously. Her bronzed cheekbones shine in the light. To my left a young brunette woman mumbles profanities in a language I don't fully understand. Beside her, another woman with shoulder-length hair the colour of smouldering embers; a frown firmly wedged between her brows.
I chance a look at the last member at the table. A harsh breath escapes me. In the final chair sits a young girl, a very young girl, who couldn't be much older than thirteen. Scratch marks cover the entire right side of her face. I can she's been badly injured, but I can't see much more behind the waterfall of black hair that cloaks half her face.
I furrow my eyebrows. She's just about the same age as...
My attention slides to the mumbling woman, who spurs to life with a frustrated growl. "Can someone shut her up?" Her accent is obvious. The brunette flicks her head up, though no one else can see her. Her lips are painted an ostentatious bright purple, contrasting to her soft, tanned looks.
"Who are you talking about?" The red-haired woman pipes up. She's different from the brunette, her features are sharper - almost alien. With a straight nose, high cheekbones and lips a fresh shade of pink; she's a picture of beauty. This beauty is only enhanced by the short locks of amber-coloured hair which barely dust below the line of her chin.
"The whimpering bitch across the table," the first woman spits. "If she wheezes one more time, I'm gonna slap her."
My eyes follow her directions towards the small girl, who now whimpers softly with her eyes tightly shut behind the blindfold; her nose crinkled. Her mouth opens and closes with each strained breath.
A similar thing used to happen to my brother.
"Cut her some slack, she's only a kid," I sigh, and reluctantly add, "And I think, she has asthma."
The brunette strikes fast. "And how do you know that, all-seeing bitch?"
