The Ragdoll

Stitches

Emily jumped awake to a crashing sound that was so loud she could have sworn it almost gave her a heart attack. Then she heard a yelp. It was her father. A feeling ran through her entire body, a feeling that could only be described as doom. Her eyes were opened as wide as they could go. Slowly, not making a sound, she sat up in her bed. She heard another crash, then a thumping sound. She heard whispers that didn't belong to her father, then she heard nothing at all. This all came from downstairs. She yanked the blanket off her her body, and silently placed both feet on the ground. She stood up. She began to hear the whispers again from downstairs. Someone was in the house. She couldn't hear her father anymore. The feeling of doom grew inside of her stomach, accompanied by sheer nervousness and worry.

She shoved her hand inside the pocket of her leather jacket and felt for her switchblade. She almost has a panic attack as the realization that she left the weapon at her boyfriend's house swept over her. She brushed a long strand of black hair that was hanging over her eye behind her ear. She started to tiptoe towards her bedroom door. As soon as she got there, she flicked off her light switch so that no possible criminal would suspect her hiding there. She turned the doorknob, and opened the door with the most amount of caution possible. She began to tiptoe out of her room. Emily's bare legs were freezing in the natural cold environment of her father's house. She never understood why he liked it so cold all the time, even as a child. Maybe it reminded him of her mother's personality. She bent down and rubbed her hands against her legs, warming them up using friction. It dawned on her that she was stalling so she didn't have to see what awaited her down the stairs that seemed to stretch out for eternity before her. She stood up straight and clenched her fists. She was hoping her tall and skinny figure would intimidate whoever was down there. What was she afraid of? She could feel no pain. She was Emily freakin' Thomas! She was the one who went to prison for stabbing someone! Hell, she even killed someone once...

The memory of Sandy Vance made her shiver. She shook off the memory and furrowed her brow. She began down the staircase. Each footstep she took seemed to take her longer than the last. She was painfully aware of how afraid she was, despite what her tough and ready-to-go exterior may have suggested. She started to breathe heavily from her chest as she started to near the bottom of the staircase. She wasn't ready for whatever waited for her. She closed her eyes, and her boot touched the hardwood floor just beneath the staircase. She started to walk towards the family room, the moonlight being the only thing lighting her way. And then she saw it. The thing that woke her up, the thing that had been waiting for her. Her father was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, sputtering and coughing. His throat was slit, and the sides of his mouth were cut open.

That's when Emily heard herself scream. It was a horrible, terror-induced scream. It was completely involuntary. If it had been up to her, she would have stayed silent. Emily dropped to her knees, not knowing what to do. She put her hand on her father's forehead. He stopped coughing and sputtering and lay still. Emily's father was dead. Tears were streaming down her face, the feelings she felt in that moment were and forever will remain indescribable. She suddenly became aware that whoever did this might still be around. She slowly got to her feet. A look of anger was etched on her face. She clenched her fists. She felt ready for whoever wanted to hurt her. Then she heard it. A footstep. The sound came from directly behind her. She turned her body one hundred and eighty degrees as cautiously as she possibly could. And there he was, the intruder stepping out of the shadows. He was shorter than Emily, but taller than her father. He was muscular, pale, and dressed in all black. Emily's anger almost completely clouded her fear, but the feeling of pure horror was still very much alive. He began to walk towards her. By the way he was walking she could tell he was drunk. She could practically smell the booze as he got closer. She wanted so bad to lunge at him and make him pay for what he did, but the fear brewing inside of her restricted her from moving a muscle. All she could do was grit her teeth and clench her fists. The man was eventually so close to Emily that they almost touched noses. She closed her eyes as tight as they could go. She felt his fingers wrap around her neck. He closed his fist, crushing against her windpipe. He threw her on the ground next to the corpse of her father. She felt the cold sharp edge of a knife pressing against the part of her neck that wasn't covered by the man's hand. She thanked the good lord above that she couldn't feel pain. She forced herself to open her eyes and saw him. The evil his eyes. The horrible smell of scotch on his breath. His dry, cracked lips. The blood on his hands and shirt and neck. He stared at her, deciding what he wanted to do next. Emily tried to look tough, like she could hold her ground, but something strong inside of her told her that her fear was as obvious as the fact that it was nighttime. He could see the fear in her cold, grey eyes.