Polar Opposites

Lana

One thing they don't tell you about imprisonment is the boredom. Now I am stronger again, second tick by like hours, and all I can do is sit in the bed and think.

Every once in a while, I go and stand up against the door, and try to listen out for any sort of voices. I try to memorise the times people go by, each person's steps.

I still can't discern anything though. I think I'm higher up in the building, seemingly in a corridor of other rooms. So far I've heard three different voices. The boy who took me up here, and two other men, who sound young, maybe a bit older than the boy.

They don't really talk about anything interesting. Just little snippets of conversation that cut off abruptly when they pass my door, and muffled greetings and goodbyes.

I wonder if the boy will come back. I don't think that he'll just leave me to whither. If not for moral causes, for the fact that him and his father clearly have some sort of revenge plan for me. If I'm honest, I would rather be the subject of some plot than sit in this room any longer. I will almost definitely regret saying that in the future, but at the moment it's really the truth.

                                     —----------------------------------------------------------------

It must be the third day of being entrapped in this cage that I manage to find what I've been looking for. I have searched endlessly for a lockpick. All the hours sitting in my bedroom back at home fiddling around with pins and locks to fill my boredom while my father was away on a trip has finally come to some use. Most teenage girls would laugh at the thought of doing that. It's a reclusive activity, not like going to a park with friends, or shopping at a centre. But I've always been fascinated with how things work. Which I suppose is part of the reason why I find this situation so frustrating. Because I have absolutely no clue as to what is going on.

But finally I have found what I need to escape this horrific scenario. It's a small square like pin, similar to that of a staple. It is sturdy, and appears to be one of those carpet pins that attach the carpet to the floorboard. There's no carpet now, but I found it stuck in the crack of one of the floorboards that line the rotting floor, and with time to kill, it did me no harm to search thoroughly.

Now, I creep up to the door that's barricaded me in here, and start to examine the lock. To my luck, it's simple, with little complexity in its locking mechanism. I press my ear to the door before starting, as it would not do me any favours to run straight into my captors. Silence. I smile to myself with a sense of smugness I haven't felt for a while.

I stick the staplesque pin into the lock and wriggle it around until I find the first set of pins. Slowly, I press my own pin over and under the row of pins, before wiggling it up and down, till I hear the welcoming click. I do the same again with the other three sets of pins until I hear the lock slowly pop open.

Tentatively, I place my hand onto the handle of the door and pull it towards me. I bite my lip as it makes a creak, hoping no one heard it. Still silence. I push the door open further and squeeze through the gap I left for myself, before gently closing the door behind me so as not to raise any suspicions.

I'm quite happy to see that my predictions are correct. I'm in a long bare corridor about 6 feet wide, with heavy black doors embedded into the walls all the way down. At the end of the corridor, a set of stairs spiral down, well-used and squeaky. There are no windows in the corridor apart from the skylight above me, which handily tells me that it's about 2 in the afternoon. Not the ideal time for a great escape, but it will have to do.

Cautiously I slink down the corridor towards the stairs, sticking to the shadows as if they would somehow protect me. Once I reach the staircase, I peer down to see if there's anyone waiting at the bottom. To my luck it's empty.

Just as I'm about to take the first step, I hear a cold voice sneer behind me.

'Wouldn't go down there if I were you.'

I freeze and slowly turn towards the speaker. In a different situation it would be almost comical, like a dog caught stealing the biscuits.

The boy, who is becoming a very familiar face to me, is stood by one of the doors in the corridor, about 10m away. His mouth is curled into a slight smirk, arms crossed over his chest as if he was a teacher telling off their pupil.

'How long have you been there?' I ask, my voice cracking after being unused for so long. He, however, sees it as a sign of fear, and his smile spreads even further across his face.

'Since you came out of your room.' he smarms, 'Which I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be in right now, huh?'

'So you've just been toying with me then?' I spit, 'Is this all just some sort of twisted game to you?'

His eyes grow cold, and he takes a step towards me.

'You think too much of yourself. I don't toy with things I'm going to break. And I will break you.' Anger flashes across his eyes. 'This is no more of a game to me than it is to you. This is justice being served. To you.'

'Justice?' I scorn, 'Justice? Your father killed my mum, and then tried to kill me. All for revenge. Because my Dad found out how crappy of a person he was. That he killed his own wife. He's the one who deserves justice.'

'Is that really what you think happened?'

'What- what do you mean?' I falter, suddenly a sense of unease washing over me.

'I pity you. Really I do. You're clearly too naive, too gullible, to know that that is not the truth.'

'That is the truth.' I tremble. 'I'm not scared of your lies.'

'Yet why do your hands tell a different story?'

I look down at my hands, realising they are tightly clenched into fists, practically shaking with terror and rage.

He makes a snort, almost like the start of a laugh, and walks the remaining metres towards me.

'Are you going to go back to your room?' he asks. From anyone else's mouth it would be a question, but his undertone suggests it's not really a choice. I don't move and he steps even closer. 'Or do I have to make you?'

He reaches towards my wrist, but I jerk my hand away.

'Don't touch me.' I snarl, but as much as I try, I can't keep the fear out of my voice.

'Then move.' he orders.

I do move, but it's to punch him in the stomach, before I turn and sprint down the stairs.

'For fucks sake!' I hear him wheeze, before he begins his pursuit after me. I reach the bottom of the stairs and head towards the nearest door, which to my luck leads outside. He's still winded, and is barely at the bottom of the stairs before I'm out the door.

Finally, I am free.