fight or flight

hey! this is a thing i wrote for a school project, and i'm sorry about the weird formatting. wattpad likes to mess up indentations

The the sharp and crisp clanging sound of chains wake me up from my slumber, the metallic smell of blood hitting my nose as I do so. Amazingly enough, the source of the clanging noise is nowhere to be seen, only the black void of darkness around me. My hands are tied to the wall with a strong rope, and there's an uncomfortable cloth wrapped around my eyes. I shift around in the ropes, grunting as I try to escape.

"I see you have woken up," a snarling voice in the darkness states as if I didn't realize that myself.

"Obviously," I respond with a voice unlike my own- a bright chirp of a woman's voice rather than the deep, gravelly timbre I've grown to love.

Suddenly, my vision comes back as the cloth gets taken off of my face. A

dimly lit room welcomes me into reality, but it's hazy and artificial as if I

were dreaming. The layout of the room looks slightly like the basement of someone's home, but it's eerie and the carpet decorated with splatters of browning blood. The face of who I can only assume is my captor is staring at me with intent in his green and manic eyes. His blonde hair is disheveled and it pokes out in multiple places, and a light stubble is peppered on his jaw.

"You better watch your tongue, missy," he spits at me, his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath crawling onto my face. My captor runs his finger along my jawline with the knives he calls nails. As he does so, though, we both hear a scream of terror from the depths of the darkness.

The sound of distress causes both of our heads to turn in the direction of the source in a synchronized fashion. The man shoots up and rushes away from where he was kneeling in front of me, his hands shaking from anger. As he approaches a door on the other side of the room, I ask myself a question; fight or flight? I close my eyes and begin to analyze the situation before making my next move.

Fight or flight; the release of hormones used to figure out your approach in

stressful and life-threatening situations. Do you flee or do you stay and fight your opponent? If I choose fight, god knows how long I'll be stuck here, in this nightmarish basement. But, if I choose flight, he might kill me before I even escape. Fight? Flight? Fight? Flight?

Flight.

I open my eyes and look up at the ropes that restrain me to the wall, and I

notice how the tightly-woven strands are beginning to fray where it's connected to a metal hook that's drilled into the ceiling. I then eye the door behind which the dangerous man is located. I've made my decision. I move my hands back and forth, causing the rope to rub against the hook. It frays even more, and I break into a large grin whilst thinking about breathing fresh air again. Before I know it, my actions instinctively go to a halt, as my ears pick up the sounds of the doorknob of the other room rattling. The hinges squeak as the man opens the door and strides out of the room, wiping blood on his pants. He picks up a bottle of what I like to call, 'poison,' from a nearby table, and downs it in a single gulp. The man wipes his mouth with his wrist, and looks up at where my rope is beginning to fray.

"I knew this would happen," he mumbles, as he reaches into the back of his belt and pulls out a gun. Red and fiery hair sweeping across my face is the last thing I see before darkness engulfs me and knocks me out of my senses.