Crayons

Chapter 20

My mouth tastes funny and dry. I moan, turning my head to the side. I feel groggy, like when I take a nap that wasn't quite long enough. I attempt to lift my arm, to wipe some sleep from my eyes, but fail. My eyes open immediately, looking for the reason why to I can't lift my arms.

My wrists are bound behind me and a rag is tied around my head, part of it in my mouth, forbidding me from speaking. I struggle, trying to break my hands free, but to no avail. My butt rests on the cold concrete ground, my back against a disgusting wall that looks like it has seen all sides of mildew and mold. I whip my head around frantically, spotting a few tables filled with hardware tools, a file cabinet sitting in a corner, files spilling out from it, and books upon books stacked on one another all around the room. The room has only one door, resting at the top of a staircase, the door which most likely leads out of this dungeon like room. The room also contains a basement window, though mostly covered by wood, a small space isn't covered, letting a sliver of light shine through. The ray of sunlight lands on the space in front of my feet. The sunlight is dimming, telling me the end of the day is nearing. It must still be the same day, meaning I was only asleep for a few hours.

In a different, further, section of the basement are a few whiteboards on wheels, scribbles and names written all over the surface. I let my eyes scan the board. Near the top of the board is the label "Crayons," with multiple names, with locations, listed underneath. I find my name immediately, a red circle drawn around it repeatedly. I search the board for names I might recognize. Amanda Train, Carter Hoop, Wesley Smith, and many more are located near the bottom of the board, underneath mine. Near the top of the board are two names, red circles around them as well: Phillip and Clarissa Bright.

I recognize those names, I would recognize them anywhere. All Crayon's know who the "bosses" are. There isn't much a better name for what they are than king and queen, but they despise being called that, or so I've heard.

This man is after the rulers of the Crayon society?

Hearing another set of lungs, I quickly move my head away from my surroundings. Sitting in a chair in front of me about five feet away is my kidnapper. He rests his arms on the back of the chair, using them to cushion his chin. My eyes meet his, his burning with what appears to be hatred. Our eyes stay connected, mine trying to plead for my freedom, while his refuse my plea over and over again.

We sit in silence, just staring at one another for what seems like hours. I glance down at my feet, noticing the faint glow on the ground instead of the bright light. I whine through the gag, my eyes tearing up as I look to my captor, hoping deeply he'll let me free.

The man doesn't respond to me, just purses his lips as he looks at the faint light in between us. He gets up from his chair, shoving it in the direction of one of his tables, then storms off towards the stairs. I watch as he turns and looks at me once more, then shuts off the light, leaving me in the darkness as he slams the door shut. I hear the click as he locks the door behind him, leaving me trapped down here for the night.

After I found out I was a Crayon and what that meant for me, I was never afraid of the dark. I welcomed the dark, letting it envelope me and take me, to steal me away from reality, the reality that I am a murderer. I shove my feet against the ground, forcing my body to go backward. My back slams against the wall, causing new tears to spring to my eyes momentarily as the shock and pain course through my back. I bring my knees up to my chest, bowing my head on them. I struggle against the rope that binds my hands together behind my body, but it just causes pain inflicted upon my wrists.

What did I ever do to deserve being kidnapped and locked into a crazy man's basement? The thought of what he could easily do to me makes a cold chill run down my aching spine. I am helpless down here, the only tool I have is my skin, but that's only if his aura turns black. He could easily cut me up, sell me, torture me, or rape me.

A sob catches in my throat, wanting to break free. Then again, why wouldn't I deserve this fate? I have killed ninety nine-people in my eighteen years. I murder left and right, so why shouldn't I be murdered? No, why shouldn't I be tortured? Selling me would do no good, I would still have chances to kill. But torturing me and eventually killing me, turning me into a lifeless shell like I have done to so many before, that's exactly what I deserve.

I choke on more sobs as they surface. I know what I deserve, what the perfect punishment is for me. Part of me wants to just let whatever he does to me happen. Whether it be him torturing me, raping me, or killing me. I lift my head up, letting it lean back and against the wall. I should let myself die, let myself rot in this revolting basement where that man can have what he wants.

I shouldn't want to be saved, but thoughts of Zach and Eric coming to my rescue pop into my mind, not letting me sit in peace. I don't want to be saved, I want to die at the hands of this maniac. I want, no, I need, a taste of my own medicine.

Killing me will save many, at least for the time being. The worst thing that could happen is that I live, that this man doesn't kill me.

I let my mind wander off, eventually falling into a slumber. In my sleep I have a nightmare. A nightmare where the sun is shining on my face, my hands taken on both sides of me by two different men, and where I can continue to be Willow Gray. My nightmare is of me being alive.