Polar Opposites

Lana

I'm cold. So cold. It feels like days since the boy stitched me up, although I'm sure it's only been a few hours. My body trembles, with cold or with fear I cannot tell, but I lie on the ground shaking into the hard stone floor. My toes feel like ice blocks, and I wouldn't be surprised if they drop off altogether. They might as well have done, seeing the amount of pain I'm in. My lips are cracked and bleeding with dehydration and my throat crackles dryly every time I inhale.

The memories of... last night?... are coming back slowly, though I still don't know who's keeping me here. I remember entering the forest. My dad had sent me in to install some cameras, and try to gather any information on the people who might be in here. Five minutes in, and we were ambushed. I remember being tied up and then dragged somewhere. The rest is all gone, presumably due to the head injury.

I still can't get over what that boy said - that they have "other plans for me". My dad has lots of enemies but what could they do with me? It's not like dad likes me that much. I remind him too much of my mother. She perished in a fire when I was a newborn. They managed to resuscitate me, by some sort of miracle, but she was... too far gone. I think Dad would have found it easier if we had both died. He loves me, but I'm a constant reminder of what we used to have.

Just then, I hear the sharp screech of the key in the door. This person seems older, less agile, as they walk down the stairs. As soon as he's stood in front of me, everything clicks into place.

He smiles as the recognition washes over my face. The smile does not reach his eyes.

'Good evening Lana. I trust you are enjoying your stay?' he says sarcastically.

I want to lunge at him, but my legs are weak from hunger and pain. Instead I launch a globule of spit at his feet. He smiles at my small attempt of rebellion.

'Well that's not how you treat your host, is it?' he mocks. 'I've given you shelter, a place to sleep and this is how you treat me?'

I want to rip that smile off his face, but both my physical capability and self-preservation tells me not to.

'What do you want?' I hiss.

'I have a proposal for you.'

'Like a would take a deal from a cold blooded murderer,' I spit out.

He winces at my blatancy. 'I prefer not to refer to myself that way.'

'Oh sorry, arsonist? Mother-killer? Abuser?'

All signs of humour have left his face now.

'Listen to me. I can get rid of you easily. No trace left behind. Heck, I could do it right now. But I'm offering you a second chance at life. You help me out, and maybe, you stay breathing a bit longer. It's as simple as that.

'So, you can sign your death warrant, or agree to do what I say.'

I stay quiet but I'm seething inside. He rises to his feet, and looks down at me from my position on the floor. I'm as pale as a sheet, my hair stringy and broken, clothes black with mud. The floor around me stinks of faeces and vomit. I am the picture of weakness, and he knows it.

'Glad we sorted that out,' he snickers. He returns up the steps and locks me back in.

I would never help that man. Ever. But I've spotted an opportunity. If I work with him, I can worm inside his organisation - I can learn how it works. And when he least expects it, I'll burn it down from the inside-out.