In For It.

Captivity

You woke up drowsier than usual and you could barely feel your legs. You rise from your pillow and look down at your disheveled state, your hair way more frizzy and matted, your skin sticky from dried sweat, and you look over to the side of your bed to find some charms missing from your crocs... somehow.

The effects of last night soon come rushing back to you. Some details you couldn't help but repress from the trauma. You could barely believe all that happened.

What you did believe was that you may no longer be safe just walking the streets. The Prowler could be peering into your room right now. Nevermind that it's daytime and people are out, ready for work. If he wants to find you, he will.

If he... wants to... find—

You remember why you were so stressed going to bed last night. Not just because you were sure you're now tangled up in something way beyond you, but because you deduced that Miles had been the Prowler. And Miles knew where you lived.

You remember your parents and the thought of them— or any member of your family— coming in harm's way because you were being hormonal and decided to follow some guy petrified you. Hesitantly, you shoved yourself off the bed and stood. Your legs are crazy sore, the heels of your feet are red and your hamstrings feel like they're trying to jump out of your thighs. You take two steps and it feels like you're walking on nails.

You try to gather yourself, preparing to go downstairs to see if your parents are home. You crack open your door as quietly as possible and you tip-toe to the stairs. You hear a faint sizzling sound. Your mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion it can think up.

Has he set mom and dad on fire?

As you trail carefully— fearfully— down the steps at a steady rate, you think of how embarrassing it'll be if no one's even there and—

Oh, it's just your mother frying bacon. The conclusion you came to becoming more embarrassing each passing second. Your dad was seated at the kitchen island, comfortable on a swivel stool. They both look up when they hear you come down. Neither of them seem to pick up on your underlying uneasiness.

"Hey hon', morning," your mother greets you warmly, "Made you breakfast." You look over to the counter and see a plate of irregularly shaped pancakes and some freshly done bacon with a plastic plate cover over it.

"Rise and shine," your father drolly acknowledges you, you roll your eyes at his antics, "We're working early again today so we're about ready to leave, 'kay?" He chats you up more seriously. You know that means lock the door and pick up the phone when they call you. You've been over this since the rise in crime and spike in prices— the driving force of why your parents work this much.

"Yeah, uh—" you're cut off by a knock on the door, unable to tell your parents how you didn't wanna stay alone today. Or ever again. Your father ups and leaves the kitchen, a clear sign he's not up to speak with the person at the door. "Oh I'll get it." Your mother decides, she dries her hands in a kitchen towel and heads for the door. You're unmoving— this is really a bad habit of yours. The fear you experienced last night comes crashing back down on you. Should you tell her not to? Should you run? It's not him, no way.

With the ruckus going on in your head, you look to the floor. Until you hear her open with 'oh goodness, hi!'

You look to the door and it's exactly what you were afraid of. Miles is standing there, smiling softly at your mother. She doesn't quite invite him in, just stands at chats with him by the door. "Miles! How are you? We haven't heard from you in so long, how's your mother? You look so different!"