Cubed

Regan

Regan was troubled.

Dressed in her favorite outfit that was now drenched in sweet, sticky smoothie thanks to a child passing by, she hot-headedly charged back to where she came, her home which was only a few blocks away.

She desparately tried not to cry. At fifteen, who wouldn't? The hot, humid day drenched her in sweat, blended passionfruit, and whole chunks of mango. The tulip-printed sundress she most adored stuck annoyingly to her skin, and her hair had begun to wave in the intense weather. She huffed.
'The one time I go out it's basically monsoon weather!' she thought angrily, turning the curb into her apartment complex, French Valley.

It was the definition of practical. Immaculate buildings, well-kept gardens, and a park that for some reason children and adults alike steer clear from. she trudged to her adobe-painted apartment, slammed her key into the bronze doorknob, and lightly opened the door, So as not to disturb her sleeping macaw in its cage by the door. She closed the door softly and tossed her bag on the violet suede sofa just left of her. She scanned the room to find no presence other than herself and her snoring bird. She remembered, then, that her parents had said they had to pack for a bizarre convention she had no inkling about.
'They must've left early,' she thought, mosying to her room to change out of her fruit-covered attire. She tread down her sky-lit hallway to her room on the left-hand side. However, Before she even dared toutch the knob, she heard a large crash of glass against hardwood floor on the other side, sending her staggering backward into the bathroom, but not before snatching her phone and punching in the numbers:

9-1-1

The celloist opened her violet eyes in terror. She sprung up from her resting spot under a small tree,. She was certain if she was still alive her heart would beat rapidly in the centre of her chest just as it had. She felt the presence of a dark energy near, and a spirit becoming broken. She took off then, the horizon simply acting as another ground to run on. Her eyes were wide, but she did not tire until her arrival at the shattered window, and trail of dark burgundy liquid leading inside. She calmed slightly, her eyes narrowed in concentration. A struggle can be heard as she followed the gory tracks. A young girl's cries for help, a man's hesitant delivery of his demands, And quite oddly, the obnoxious skwawk of a tropical bird.

The track ran through the blue-painted hallway onto the bathroom tiles across. As she got closer, she heard running water and the muffled sound of the girl from before. She looked in the open doorway and saw her tied together with curtains from the opposite room and though she struggled greatly, there was no avail to their tight hold. The man, nervous as if the devil tread in his footsteps(which was the only explanation for his actions) clomped down the hallway carrying a small metal box with a cable attatched. It was this moment that the celloist knew exactly what the man was going to do....

He is going to throw a toaster in with her...