I was going to die.
That was the only thing I could bring myself to think as the knife pressed against my throat, pricking painfully at my skin. The thought of my impending death threatened to consume me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t even beg for my life. And why? Because I was terrified. I was going to die and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
I didn’t want to die.
That thought all in itself caused me to let out a shaky breath. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die. Not here, not now. Not in an alley with a stranger slicing a knife across my throat. Not before I turned eighteen. I was so close to eighteen, so close. Just three weeks and I'd be there. But now I was struck with the horrifying realization: I wasn’t going to make it to adulthood. I was going to die here in the hands of a murderer who reeked of beer and cigarettes.
I forced myself to blink. The alleyway greeted me with its littered, pee-stained ground and graffiti-covered brick walls. From ahead I could see the street I needed to take in order to get home. Home. I wanted to go home so damn bad. I wanted to see my house that I thought was a disgusting shade of yellow, walk up the porch steps I thought were an irritatingly bright red. I wanted to see my mom, my dad, my two brothers and my sister. I wanted to get yelled at for being late.
But I wouldn’t ever be able to do that. Because I was going to die.
For a few excruciatingly long moments I stood there, hands bound behind me , waiting for my captor to tighten his hold on my waist, slice the knife across my throat, and end it all. I waited for him to remove the knife from my throat and plunge it into my chest. But that didn’t happen. My captor just stood behind me , breathing down my neck.
“P-p-p-p-p-please,” I whispered, finally finding the strength to speak. I winced as the knife pricked me again. My voice sounded so unlike my own. It was so strangled, so timid. So, so afraid.
“Not a sound,” the man hissed, his grip tightening considerably. I almost yelped before glancing down, feeling sick to my stomach. It was wrong—so wrong. Completely and utterly wrong to be held so close by someone who wanted nothing but to harm me. I wanted him to let me go, to just let me go home. Please put the knife down, I wanted to tell him. Please just let me go. “If you disobey me or try to run away, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”
I gave him a short nod, all strength to speak replaced with a raw terror deep inside me.
I chomped down hard on my cheek to keep from screaming as a dirty bag was slammed over my head. What little vision I had of the desolate street was now everlasting darkness. I struggled to keep calm, to not cry and waste my energy. I needed every breath—there were none to spare. However, knowing that—the fact that my breaths were numbered—only caused for more panic. I could suffocate within the confines of this bag. My breaths would steadily grow shorter…shorter….
Suddenly the ground was gone as I was yanked up and twisted in the opposite direction. All thoughts of the bag and how it could kill me scattered, and I had to gulp down a terrified cry. Where was he taking me? To a torture chamber of some sort? Was he going to kill me right away or was he going to take his time? What was his plan? How much time did I have before I took my final breath? Was there any chance of me making it out of this alive?
My captor’s grip tightened under my armpits, and then he tossed me. A shriek escaped as I soared through the air. I collided heavily with a surface I couldn’t yet identify and whacked my head off some sort of wall before sliding to the ground. Something felt incredibly wrong with the surface I'd landed on. It was—lumpy? And it was—moving?
