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IT WAS DARK when Wendy woke up. Her head hurt, and waves of nausea rolled over her. ¿Qué paso anoche? She asked herself. When she was tired, she could usually only think in her native language. Wendy shivered as a draft of wind ruffled her hair. She reached for her quilt. That was when she realised that she wasn't in her bed. She wasn't in her house. She wasn't anyplace familiar, for that matter.
Panic hit Wendy along with a fresh wave of nausea. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt her throat getting tighter. A sob shook her body and she looked around frantically. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, her surroundings became a little more clear.
Boarded up windows. A few bean bags piled in a corner. A rusty minifridge next to a crooked door.
The door! Wendy tried standing up, but her head immediately began swimming and dark spots clouded her vision. She fell to the filthy, dirt floor with a thump. The girl sobbed again, hot tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.
All Wendy wanted was to go to a party. Maybe have a few drinks, maybe a little dancing. She told her parents that she'd be home by 12. Here she was, drugged, helpless, and probably in some addict's lair. Another pang of despair hit her when she spotted a varied assortment of weapons on the far wall. Guns, knives, even hammers.
Wendy brushed the hair out of her face and took a deep breath. She had to leave. Right now. She dragged herself over to the closest wall, using a ridge in the rough wood to pull herself up. She felt splinters force themselves under her nails and she hissed in pain, but stood. She held onto the wall as if it were her lifeline. Perhaps it was.
As soon as her trembling legs straightened beneath her, the dizziness and headache hit her so bad she almost collapsed. Wendy gritted her teeth and took a step. Then another. Using the wall, she advanced to the door at a snail's pace. She was almost there; reaching for the rusty doorknob when a breathy voice whispered "Boo!" in her ear.
Wendy started so badly that she fell, hard, on her tailbone. The pixie-like face of Belle loomed over her, her Cheshire-Cat grin unwavering.
"How are you feeling?" The blonde asked, crouching down next to Wendy. To an outsider, the concern in her voice may have sounded sincere, but Wendy saw the malice flit across Belle's sharp features.
"You... crazy... bitch." Wendy croaked. Her voice was hoarse and her throat felt raw, but at least she had got her point across.
"Now now," Belle tutted, smoothing Wendy's hair from her sweaty face. Wendy recoiled immediately and slapped Belle's hand away.
"Don't touch me."
"Ooh, feisty. I like it." Belle winked. Anger rumbled in Wendy's heaving chest. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, scooting backwards. Just as she made an attempt to stand up, the door burst open and a dark figure barged in. To Wendy's relief, it was Peter.
