"Can I phone a friend first?"
Dreams are weird.
There's a thousand people who will spit out different theories for a single night trip and who knows, maybe one of those people get it on the nose, but in reality, it's just something in the brain firing off a billion things at once. It's a jumble of your thoughts or maybe deepest fears thrown up onto a canvas, but that's probably just another theory, only partially backed by science, so no one really knows why you dream the things you do. But they're uncontrollable, unpredictable, and for the most part, random, that much everyone knows for sure.
Daydreams are all your own.
You can zone out and make up any scenario you want, it can range from planning someone's demise to fantasizing about a life with your current crush and everything in between. They're fun, and a harmless way to pass the time, but often have left you with a feeling of emptiness when you realize most of them could never come true.
"Hate to mess up such a pretty face." He sneered, ignoring your question, and gliding the blade down your cheek.
In these situations, when all hope seems gone, your mind doesn't let you escape from it in some daydream. Your instincts and training immediately kick into full survival mode and sure, they'll get a few hits in, but the second they give you even a hint of a way out, you'll take it. All it took was a distraction, a word, a location, or any other glimmer of hope in the past to pull you out of the dark and snap you into action.
So, you smiled back at him, portraying amusement when your heart was hammering in your chest, your brain taking in every detail of your surroundings as your eyes subtly fed it the information.
He narrowed his eyes angrily down at the smug quirk of your lips and then picked up the pliers, pulling his arm back and then swinging to smash it across your face. You turned your head upon impact, the throbbing in your skull unbearable as the ringing in your ears blared, and then braced yourself before spitting blood out onto his face when you turned back. He wiped it off with one swipe, shaking his head in disappointment, and glancing down at his hand before peering back up at you with a small grin.
"Think you're funny, sweetheart?"
You innocently shrugged the best you could in this position, and he lifted the knife again, pulling the table closer so he could set his tools on it. He then charged at you with the knife and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the blow, but then his phone went off right before it pierced your skin.
He groaned in frustration, fishing it out of his pocket and putting it up to his ear.
"What?" He demanded angrily, his eyes scanning your figure, and licking his lips as he listened.
You scrunched your face in disgust and looked away until he slammed the knife on the table, pointing at you.
'Don't move.' He mouthed, taking the gun out from the back of his waistband and tapping the barrel on your forehead in warning before leaving, shouting into the phone something about a transfer.
You eyed the knife that was half hanging off the table, thrown down in haste, and noticed it wasn't that far away. Your hands were tied up, but he neglected to strap your legs down.
This was the glimmer.
You tip toed, because that's all you could do, back and held yourself up by your wrists to try to swing forward, bending your knees. You didn't get far, and it hurt like hell, but it worked, so you repeated the motion, inching closer.
You could hear him on the phone, and you knew you didn't have much time, but you stayed calm and kept trying.
You'd get so close, your feet almost reaching the table, and then just slipping out of grasp.
