Trapped

                I stared at her. She stared back, unmoving. I felt like she could see right into me. Like she knew me in a way no one else did. In a way, she did. She was an ugly girl, with greasy hair and a tear-stained face, the morose darkness of the room casting shadows under her dull gray eyes.

                “I know what you did.” She whispered menacingly at me. “You’re disgusting.”

                “H-how?” I stuttered.

                “I know everything about you.” She grinned somberly.

                Her words echoed in my mind, and rattled my soul. They repeated, as if my mind emptied itself and bounced the words back and forth through the blank space. I know everything about you. I know everything about you. I know everything about you. She knew. I could hear my heart pounding.

                “Did you think you could get away with it? You’re malicious. Horrible. Waste of space. Did you think something like this would just slip away?”

                “I don’t know.” I whimpered.

                “You do, don’t you? You didn’t think it would catch up to you, you incoherent loser.” She spat. Sucking in a deep breath, I tried to calm down. Getting upset is what created this problem in the first place.

                “It was an accident.” My voice breaking in between the words, sounded far away. It sounded strange to me, but I felt it come out of my mouth.

                “What was an accident?” She derided me, pushing my limits.

                “Don’t make me say it.” I pleaded with her.

                “Don’t be impertinent. You did it, so you should be able to say it out loud.”

                “I-I can’t.”

                “YOU CAN!” She shouted. “You did something despicable, and you have the audacity to play this like you’re innocent. You sick, twisted girl.” She growled.

                “Please.” I begged, tears gathering in my eyes.

                “Say it. Say it. Say it. Say it. Say it.” She intoned repeatedly, her eyes flashing a look of agony in between. She didn’t stop. She kept repeating that over and over, testing me until she knew I would lash out.

                “I CAN’T!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. A stinging sensation buzzed on my wrist, and I felt something thick and warm trickling down my fingertips. She had cut me. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to hurt. I hadn’t even seen the knife.

                “Don’t you dare shout at me. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess; the least you can do is admit to it.” She taunted me with the knife, its silvery glow gleaming in the dim light. I couldn’t say it out loud. My heart hurt just to think about it, a deep ache in my soul. It was the epitome of my life. That seemed to be all I could feel and, recently, all I could think about. If people knew, they would just tell me to let it go, as if it was just that easy. But I hung on to that feeling. It’s better to feel that pain than to feel nothing at all. If I felt nothing at all, how could I know I was even alive?

                “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me what you did.” She raised the knife into a threatening stance. Fear picked up, pulsing through my body. My feet were glued to the floor; there was no way I could force myself to run. I didn’t have a choice.