Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

EAT IT, TWILIGHT

TARA

Kidnapped.

I'd been bloody kidnapped.

How in the name of God did I manage to get myself kidnapped?

Of all the stupid things I'd done in my life, this had to be the worst.

"You were on a date with your boyfriend," my brain offered, ever the helpful voice of reason.

Right. But that still didn't explain why I was now stuck in a damp, windowless basement, strapped to a metal chair that could only have been designed by Satan himself to cause maximum discomfort.

It was utterly ridiculous.

This was ridiculous

In all my eighteen years, I had survived being hunted through the woods like some kind of bleeding rabbit, rabid dogs snapping at my heels, men with bows and hunting rifles chasing me like it was a sport. I'd been stabbed more times than I cared to count, choked nearly to death by my da, and endured six failed attempts on my life by my own ma. Drugged, raped, whipped within an inch of my life, and carved up like a Halloween pumpkin. Yet somehow, despite all that, I was still here. Still alive. Still pissing everyone off with my existence.

And now? Now, I'd gone and let myself get kidnapped in a stupid car accident, without even so much as throwing a punch. What a pathetic, miserable way to end up in a basement.

"Natasha Romanoff, if you're out there watching this, just know I don't normally let myself get kidnapped this easily," I muttered, trying to inject some humor into the hopelessness of the situation. I was dragging the Black Widow's name through the muck in this bleeding basement.

Quit whining.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I shot back, dripping with sarcasm. "I'm just tied to a chair with absolutely fuck all to do."

You could focus on figuring out how to escape,

"That's what I've been doing for the past four days!" I snapped.

Try harder.

"Fuck off," I muttered under my breath.

I glanced around the dimly lit room for the thousandth time, trying to find something I'd missed—a crack in the wall, a loose pipe, a miracle escape route hidden behind a pile of dust. Nothing. No clues as to where I was or who had taken me. But I could hear the sound of water rushing beyond the walls, so I reckoned we were near the coast. It's Ireland, after all. The sea's never too far away.

The single light above me was harsh, blindingly white, like something you'd see in a hospital operating room. It made it damn near impossible to get any decent sleep. I had to wonder, was this some sort of psychological torture? Couldn't they have gone with the classic dark and dingy basement look where you couldn't see shite? I'd prefer that to this wannabe surgery room.

At least there were no rats or cockroaches down here. I would've lost my mind if I saw one of those fuckers scuttling around. But the place still deserved a solid dock in points—no food in sight. Basic fucking human rights, yeah? You'd think kidnappers would at least throw a piece of stale bread my way. Whoever these people were, they clearly skipped the "Hostage Care" chapter in the Kidnapping 101 manual. I was sure it would've said that you had to feed your hostage, even if it was just some cold, disgusting shite.

"Would it have killed them to chain me to the floor like normal kidnappers?" I grumbled to myself. Nope, I had to be tied to a metal chair, one that was murdering my back inch by inch.

"Oi! Can you at least get me a fucking pillow?" I shouted at the walls, knowing full well no one would answer. "This chair's killing me. At this rate, my arse is going to be flatter than a pancake, and I'm quite fond of it, thanks! My best friends even calls it a national treasure. I'd like to keep it that way!"