Never trust a survivor until you find out what they did to stay alive

~ Chapter 1 ~

I was held at gunpoint. Again. For the second time this week in fact. And the eighth time this month, despite it only being the 14th of March. It seems to be becoming part of my routine, most unfortunately. Anyway, enough about my calendar and back to the situation at hand. The same P228 as Tuesday was pressed to my temple. The hot, sickly breath of my martinet tickled my ear.

"Have you spoken to him yet?" Spat the malicious voice that has been haunting my nightmares, and conscious life for weeks. The icy, abrasive tone contrasted harshly with the heat of his rage. It reverberated off the cold stone walls encasing the room. There was a single door I could see out of the corner of my eye, but it wasn't worth the risk. One move and he could finish me off. I was blindfolded every time he brought me in here, but the musty smell and the perpetual lack of light suggested that we were underground.

"N-no-" I managed to stammer, looking down at my feet. "I-I have a meeting with him- t-tomorrow."

"Well you'd best be grateful that I'm a patient man," came the acrid response. Patient? Who does this scoundrel think he is? I've never met a less tolerant man in my life! For nearly two months now, he's been trying to get me to divulge state secrets. Confidential plans from parliament, in the new initiative to end the conflict and reunite the North and South states under the Congress Reconciliation Act. This man was willing to fight for the continuity of independence. To the death. His threats are becoming almost as regular as morning birdsong. Except this bird's song is a villainous cry for compliance.

"You are to meet me on High Street at 4 o'clock tomorrow afternoon. No exceptions. Then you will tell me the verdict on the Act and we will discuss the terms of your...continuity of...well, life. Understood?" He pushed the point of the pistol steadily harder into the side of my head.

My head was a typhoon of terror. My racing thoughts clouded my mind and pounded in my head, to the point where I thought I was going to faint. Either from that, or the augmenting terror I had been repressing for so long. The gun was still at my head.

"Y-yes, I understand."

"Good. And you had better not bring the police, or I'm afraid I'll have to change my mind about keeping you alive. Actually, who am I kidding? I'm not afraid!"

"Y-yes. I mean- n-no I won't." I said, choking on my own fear.

I felt the end of the pistol thrust into my upper back, so I pushed myself off the incommodious metal chair, my legs trembling so much that I lost my balance and stumbled for a second. The man said nothing, only smirked at my failed efforts to regain poise. I looked up into his eyes. Two pitiless pools of glazed coal-black malice. His malevolence pierced me like a knife. A really blunt knife that causes absolutely astronomical agony. The darkness of his eyes only accented his pale and gaunt face. His unyielding hands gripped my shoulders with shocking strength, and he pushed me out of the door and up a tight well of uneven and spasmodic stairs.

As soon as I saw the hopeful scene of a warmly lit corridor at the top of the stairs, the man pinned me against the now modest beige wall, and forced the usual tight, grubby rag around my head, covering my eyes, and further contributing to my splitting headache. The paltry sliver of light leaking in from the bottom of the rag on the bridge of my nose was not enough to make out the rest of my surroundings, which I'm sure was my captor's intention. He continued to push me forwards until I heard a door close behind us and the waft of bitingly cold wind battered my face, my auburn hair billowing behind me. The man continued to push me along for another five or so minutes, until we came to a halt. He tore off the rag that covered my face and I was blinded by the sudden intake of so much light. We were in a quiet side street where no one could see us, but I knew that we were in the centre of town, because the sonority of car horns from the inner city filled the air. The two merciless black eyes locked with mine and fixed for a second, before he whispered.

"4 o'clock. Tomorrow" I nodded. I wanted to do anything tomorrow but meet him. See anyone tomorrow but see him. But I had no choice. My subduer gave me a final malignant stare and then spun on his heel. His wispy slate-coloured hair whipping in the breeze. I leant against the wall, steadying myself on the towering edifice beside me. The crumbly, decaying walls echoed the impression of poor workmanship. My nose, which was numb from the gelidity was now prickled by the vulgar scent of the piles of disregarded rubbish lying in revolting piles down the street. I regained my nonchalance, before evacuating the squalid alleyway.