TWISTED

THREE; VINCENT'S WAY

THREE; VINCENT'S WAY

The pain to my head and neck is what caused me to stir from my comfortable unconsciousness. I hissed at the aching in my locked joints as I slowly lifted my head from its hanging down position. I yanked my limbs to stretch them, but I found that my stiff body was tied to an old wooden chair in the middle of room with steel walls. The only light source was a single light bulb swinging ominously from the ceiling, and there was one door on the wall farthest from me. I couldn't spot any cameras or signs that anyone, besides me, had been here, so I began wiggling in the chair to free myself. When minutes passed by and I gained no freedom, I exhaled sharply through my nose because I knew what I would have to do.

I hesitantly started to rock the chair back and forth on its legs, until I became fed up with what little progress my hesitancy and fear was getting me. I cursed under my breath, then flung my body backwards, and with all my force, broke the back and arms of the chair. I winced at the pain that shot through my head, then felt a warm trickle spill down the side of my face. I removed the broken arms of the chair from the ties around my wrists, pulled off the rope and touched my temple, only to have my fingers come back deep red with blood. I wiped it on my arm and stood, grabbing a piece of the broken chair to use as protection, if I would need it.

"That fucking bitch," I whispered to myself, anger boiling through me at the thought of California. "If I get out of here, she's the first thing I'm stabbing."

My hand reached the steel doorknob, and I waited a few breathing seconds before opening it and pushing into the hallway. I glanced to my left and right, and when no person or object made an appearance, I decided to go right and carefully made my way down the dimly lit passage. I squeezed the wooden piece in my hand, ignoring the cracking and splintering that had begun thanks to the tightness in my grip. The hallway ended, leading to a staircase that showed light at the top, which had to come from an exit. A pair of footsteps echoed behind me, and I whirled around to find one of Vincent's men, Jake, standing against the wall watching me, a newly lit cigarette between his fingers.

"You're a clever little thing," he said, brown eyes trailing over me. "Most people don't make it out of the chair."

I only looked at him, noting every move he would make. I even counted how many times he took a draw from his cigarette. Jake and I had a stare down for a long time, each of us trying to depict who would make the first move. He threw aside his cigarette, then stood in a fight stance, fists held out dramatically like a cartoon character.

"Well, c'mon then, sweetheart." He waved me over with a smirk on his lips. "Let's see if you know how to punch."

I lunged for Jake's smug face, tackling him to the ground. He fought back the moment I did so, reaching for my arms and neck with his hands. I punched him once across the jaw, then did my best to jab him with the wood piece. Jake blocked most of my blows and yanked the piece from my surprised hand, and he held the pointy end at my throat. I froze and smiled down at him, laughing under my breath.

He smiled, too, pushing the pointed end in deeper. "You're a feisty one. It's turning me on."

"You're a pig." I bent my knee and nailed him right in the balls.

Jake groaned and, instinctively, moved his hands to cover the sore spot, giving me the opportune moment to get away. I kicked him in the ribs twice and once in the head--just because I was a bitch--then started to run for the stairs. A calloused hand wrapped around my ankle and pulled, causing me to scrape my arms on the stairs and whack my ribs into the edges. I was dragged under Jake's body, only this time, he pinned my legs under his. His bleeding smile made me scrunch my upper lip in disgust, but it vanished into a frown when he held a gun to my temple. I reached up to grasp his neck, but he wrapped his hand around mine and shoved it to the concrete ground. I groaned when his fingers began to crush the bones in my hand. We glared at each other for a long period of time before I grabbed his other hand, the one holding the gun, and stared him dead in the eyes.