The Crane (ON HOLD)

Chapter 2

My eyes slowly open. I can feel the hard crust in my eyes, the moisture of drool on my pillow. I don't remember falling back to sleep last night, or should I say this morning.  'At least I was granted with a dreamless sleep,' I think.

When I look over too the window, there is no sign that the sun ever existed, still only piles of the glistening white snow. Slowly, I hoist myself up to a sitting position with the muscle of my arms. As always, there's a tray of bland food sitting on my left atop of the small, frail nightstand. I lock the door every night, but that's still here every morning.

It's always the same: two fried eggs,and two pieces of bacon. They keep me locked up in a room, and don't even have the decency to give my food that doesn't taste like cardboard. A bed that doesn't leave my muscles aching every morning. A window that doesn't make me have to crane my neck to get the slightest bit of the freaking outside world!

"I hate you!"

I yell as loud as my scratchy vocal chords will allow. Although I'm not completely sure who "you" is, or are, for that matter, but if there's one thing I know in this world, it's that I hate them. I hate them with every fiber of my being. I see the tears welling up into my eyesight before I feel them race down my cheeks, and I must say I'm not surprised by my breakdown, it's been coming for a while now, and I welcome the tears, because any emotion is better than having none at all. What if I'm a science experiment, and people are watching me on camera taking notes on me like I'm some type of wild animal?

I miss my friends. My dad. I'm full on crying now. A sixteen, maybe seventeen for all I know, year old boy full on crying on a twin bed. This is what they want. They want to break me. They want me to go insane. I will not give them that. For the second time today, I find myself swinging my hand back to wipe moisture rolling down my face. Only this time it's not warm sweat, it's cold tears. With that same tear saturated hand, I cockily wave my hand and smile. Actually smile. Maybe I am going crazy.

They will not get the best of me, I think as I shove a forkful of cardboard tasting food into my mouth.

As I swallow the last forkful, as if on signal, I hear a knock on my door, the small sound sending an eco bouncing off the walls.

It probably is on signal.

I don't even know why they bother, I know they can get in here without my help. Maybe it's because they want to see me struggle with my crutches to make my way to the door. If this were a week ago, I would be jumping at the chance to knock out whoever's at the door and make a run for it. Or a crutch for it. But, that was before I had reality settle in. Even though this is the first time anyone has ever knocked on that door, I'm not excited. Maybe it's because I know they have every detail planned, and would not be so careless at a moment like this, and I don't feel like getting pummeled to a pulp.

Again, I use my upper body strength to move my lower body off of the bed, and my legs hit the floor with a hard "thump." Still in sitting position I grab a hold of my crutches tightly. Too tightly. Suddenly, a feeling of apprehension creeps it's way into me. What if they decided I'm not worth it anymore and are planning to kill me? Obviously I must be taking to long because whoever is at the door knocks again with much more force. Authoritatively. I hurry the process of making my way over to the door and try to push the thoughts out of my head. I pull myself up onto my crutches and suddenly feel a lack of balance, nearly falling over.

Quickly, I recover, returning to the task at hand: getting to the door.

To meet my fate.

My mind adds, probably trying to take the seriousness out of the situation. Using a swinging motion with my hips, I finally make my way to the door. I almost fall about fifty times but at least I'm here. As soon as the rude person on the other side of the door is about to knock for the third time in tighter intervals, I swing the door open. A breeze of air escapes into my room, nearly knocking me down for the hundredth time.

The first thing I realize is how intimidating the man at hand looks. I'm pretty tall, at almost exactly six feet, but it scares me half to death that he towers over me. If he were to step closer than he already is, his chin would rest on my head if not hover above it.

His lips are curved down, putting his facial expression already at a mean scowl. He almost has a buzz cut, but there's a slight shadow of hair on his head. The eyes planted on his face resemble the color of an endless chasm, bushy black eyebrows right above them. His skin is a shade darker than a Hershey bar, and something that scares me is that he's almost robotic. Perfect posture, no hint of expression other that his lips curving downward. His breathing is at perfect intervals, changing every two seconds.

He looks straight ahead of himself at my wall, not even acknowledging that I'm here as my ears receive him saying in a deep voice,

"You're coming with me now," as he grabs my arm.

(нєу gυуѕ! ωσω, тнє αмσυит σf яєα∂ѕ ιѕ gєттιиg ιитσ тнє єιgнтуѕ иσω, αи∂ ι нανє иσ σиє тσ тнαик вυт уσυ gυуѕ, σя gιяℓѕ. ι киσω ιт ∂σѕит ѕєєм ℓιкє α ℓσт, вυт ιт ιѕ fσя мє. тнαик уσυ ѕσ мυ¢н fσя яєα∂ιиg αи∂ ρℓєαѕє ρℓєαѕє ρℓєαѕє, ℓєт мє киσω ωнαт уσυ тнιик ιи тнє ¢σммєитѕ вєℓσω. ∂ι∂ уσυ ℓσνє ιт? нαтє ιт? ∂σ уσυ тнιик ιм α ∂ιѕ¢яαѕє тσ нυмαи кιи∂? αℓℓ σf тнαт fєє∂вα¢к ιѕ є¢¢єρтє∂. тнαикѕ αgαιи! ιf уσυ ∂σит киσω αℓяєα∂у ι υρ∂αтє, αт тнє νєяу ℓѕαѕт, σиє ¢нαρяєя α ωєєк. ∂σит fσяgєтт тσ ¢σммєит! вує!

p.ѕ neхт тιмe yoυ'll geт ѕoмe oғ тнe ѕтory aвoυт wнaт нappened тo aleх!!)