BEWARE: I wrote this for a short story project in nineth grade so it's probably not as super awesome as I thought it was back then. Anywhoo, now you get to decide. Hope y'all like. Peace.
The feelings set in, the cold, the shock, the pain. I am unable to move. My sight is off, but when my eyes adjust to the lighting, I can see my arms. They are secured by thick rope around the arms of my chair. Yes, I am sitting in a chair, not that I could have known, I must have been out for a while. Though the rope cuts off the circulation in my arms, I can still move my wrists slightly. I struggle to move, so I don’t bother.
Behind me is a stone wall, and the ceiling is about three metres above me. The room is small, like a jail cell. On my right there is a door in the wall, but it hasn’t been opened for quite some time. Cracks stretch across the metal door, bringing my eyes to the knob that is placed in the middle. There are no windows, no light. I remember this place. In fact I escaped it once before, yet here I am again.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been locked in this chamber. The blood on my arm has dried, and when I move it I finally see how deep the gauge is; very deep. I squint my eyes; my way of being able to tell if I got cut on my face. Blood drops down onto my already-red shirt. Blood has soaked into it, turning what was once grey, red.
This happens all the time. I get in to a little bit of trouble, get in a fight where I am the only target, get hunted down and brought to some place new every time. I’ve become immune to the cold; after all, I’m living in it. But now it’s different.
I’m never in a place more than one time. But once again I am brought to a small holding cell, am beaten, thrown and defeated. Let’s face it; my life has never been more uninviting.
“So what’s your story?” a man asks me. I hardly remembered he was even there; he’d been sleeping, slumped in his chair across from me.
I sigh and lean my head against the wall. “Where do I begin?”
The man tries again to yank himself free from the rope; but it’s no use, the rope is there, strong as ever, and it’s never letting go. And as for our chairs, they are nailed to the ground. “Where are you from?” he asks me.
He knows where I’m from, I’m sure of it, and if he doesn’t, then everyone does but him. The man seems friendly, but that doesn’t mean I should tell him my personal information.
Stress takes over my body and I suddenly feel heavy. The weight of my thoughts is pushing down on me. My heart beats a kilometer a second and I can’t feel my arms. Stop, I think, what have I done to get myself in this situation? Maybe I am dying, or maybe not, but the feeling I have right now is unusual; in fact, it’s terrorizing. I sit there in pain, and a bead of sweat drops down my cheek.
I hear a laugh escape from the man’s mouth, he turns his head away. “I get it,” he says, “if you don’t want to tell me. But, you know, I’m here with you for the time being, so we might as well get to know each other.”
