The Lost Princess

Chapter 4

He's been staring at me for 43 minutes.

Scratch that, 44.

I'm sitting in the tattered remains of the train, dead bodies all around, curled up in a ball, staring at him.

And he's staring back.

He's just standing there, eyes like a hawk, watching my uneven breathing.

I'm too scared to function.

My face jerks to the side and lets out a high shriek when he runs over to me, impossibly fast.

He continues to stare, but now he's just uncomfortably close.

"You don't remember me, do you, love?" he asks solemnly. 

My right eyebrow rises slightly. "What? No, I mean, I don't think?"

His lips form into a tight line and he stuff his hands in his pockets.  Then, he sighs and strides over quickly. “Well then, off we go, yeah?,” he says with a slight grin smeared across his face.

Before I can comprehend his actions, I’m being easily tossed over his shoulder and carried out the battered train door.

“PUT ME DOWN, NOW. PLEASE, SERIOUSLY, PUT ME DOWN! DON’T KILL ME, PLEASE, I WON’T TELL ANYON—“

“Oh would you shut up, I’m not gonna kill you!” he says, sounding annoyed and my desperate pleas for life. I begin kicking his chest and beating his back with my fists, with no luck of an outcome. That lie doesn’t stop me from trying to break free. Now, over comes his little henchman with…

A needle of some sort?

And, this is where my ear-splitting screams begin.

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?” the man whisper-screams at me as puts me down and I attempt to run. But again, no luck.

You’re fucked.

Thanks, inner voice.

Holding me back, to him, is like holding a piece of paper in the wind. I continue to scream, sobbing, hoping someone could hear me. By now, I’m being held against the wall, one of the men getting the needle ready. I swat at their arms desperately, the worst possible ways to die flooding my mind.

They’re drugging me.

They’re gonna rape me.

They’re gonna rape and kill me.

I feel the needle jab into my upper arm. Slowly, my senses start to fade and my attempts of freedom are lost. I slowly start to slide down the wall, becoming really dizzy.

The man kneels down in front of me and strokes the hair away from my wet face.

“Please don’t kill me.” I manage to spill out of my mouth.

He moves his face closer, whispering, “If I wanted to, I would have killed you back on the train.”

And with that, I’m met with darkness.

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I wake up in a bed.

I shoot out from under the covers, breathing heavily and wondering…

WHERE IN FUCKING HELL AM I?!

I scan the room quickly. It’s absolutely stunning, a pretty pale-green color with dark brown accents. It looks like it would be in some posh palace or something. Then, I start to think about why I could be here.

You were drugged, Frankie. Dumbass.

I let out an unearthly sob as I begin to remember, running a frantic hand through my hair and jerking my hair around, trying to find a window or something.

“Um, do you wanna calm down?”

I scream and run behind the bed, crawling up into a ball as the memories come flooding back.

I hear his slow but steady footsteps coming around to meet me.

They stop after about 5 or 6.

I slowly pear my head up to meet his eyes. His arms are crossed. His black hair is perfectly disheveled, and his green eyes sparkled from a slight glint of sunlight from the window. He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt with dark jeans and black loafers. Very English, very posh.

“Are you done?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrow.

“Checking me out, are you done?” he grins widely.

I scoff and stand up. If this guy wanted to kill me, I would’ve never woken up. I’m not as afraid now.

“I most certainly was not.” I say. I nearly choke on my words as they spill out of my mouth. “W-why do I sound so…American?” I ask, stunned at my inability to shake it off.

“You never were English, love. Let’s just say, the life you know, or remember, it was basically all an illusion.” He adds simply, shrugging as if it’s all no big deal.

“Bullshit.” I state, becoming angry. “I think I know where my own home town is! I’m from St. Johns Wood, London, thank you very much, you prick.” I spit back.

He’s un-phased by my insult and adds, “Correction; You’re from Annette, Georgia. In America.” He speaks slowly to me, as If he’s teaching a second grade class. “Enough questions, we have to go downstairs.”

“Wait, now hold on, yo----“

He zips over to me again, way too fast for a human.

“And I’d think twice about calling me a prick again, you little bitch.” He whispers menacingly into my left ear. It sends violent chills down my spine, as well as butterflies in my stomach.

Why? You tell me.

Why didn’t I insult him back? You tell me.

He spins around and opens the giant mahogany doors of this beautiful room, revealing an even bigger hallway. “Come on, now, follow me.”

As I hurry out to follow him, my hand catches the door handle, causing me to let out a screech and shake my hand in agony. It hit my scar. But I notice as well that at the exact moment my hand hit the handle, he felt the pain as well. He shakes off the pain and shoots daggers at me, his eyes swirling with their usual green and an amber red color.

“Fuck, that actually hurt, would you watch where you fucking walk?” he yells before storming off down the hallway.

So, I’ve noticed a few things.

1.    He curses practically every other word.

2.    I’m in an unknown rapist house right now.

3.    He’s a jackass, but incredibly beautiful.

4.    I’m still speaking in an American accent.

5.    …..He somehow felt the pain that I felt in my hand.

Why? You tell me.

……No, really, please?