runaway baby → minizerk

e l e v e n

S I M O N

Dear 'Murderer',

You obviously know a lot about me, considering you've found out my name, where I live, who my friends are etc. But I don't know a lot about you. There's only one thing I would ask for - your name. I cannot do anything with it because if I do you'll kill me. That's how safe the information is. I promise no one but me will know who you are if someone finds out; I'll let you kill me. You can tie me to a pole and hurt me til' I die, you could poison me, you could drug me or even use a knife to stab me. In all seriousness, asking for something little just because it bugs me more and more every day that you know everything and I'm sitting here clueless.

Yours faithfully,
Simon Minter.

I reread the letter, over and over. Words trailing around in my head. Phrases such as kill me, poison me, stab me made me uncomfortable but I had to sound convincing. I need to show him that I was begging. In which, I was. I didn't want to die without knowing about who caused my death in the first place... That is if it's not the rest of the Sidemen. My clammy hands ran over the black ink slightly smudging the words on the end but it didn't worry me too much, they were still readable. I neatly folded it, straight down the middle. Fear growing inside as I watched myself push the letter into a dark yellowish envelope that once it was gone - it was well and truly gone. There was no going back. I raised the envelope to my dry mouth, wetting the edges and sticking it down. The salty dry taste staying as I clenched my eyes closed. I inhaled deeply, exhaling shakily. This was it, the guy I'm completely terrified of. The guy who could kill me just in a second. The guy who had complete maintenance over my whole life. I was actually talking back to him; I wasn't receiving harsh orders from him or being repeatedly hit by him. I was talking directly to him. That was enough to make my heart race a worrying amount and teeth clatter together.

I turned the paper around, three straight black lines listed accurately on the front. My fingers shook tremendously as my hand rested on the table wood next to them. The address. I didn't know where he was watching me from, I didn't know where he was hiding. But I did know if I sent it to this place he was certain to read it. Sweat dripped from my head feeling myself in a hot flush due to nervousness taking over my body and mind. I wiped my forehead, taking deep breaths again. I wrote it. Even the name of the street made flashes fill my mind.

The figure edged towards my body, boots clanging against the floor as he came closer. His dirty fingers ran across my face, picking up the fresh blood from my new and old wounds. I squinted my eyes shut as I felt his touch, breathing heavily. Tears began to escape my eyes as he wiped my blood on my tied up hands. It was gross but he was truly sick in the head meaning this was probably normal for him. "Drink up." The deep horrid voice rang in my ears as he firmly gripped my hair and violently threw my head back leaving me in a strong state of shock. The shock left me with my eyes wide and mouth open. This gave him the clear opportunity to shove the cold liquid down my throat making me cough, splutter and choke. And.. He did.

I tilted my head down, seeing blood leaking from my sweaty hands. It wasn't there from the flashback luckily, it was from the now broken pen gripped tightly in my hands, which I must have done while panicking. I dropped the remaining pieces of the pen onto the table with a click, sharp edges looking far to calming. At this point, an average person would use their common sense to throw way sharp edges to prevent them from getting hurt or injured in any way. I didn't get that idea though... Instead, I got a strong urge... A strong urge to keep it. Even to use it. I was in desperate need of a way to handle these rather persuading suicidal thoughts. They were beginning to get out of control, soon enough they will quickly grow a mind of their own. Probably get me killed before I actually have the chance to wave goodbye to the world. It's amazing how convincing my thoughts had become, all they had to do was be upsetting or negative and then another suicide attempt slowly perches in my direction. They've become way too often for the good of my health and mind but I was too worried and messed up to even think about trying to fix it. No matter how many years of therapy it takes to become at least decently minded again, the experiences will always still be there. But one of the worst parts I believe is that there's nothing I can do take it away. It's there, and now, it always will be. The scars, the flashbacks, the words: "runaway baby'. They will always be there

And the whole reason this started was because of one fucking stupid address:

Number 3, Avenue Drive.