Stockholm Syndrome? ✔

S.S 7

Archer's POV

My head was throbbing. I had barely opened my eyes, but I could feel my head pulsating to an uncomfortable rhythm. It wasn't just uncomfortable, it was painful. It felt as though my head was being hammered in every direction.

I opened my eyes slowly. Everything was blurry. I couldn't register anything, but I knew something was wrong. My head was groggy, my lips dry. My neck was stiff and painful.

Bit by bit, my vision cleared. I was greeted by what seemed like a storage room. There were boxes stacked high up against the wall. The place smelled woody with an orange-brown lighting and I immediately knew it wasn't my bedroom. I looked to my left slowly, spotting a door at the far end.

I slumped a little forward, my head felt heavy. I tried raising my right hand to support it when I realized my hand was restrained. That jolted my brain.

I looked around quickly, catching sight of my left hand. It too was shackled to the chair I was sitting on. I yanked both my hands. They didn't come loose. That only resulted in the handcuffs nearly biting into my skin. Trying to yank my hands free was doing more damage to me. My wrists were painful. Trying to slide my hand out of the handcuffs didn't help either.

I couldn't recall how I had gotten there, but the handcuffs on my hands told me I was in danger.

I licked my dry lips, which felt rough against my tongue. My throat was dry and burning up. Regardless of how uncomfortable I knew it would be to shout, I did just that.

"Help!" I screamed. "Somebody help me!"

With the dryness of my throat, I felt like a cat was scratching at it as I screamed my lungs out. I couldn't stop. I had to keep screaming. Maybe someone would hear. Maybe someone would come and rescue me.

Fear was creeping in. I didn't know who was standing at the other side of the door but I knew whoever put me there didn't have good intentions. Raped...murdered...the words crept into my head slowly, but intensely. Tortured... I chastised myself. I had the habit of focusing on inappropriate things.

I screamed as loud as I could. There had to be someone good out there. Even though the door wasn't opening, I couldn't give up hope. Maybe someone was looking for me.

"Help me! Help!"

Screaming was taking a toll on me. I was breathing faster and harder. I refused to give up. I'd seen a lot of movies where a trapped person gave up screaming for help just as a potential rescuer was coming. It was a work of fiction but one aspect that wasn't exaggerated.

"Somebody!"

My throated protested, forcing me to swallow my inadequate saliva. It moisturized my throat for only a few seconds. I needed water.

I chose to focus on my restraints. I tried to compress my hand to a small enough size to slide through the handcuff, but it was impossible and painful. I could weather the pain if I knew it was possible. But without lubrication it felt like an impossible task.

I tried standing up, only to realize the chair was bolted to the floor. I remembered something. I couldn't recall how and when I got to that place, but I knew I had a cell phone, and potentially had it with me. I looked down at my pockets, not seeing the familiar bulge my phone always produced.

I refused to give up home and tried to bend my hands so I could pat my pockets. I had to be certain my phone wasn't there. I knew it wasn't. I had to cling onto some form of hope or I would start panicking again.

I didn't see the door open.

"Looking for this?" I heard a male voice.

I looked up to see a shadow walking towards me. The lighting in the room was so bad it couldn't cover the whole place. The figure took slow but deliberate steps.