The Murderer's Basement

It was supposed to be just another night out.
Rain-soaked streets, a half-empty bar, a stranger's warm smile under the dim glow of neon. He sat across from me, sipping bourbon like he had all the time in the world, asking me questions that felt too careful, too personal. I should have walked away.

But I didn't.

I let him take me home. I told myself it was harmless. I told myself I could leave whenever I wanted. I told myself I was safe.

I was wrong.

The last thing I remember seeing was the inside of his car. Then a blindfold. Rope. The echo of my own heartbeat. The sound of a trunk slamming shut.

When I wake up, I'm somewhere else. The smell of dirt and rust fills my nose. My wrists ache from the restraints. The air is damp and heavy, and the only light comes from a single bulb swinging above me.

He's there, too. Always there. Watching me. Talking to me like we're friends, like he didn't just take me away from my life. Some days he's calm, gentle even, brushing my hair back and asking me if I'm hungry. Other days, he's someone else entirely.

I scream. I cry. I beg.

But no one hears me.

Time stops meaning anything in the basement. I don't know how long I've been here. Hours blur into days, days blur into weeks. I try to escape, but every attempt ends with punishment. I try to fight, but I am not strong enough.

Every choice I make feels like it leads me closer to one ending - and I know, deep down, there will be no escape. Not really. Not for me.

Because this is not just a basement.

It's a grave.

My grave.

And one day, maybe tonight, I will take my final breath under that swinging lightbulb, with his shadow falling across my face. Maybe it will be quick. Maybe it won't.

But I know one thing:

This story doesn't end with me walking away.

It ends with me never leaving.