Stockholm Syndrome

"It's been a week already. Somebody's going to end up figuring it out." My confidence and persistence was lacking. I was a wreck; sleepless for two days, only given small amounts of food such as what a beggar might receive from a kind soul, and I was covered in filth from the strands of my hair to the tips of my toes. I was cold and my clothes had been torn almost completely from my body in my constant struggle to get away from this morbid place. The skin at my wrists had been split merely three days ago from the rusted metal keeping me from escaping and dried blood tore open each time I would attempt to get away and the fresh crimson red somehow seemed to melt as it surfaced my skin. I had realized that struggling was a bad idea on day six and I had just given up. And that leaves me where I am now, staring up at my piercing green eyed, black haired abductor.

     She looked the same every single day; black leggings covered her tiny legs, combat boots making her seem taller than she actually was and a different dull colored flannel shirt covered the top half of her miniature body. She was short for a girl, standing at a guess of five-foot-three-inches and she was young, possibly in her early twenties but, you wouldn't have guessed that with just a glance, as she carried a seemingly tired and grim facial expression around wherever she went. Her hair was usually always pulled up into a pony tail or a tight bun and traces of what looked like mascara coated her eyelashes. She had small hands and fingers and she was very quick at what she did. She left me in awe as to how she got me here in this tiny basement being how small she was but, whatever she had used on me must have done her a miracle because she somehow managed to do so without the authorities or any of my family finding out. She never ceased to amaze me and even though she had me locked away in her cold, worn down basement with very little food and an atmosphere of helplessness, I couldn't help but to notice how beautiful she really was; the way the light from the basement window reflected off her sharp black hair, her glowing green eyes somehow boring holes into my skull and one of the many wonderful works of Christopher Poindexter illuminates in my mind when I see her walking down the basement stairs: "I loved her, not for the way she danced with my angels but, for the way her voice could silence my demons."