Where Dreams Lay

[twenty eight]

[twenty eight] "don't get to close. It's dark inside, it's where my demons hide." -imagine dragons

My first reaction would be to scream, but I don't.

My eyes flutter open and I slowly start to realize what state I am in:

My hands—tied to arm rests of a wooden chair. Feet—also tied to the chair, with rope, might I add. Mouth—tapped shut.

Now I know why yelling out for someone wasn't an option.

I start to wiggle back and forth, hoping the movement will loosen the knots. It doesn't do a damn thing.

My breathing picks up and my heart rate quickens. I start to lose my control, shaking around like a wild animal caught up in chains.

That's what it feels like: chains. It's almost like someone took the freedom to talk, to move, or even stand from me. And the worst part is that I have no clue who did this.

After about five minutes of attempting to break free, I give up and let my head fall back. A single tear escapes each eye. I shut them both, and slow my breathing. There isn't anything for me to do. It's pitch black, with no way of me knowing what kind of area I am in. No way of even knowing what lies a foot away from me.

My eyes snap open when I hear a sound. Fright enters my body and there's no way for me to stop it. I'm going to die. Right here. Right now. This can't be happening.

Another sound fills the silence. I recognize it: a door being open and closed. Someone is here. A person—or multiple people—is coming near me. How do I know? Well, because the footsteps someone is making cause the floor to create an echoing sound. And it's getting louder and louder and louder . . .

A light flickers on and I can finally see something besides darkness. It's only a small yellow bulb above my head, dangling from the ceiling. There's enough light for me to see a pair of black combat boots step into it. A pair that belongs to someone I recognize, but can't put my finger on.

"Isn't it nice to see a familiar face? Makes you feel more . . . safe. Doesn't it?" His voice is sarcastic and harsh at the same time. I groan in annoyance and try again to force my way out of this rope.

This only makes him chuckle. The man steps closer by about a foot, and hold his hand behind his back. Now, the light is shining fully on his body. I see his face clearly, and I cannot believe what I see. He is wearing a black leather jacket—and not just any black jacket.

"Paris Anderson." He says. "Eldest of four. Daughter of Lydia and Dave Anderson. A fool who can't put the pieces together." He smiles mockingly and I furrow my eyebrows, breathing heavily.

I attempt to say something back, but it comes out as a growl. He cups on ear and says, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that. Can you repeat please?"

I scream into the tape and force my body out of the chair, but unfortunately not getting too far.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, "How does it feel . . . to not have a say? To not have any power to speak your mind and tell the world what you want?" He starts to circle around me slowly, "How does it feel, for you to see me talk and not be able to even say one word back, no matter how hurtful or wrong I sound?! To be small and speechless! To be hiding in the shadows, with no one caring to look through that darkness for you! How does that feel?!"

He stops in front of me, with only a few centimeters separating my nose and his. His eyes are full of fury and hatred. I hold back the tears. I am strong enough for this shit.