Used. (EDITING)

Chapter 1

    It's been 13 days since I've seen the sunlight. At least, that's as many days as I could keep track of since opening my eyes. It seemed time moved on whether or not I could account for it, and the thought sent my mind to a place much darker than the cell I've been held hostage in. My first few days were spent clawing at the exposed beams in an attempt to make a shank, in case the metal door in front of me ever opened. After the fourth day, my fingers were raw with splinters and caked with dirt. What was left of my strength was used dodging rats that would scurry across my feet.

     Crying was pointless, screaming was futile, and God must be the type to rip the wings off an angel to make them sing. Or, maybe someone had kidnapped God, too, and he was too busy being tortured to answer my prayers. I'd said enough of them to litter Heaven's floor with their broken pleas.

Needless to say, I don't pray anymore.

     The sound of metal gritting its teeth echoes across the room, as a slot on the lower part of the door creaks open. I watch the lights from beyond the door pour into the room, praying it never fades. My eyes filled with tears as thunder rumbled in my stomach. My captor hadn't bothered to feed me in 3 days.

"H-hello?" My voice barely made it above a whisper. It was still hoarse from all the screaming I'd done.

"Take the bowl, girl. I'll be back to get it in ten minutes." He states.

     My ears perk up, noticing the way his accent causes the words to seem like they were being purred at me. Although, after leaving me to starve for three days, I'm sure he wasn't trying to be friendly.

"Where am I?" I ask.

"Nine minutes left," he growls. "If I were you I'd take the fucking bowl, little girl."

     My legs refuse to work, as they've been robbed of all their energy. Still, I manage to drag myself towards the door to grab the bowl from his hands. He tosses in a juice box and then hastily closes the slot. Once again, I'm engulfed in darkness.

     Despite being my captor, my eyes began to sting. I wish he would've stayed, or at least left a crack to provide me some more light. Is it wrong to feel this way? Am I finally going crazy? After all, I haven't spoken to anyone in ages. It surprised me that he was a foreigner, because I'd never met anyone with an accent like his before. Sadly, the only access I had to the outside world was being fed through a small opening in a metal door. It's not like he'd actually tell me if I asked anyways. Would I ever travel to a place like Italy or Russia, and hear their accents?

Hell, would I ever step beyond that door?

     My stomach begins whining, disrupting my thoughts. They never give me utensils, so I'm forced to eat with my bare hands. It's cold, mushy, and sticks to my hands as I shovel it into my mouth. I quickly scarf it down, trying my best not to vomit up what could be the last meal I have for a while. I wash it down with the juice box before tossing the empty carton into the bowl.

The man returns as promised.

"Tray. Now." He demands. He holds his large hands out, expectantly. I slide my arms through the slot just enough to hand him the bowl. The last time I'd tried to claw at the person who'd given me my food, he bent my fingers back until I was sure they'd break. The next day, I was only given a mini water bottle. Now I know to be careful.

"Please, let me out. I want to go home," I begged. My voice broke at the end of my sentence, and I felt the tears fall silently to the ground.

The man just chuckled.

"You don't have a home. Not anymore," He sneers.

With that, he disappears.