Diana:
The smell of wine hit me first—sharp and sour.
Slowly, I forced my eyes open.
God, it felt like someone had hung weights on my eyelids.
My stomach twisted and growled.
Was it hunger? Or something else?
I stared at the closed door across the room, my mind racing.
Everything that had happened felt like a movie on fast-forward, playing behind my eyes.
It was funny, really—
How life had come crashing down on me so fast, it was almost laughable.
Could anyone be more screwed than I was?
I dragged myself upright, sitting up in bed.
There was a sharp sting at the corner of my mouth—
James, that bastard, had slapped me hard enough to leave a mark.
My black top was still on.
I shoved the blanket off.
Both my knees were scraped and bloody—
A striking contrast against my pale skin.
I carefully stood up, one foot still on the mattress.
Took a step forward—
+"Planing to run again, little one?"
I let out a short scream and stumbled.
Snapped my head to the right.
Two large armchairs sat by the window.
He was in one of them—
A lit cigarette burning between the fingers of his right hand.
His head was resting against the knuckles of his left.
That familiar small frown still marked his face.
+"If you want, I can take my time coming after you next time.
Give you a head start. Sound fun?"
The mockery in his voice.
That deep, quiet tone—
Like he could see right through me.
-"What do I have to do for you to let me go?
I'll do whatever you want. Just... let me live my life."
+"Let you go?
Now why would I do that, littleone?"
-"I'm no use to you."
+"Oh, but you are.
You can keep me entertained. Isn't that right?"
–"For how long?
How long are you planning to keep me here?"
+"For as long as you're breathing.
Though..."
He gave a slow, crooked smile.
+"I could just put a bullet in your head right now.
Would you prefer that, little one?"
–"Shut up. Stop calling me that!"
+"Ooh... feisty.
Watch that mouth, unless you want me to leave your tongue right where it is."
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray on the table in front of him.
Then he stood.
I didn't move.
Didn't want him to know I was scared.
I looked away—twice.
Sat in the center of the bed, clutching the blanket tightly between my fingers.
He placed one knee on the mattress.
His hand reached behind my neck—
Hot against my cold skin.
My chest rose and fell too fast.
His fingers were moving against my neck—slow, deliberate.