Polar Opposites

Lana

The door opens just as I'm about to drift off into a sleep. I keep my eyes closed for a bit, not wanting to face up to whatever's coming next. The person in the room clears their throat cautiously, and then once again, with more force.

Slowly, I crack my eyes open, to find Matty standing over me, an odd expression plastered across his face. He looks almost scared. I try to sit up, and groan a bit under the stress of the movement.

'You're hurt.' He states.

'Yes.' I say back cautiously, unaware if the game he is playing.

'Do you remember what happened?' He blurts out, unable to keep up the pleasantries anymore.

Now I understand what he's doing. He wants me, he needs me, to have forgotten. So he and his father can continue with whatever twisted little plan they have in store for me. Given the fact that I'm still alive, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not here to be killed, but it's obvious they've got something up their sleeve.

'No.' I lie, 'What happened?'

A brief look of confusion flashes across his face, followed by relief, before he reverts back to his stony expression.

'You tried to escape again.' He says slowly, 'And you fell down the stairs. Bumped your head pretty hard.'

'Oh.' I say, but inside I'm seething.

For a second I want to get up and shout at him. Scream that I know it was him that did this to me. But I remember my reason for innocence. They need me to trust them, for whatever reason, and I wonder what use I would have to them if I didn't. At the moment, this is the best chance I have at staying alive. And getting out of here. I have to get out of here. The only way I can do that is by gaining his trust. Turning his own tactics against him. It clear that trying to break out won't do me any favours. I need him to let me out.

'Serves you right.' He says coldly. 'You shouldn't have tried to get out in the first place.'

He plays his part perfectly. Radiating the hate off his body. Looking at me as if he could kill me. I'm sure he could, but the fact that he's gone to all this trouble makes me think that it's it too likely to happen. Death, however, is in no way the worst think someone can do to you.

'Well maybe if you hadn't fucking kidnapped me, I wouldn't have to try and get out.' I spit back at him.

'Enough.' He says sharply. 'Take these.' He throws a bundle of old clothes at me. 'Don't try and do anything stupid. Just sit... and rest.'

He says the bit with a bit more softened, and turns and walks over to the door.

'Thank you.' I say quietly.

He turns back and studies my face, as if he's trying to look into my soul, before leaving the room, and shutting the door firmly behind him, turning through key in the lock.

I wait a few minutes before getting changes until the clothes, making sure he doesn't come back when I'm exposed. I slip into the baggy t-shirt, ignoring the pain that sparks up all of the cells in my body. As I step into the pyjama trousers he's given me, a small piece of folded paper falls out of one of the pockets. Sneaking a look back at the door, I unfold the paper and read what's writing on it.

'IM NOT EVIL' is scrawled messily again and again over the paper, the ink running in some places as if it has been splashed with water, each stroke of the pen almost cutting through the paper, as if the writer had slashed it with a knife.

Silently, I fold the paper back; and place it under my mattress.

I understand.