THE CALL OF HER

9

When I get back to the room, I'll clean the couch, re-organize the book shelf, clean the windows, You make a list in your head, over and over again, until it sounds and is perfected. This is a habit you've always had, but it always seemed to get worse whenever you were stressed.

You open your eyes, and decide to pay attention to something else.

The kitchen counters shine, the flower painting hangs right, and the hum of the refrigerator is quiet. You can see the kitchen from the the small dining room you sit in. The wooden chair creaks below you as you shift to get comfortable.

It is quiet. You have sat here for an hour, what the clock says, at least. You didn't see the one who led you from your room at six in the morning to come and sit down here, but the texture of their hands were noticeable - rough and warm. Although the persons hands were free, yours still are not.

They are tied to the back of the chair, you currently sit on.

You feel eyes on your head, and shift your gaze to the hallway to your left. On the last step of the stair case, a man looks back at you. His dirty blonde hair is shaggy, yet clean. His eyes are a light hazel, and a white scar gently drags over his cheek bone and nose. He stands like a Marine, his arms built like a being who works for a living with physical force.

His shirt is a dusty tan, and his jeans are dirtied with what seems to be oil stains. You can't help but to recognize the hole in the right knee of the jeans, and feel your upper back spread of a cold sensation. From all the neatness, you notice an eyebrow piercing on his left brow.

The hooded man, Your eyes stare back at him, trying their best to hide their fear.

He steps from the shadows and into the sunlight, where more scars and wounds are visible on his bare arms. His boots are neatly tied, as they carry him to the kitchen. You watch him silently go to the fridge for a carton of eggs, and reach below for a metal pan. 

"You must be hungry, yeah? I swear I could hear 'yer tummy rumblin' from all the way upstairs." As if your stomach knows it's being talked about, it growls, making you wince at the pain of your hunger. Taking in the mans accent, and how his voice sounds different from before, you choose not to reply to the man and instead go into thought.

The sound of movement in the kitchen becomes normal, and you begin to further inspect your space. The room looks like any other cabin, it's nice. Wood and flowers seem to be a theme. You hear movement upstairs, and the sound of a door slamming behind you. Your eyes stare hard on the table beyond you, and squeeze your hands together, anxious. 

Hard footsteps reveal themselves to belong to a shorter man, a man with the body of a lumber jack. Yet, smell of a chronic smoker. You wrinkle your nose, making the lumber jack looking man snort. "Decided to let her out'a her cage?" The man walks into the kitchen, his brown hair shines in the sunlight from the window. His bearded is medium length, nicely cared to.

Seems to be the only thing he cares about.