Vengefully Taken [#Wattys2016]

Chapter 3

I flutter my eyes open slowly, just barely, hearing a man on the phone, yelling in the distance. I looked around, barely lifting my chin, my neck aching but saw no one around.

"You don't fucking understand! I need this done now. ... I need you to find out where that fucker is. You have two days." I let out a soft groan hearing Kade's voice, suddenly very aware of the pain I was in. Glancing down at my leg, I saw my ripped open jeans, covered in blood. A restrained sob left me, my body shaking.

"Fuck." I cursed in pain, tears streaming down my face. I needed to get away, I needed to get out. I could feel my chest restricting as if I were having a panic attack. The thought that it was my father who got me into this mess made me sick to my stomach, urging me to hate him even more. I doubt he even knew I was gone.

My mother pretends she doesn't know where the money comes from; as long as there's a large ring on her finger, and she has the constant ability to shower herself with luxuries, she's happy. Sometimes I wish I was born into another family, a normal one.

Drifting back to reality, I shifted my wrists feeling the rope chafing against them, biting my lip hard to refrain from making noise. I swallowed the lump that was lodged in my throat and tried to stand up, my arms painfully tied behind me. Sharp, painful breaths left my body, the cut on my leg reopening. Lifting my pelvic bone mainly, I balanced my weight on my feet creating an arch in my back. I struggled to stand up, my arms painfully behind the chair.

I could feel the strain this was having on my body, the pain coursing up and down my leg, fresh blood dripping from my wound.

I closed my eyes, my body half in the air and made a swift movement, lifting myself off the chair. Letting out rigid breaths, I focused so hard on ignoring the pain, limping my way over to the table, focusing my eyes on the knife he'd used to cause this wound. Along the blade of the knife you could see the dried up blood, my dried up blood, making the knife appear musty and dirty.

Resisting the urge to scream and cringe, I pressed my body to the table, resting for a second, my leg burning. The waves of pain piercing my body were like nothing I'd ever felt before. Turning my back to the table, I looked over my shoulder, reaching for the knife with my restrained hands, positioning the blade off the table. Pressing the rope around my wrists to the knife, I tried to cut free, beginning to worry that he'd be back inside. I held the knife handle down with one hand, carefully pointing the blade towards the middle of the rope.

Seconds later I broke my hands free, the rope falling to the ground. Biting my lip in pain I look down at my wrists, seeing a few slight cuts from the knife. Pushing back tears, I looked around me, searching for an exit aside from the battered front door.

As I moved forward I could hear the floorboards creaking. Please please don't let him hear me. Thoughts of him hurting me, torturing me, killing me were running through my mind ceaselessly. Looking through the peaks and cracks in the makeshift wooden walls, I could see him pacing back and forth in front of his car.

His head was down, eyes on his phone, angrily typing away at it. He didn't seem older than 30, I could see from the way his face his face was scrunched up slightly he was stressed, or worried.

Growing up in the family I did, it was important to be able to identify different facial expressions and the meaning behind the little things a person would do. I learned quickly from the countless times I was told non-verbally to leave the room. When my father had 'friends from work' over at the house, he'd give a look. The cold dead eyes staring at me, hard, urging me to leave the room as this was none of my business; his lip snarling up the tiniest bit, his stained yellow teeth showing through.