Twelve Hours to Hell

one

It's quiet.

Too quiet.

I hold my breath, pressing my back against the cold metal frame of my bed.

No.

Not my bed. The texture of the thing I rest on has no mattress. It's too hard, too solid to be mine.

I shove down panic as the realization that I have no idea where I am hits me.

My mind is foggy and I shake my head to clear it.

Rubbing my eyes, I take in my surroundings.

I'm in a small room. It is about eight feet by six feet. The walls appear to be solid metal.

There's a door adjacent to the wall that my cot is pressed up on. On it are two letters.

U.S.

What the hell?

I went to sleep in my own bed. So how did I get here?

Am I dreaming?

I slowly stretch my hand down over the side of the bed, ignoring the childish fear of monsters- if I'm dreaming, anything can happen.

My fingers gently trail along the length of the side of my cot. I can feel rusty metal rings, where a mattress should be. Curiously, I slide my fingers across one of the rings- it feels like chain fences that I loved to climb as a kid.

There's some kind of wire sticking up from the ring that my fingers examine, and when I brush across it, there's a sharp sting. I hiss in pain and yank my hand back.

An open gash on my finger bleeds heavily. I bring my hand to my mouth and suck on it. The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, and I curse loudly.

I'm definitely not dreaming.

Something moves across the room.

My neck snaps around, and I stare, shocked and confused.

On the opposite side of the room, lying on a cot identical to mine, is a boy.

Snoring.

Confusion envelopes me, and I shake off fear and emotion.

He might be a serial killer. What if he's some kind of delinquent? Is this a prison?

I look again at the solid metal walls and doors. It certainly feels like a prison.

I need to get out of here. Home.

I push myself up and slide off of the cot, onto the floor.

Resting at the foot of my bed is a black bag.

On it are my initials: L.P.

Mine.

The word floats out of nowhere.

The bag is mine.

I stand and pull it over my shoulders, stepping across the room to examine the kid.

He is kind of cute, with reddish hair that curls around his face.

Something tells me that we're both here involuntarily and for some sinister reason.

I look longingly towards the door, but I can't just leave the kid here, asleep and vulnerable.

Stupidly, I reach out and poke his shoulder.

The boy's head snaps up as he stares at me, panic immediately clouding his eyes. "Who the fuck are you?" He looks around wildly. "What have you done to me? Why did you bring me here?"