Stockholm Syndrome // sm

Chapter Three

My heart was hammering against my chest, an uneven beat to match my quick feet. Hair fell in front of my face, matted down with a combination sweat and blood. The blowing wind of a early-November night felt like sharp needles against my skin, warning me that maybe this wasn't a good idea.

But wasn't it?

I didn't know where I was, or how far away I was from my house. I assumed it was far, but all I could see was a pitch black night illuminated slightly by tall streetlights and traffic signs. The street signs were gone, each replaced with what looked to be a camera.

It was wide open. I didn't see any houses nearby - the stores and fast food restraunt were all currently closed. I assumed no one around was awake, or actually here. I didn't expect them to be. It's probably three in the morning.

I walked slowly, my breathing ragged and heavy. My legs burned, aching mostly by my calves for running pretty much a mile and my feet for running in shoes so flat. I saw a traffic light in front of me and it suddenly turned red, which only meant the one behind me had to be green.

Bright lights appeared a meter away from me, a loud horn sounding as I screamed. It was too late to run.

-

"Jenny! Wake up!"

I jumped up, looking around frantically. I saw picture frames and a small boy with brown hair. "Ken?" I asked and he seemed frantic. "Oh my god... Ken." I gasped and jumped at him, crushing him in a hug.

"Jenny-"

"It was only a nightmare... thank god. You'll never believe it, but I'll tell you during breakfast. I want mom to hear! Is Genevive home? How long was I out?" I rambled and he put a small, chubby hand over my mouth.

"Jenny shh!" He said and I looked looked at him confused. "Quiet!" He whispered and I just nodded despite how puzzled I was.

"What's going-"

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." I heard a taunting voice sing like a lullaby. Screams erupted from downstairs, shaking the walls, and fueling my growing suspicions that maybe... maybe that wasn't a dream. Maybe that really happened.

I grabbed my younger brother, hiding him under a desk that once served as a place to do homework. I threw my bag in front of him, a box full of notebooks beside it for extra coverage.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

With each footstep up the wooden staircase, my mind grew more and more frantic. I forgot how to breathe and how to think. I stood motionless in the middle of my room as the door slammed open, falling to the floor with broken hinges and splinters of wood.

"There you are."

And here we were, a condescending adult and reckless child. The metal in his hand was louder than his words, and my heart fell cold behind the warmth of my ribcage and skin.

His eyes danced around my room, almost as if he was examining every square inch of it. His eyes settled behind me finally, and my stomach felt heavy.

I was rooted to the ground as he waved his gun, motioning me to step aside. "Move. I'll deal with you later." His words were stone cold, each a bullet to my shield made of courage and adrenaline.

"No."

"No?"

He was amused by my pathetic attempt to keep him from my brother. His lips lifted into a smile, and his jaw dropped as he let out a laugh. He looked crazy - scratch that, he was crazy.