Taken by the enemy

Prologue

⚠️⚠️⚠️ TW!!! Violence, guns, abuse.
Third person POV

She studied the floor as a tear rolled down her cheek. Her fathers beer-soaked breath clung to the air, thick enough to taste when he shouted in her face. The yelling had been going on for so long her head was hurting. Though it didn't hurt as much as her cheek, for the whole time he had been hitting her too. The sharp crack of his palm against her cheek still rang in her ears, louder than his words.

He finished yelling, sauntering away angrily, while grabbing a beer on his way to the sofa. If she stayed, he'd break her. Maybe he already had. She ran as fast as she could to her room not even bothering to close the door.

Frantic and scared, she climbed into the back of her closet, where she could reach and pull herself up into a hidden upper loft. Her father wasn't aware of her little hiding place, it was a secret she shared with only her mother. Up there, the air always felt warmer, like the last fading echo of her mother's presence. Her mother had always said: "When he becomes the monster, hide until he becomes the man again." But tonight, she wasn't sure the man still existed.

It was a routine her whole life. When she was little, strange men used to come to the house at night. Father would send her and her mother upstairs, but she could hear the arguments through the walls. Words like 'shipment,' 'interest,' and 'debt' became familiar long before she knew what they meant."

Once, one of the men saw her peeking down the stairs. He smiled at her—this cold, knowing smile—and said, "Pretty little thing. You don't belong in a place like this." She never forgot it.

She got atop the loft and hid in the back corner, high off the ground. The wooden boards scratched her knees as she crawled into the dark, familiar space. She heard glass break and other noises from downstairs. Her father must be drunk from beer... again.

When he gets drunk, he gets very angry. She heard footsteps on the stairs. They were too quiet. It scared her. These footsteps weren't heavy and clumsy like her father's drunk stumbling — they were measured, deliberate, predatory. She tried not to breathe too loud hoping he wouldn't hear and find her as the door of her room opened wider. She listened as the soft footsteps steadily grew louder as they approached the closet. After a few minutes the footsteps retreated.

Once she was sure they were gone, she slowly stepped one leg down, then the other. As quietly as she could she creeped out of the closet. Tonight was the night. She couldn't take it anymore. Her fathers relentless yelling and assault had grown unbearable and she'd been planning her escape for weeks. She grabbed the bag she had had packed in preparation, out from under her bed. She tip toed to the window slowly opening it. A small creak sound coming from the window filled the room. She winced and halted for a moment, listening for her father. The house was silent so she continued to open it.

As she was about to jump out, she heard a gun click behind her, she immediately knew it was her father. "Пожалуйста, отец. Мне жаль, что я попробовал еще раз, но больше не буду этого делать. Пожалуйста, не причиняй мне боль, отец. Я знаю, что ты сказал, что произойдет, если я сделаю это снова, но, пожалуйст. Помилуй меня, отец.".

Translation: *Please, father. I'm sorry I tried again, but I won't do it anymore. Please don't hurt me, father. I know you said what would happen if I did it again, but please. Have mercy on me, father.*

"I don't think I am who you think I am."
Replied the voice behind her. It did not belong to her fathers, the man's voice  was smoother and younger sounding than her fathers. His voice slid through the darkness — smooth, cold, almost elegant — nothing like the rough growl she expected.