Abducted By Styles [IN RE-EDITING]

• E I G H T E E N •

SONG FOR THIS CHAPTER- WHO ARE YOU, REALLY by MIKKI EKKO (Put it on replay if you want to, but this song is mostly for the first part)
WE MUST BE KILLERS by MIKKI EKKO

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C A R O L I N E

The dark room is small and tight, and the foul smell of smoke fills my lungs. My wrists ache from the friction of being tied up together. The ground beneath my feet is cold and stony, the wooden door across the room locked firmly. I am tied to an old rickety chair and utterly terrified.

"Help! Someone please help!" I cry out hopelessly, tearing streaming down my face. I repeat the same words over and over again, but no one hears my pleading cries. My ears pick up the intense murmurs from behind the door. The two voices both seem to belong to males, but one is oddly familiar.

"We need to end her. Now." The unfamiliar voice says lowly and my chest tightens immediately. The air in the room thickens with fear.

"B-But your highness, I thought you said we only needed her blood." The more familiar raspy voice says hesitantly. My heart thumps rapidly as I envision dark souls sucking the life out of me.

"Just do as I say. We have her parents waiting for their baby girl to come home." The unfamiliar voice commands, laughing evilly. "Only to find her dead body at their doorstep." There is a grim edge to his voice.

This isn't the end of me yet.

It just can't be.

My eyes search the room for some type of blade. With my arms wrapped behind the back of the chair, I drag myself to the old desk. The screeching of the chair legs causes me to cringe. I  find a piece of broken glass from a shattered beer bottle hidden under piles of old parchment and my captive hands reach for it. It falls to the ground with a loud clang.

My blood goes cold when a tall figure bursts into the room through the darkness. His face is covered with a hood, but those hidden green eyes seem extremely familiar.

He comes up to me, clutching a knife in one hand. Trying to back away, I suddenly remember that I'm tied up to a chair. All I can do is beg for him to spare me. His sad eyes meet mine, cold fingers caressing my dirty, wounded cheek.

"I'm sorry, Caroline." He whispers apologetically, his fingers leaving my cheek. A single tear falls onto my face. But it isn't mine, it's his. Before I know it, I let out an ear splitting shriek in pain. I look down to find a long knob sticking out of my chest. The bloody spot blossoms like a rose.

I jolt up in bed, filling the room with my echoing pants and gasps. I swallow down on the trembling lump at the bottom of my dry, sore throat. My moist body lies still, wrapped between the good smelling, now sweaty bedsheets. I rake a clammy hand through my damp hair nervously and sweat trickles down my forehead. Looking around, I realize that I'm still in my room, safe and sound.

Not in some eerie dark room, being stabbed by a stranger.

My trembling fingers reach for the glass of water set down on top of the nightstand. I force it up to my lips and gulp it down. The faint ghosts of my nightmare appear in my mind time to time. I peer outside the window to see that it's still dark and the moon is set lower in the sky. Might as well go back to sleep.

It was just a nightmare. I repeat to myself like a mantra. But it felt so real.
Holding my body close, I force myself into sleep again.

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I wake in the morning, the gruesome nightmare still replaying itself inside my head. The second I start thinking about the knife piercing through my chest, chills creep up onto my spine again. My scalp starts to prickle, thinking about the mysterious green eyes and his apology. Sorry about what? What did it even mean?