Not According To Plan (Preath Fanfiction) (Co-written by @uswntloves1723)

1: Blurred Lines

Tobin's POV
Time: ???

"Ow, what the-?" I grunt as I am thrown to the ground. A short-statured figure takes up about two-thirds of the doorway. "Hey! Hey!! Where am I?" The metal door slams in response.

I slowly try to get up, but this isn't like turf. Cold concrete is not inviting, but I am too weak to get up off of it. I rub my eyes, hoping the blurry vision goes away. Everything feels so heavy, as if I've been drugged. Bars on each side of the door add to the cell's jail-like quality, but I know this isn't jail. In jail, there are lights. In jail, there are mattresses. In jail, there are cops. Whatever this is, it's worse than jail.

The one and only light I see is through the bars and across the hall, buzzing to compete with the flies who got lost. My short-term memory feels fogged out. The last thing I remember is Christen's face, split into even streaks by the tint of the back windshield of my car. Stupefied, scared, and screaming.

"Christen," I say to myself, because the word evokes a burst of energy in me. I crawl around corner to corner, feeling for clothing, limbs, her. My hand lifts with a fistful of sharp rocks. Other than for them, I'm alone.

"Who else is here?" I say in my normal voice, then louder to fill the outside hall. "Who else is here!?"

Nothing. I guess I am really alone here. There's nothing in my pockets either, but I know there was money in them earlier. My phone was playing music in the car, and my keys were in the ignition, so I wouldn't have either of those anyway. The drawstring to my hoodie is missing.

My eyes start to water. The one time I ever felt fear like this was when there was a hijacker on Christen's plane. Here, I'm not even sure if they plan to keep me alive. Whoever "they" is. I've got to figure out how to get out of here, but it seems the only way out is to overthrow whoever is on the outside.

Folding my hands together, I notice rough patches of skin on my palms. Did I already try to fight them off? My head fills with questions. Why me? Where am I? Is this what it feels like to be insane? Is this an insane asylum?

I fold my hands back together again and pray, "I'm okay."

Almost as if God heard, my memories flood back to me in saltwater waves.

"You need to help me!" My words clouded the glass I was pressed to. As if he knows what I said, my assailant kicks the back of my knee. I turn on the ground toward the front of his car, when I'm yanked to a half-stand, shoved into his backseat, and force-fed a white capsule...

The pill! No wonder my memory's gone and my throat's as dry as a desert. It tickles from the lack of lubrication. The pill has made me thirsty, especially since I'm used to drinking large amounts of water. My only sources of water now are my tears, and the mysterious liquid trickling down the wall that stains my fingers rusty brown. I'm not sure what it is. The bars are calloused with hard grey blobs, as if they were recently and hastily painted.

Whether it's the chilliness slowing my blood to a freeze, or the pill cruising my bloodstream weakening my muscles one-by-one, I can feel myself becoming overwhelmed by tiredness. I lift my hoodie over my head. All I have under is a bra, but I don't care. I use my hoodie as a pillow, and my legs curl underneath me with little room. But although I can't sink into concrete, the thought of doing so is convincing enough. I certainly feel heavy enough.

As I tuck my fist below my chin, my fingertip brushes a rock stuck to my palm. I roll it around a little, its original place feeling sweaty and irritated. Fixed carefully in my right hand, I use the rock's pointed edge to etch a vertical line into the wall, marking one night here. I've never felt this alone in my entire life.

I wonder what Chris is doing right now, and if she's okay. I sure do miss her. I know it's probably been only hours since I saw her, but it's like that sick feeling of missing when somebody has just died - you miss them as soon as it happens because you know that even though it hasn't been that long since you were hanging out with them in the living room, you could very well live for a long time without them.

As I'm laying there I hear footsteps. I lift my head, not worrying about losing my comfiness, when the door comes open, hitting my feet to the side. A lump is thrown next to me, facing away from me. Through a polyester tracksuit, I make out a pair of shoulder blades. Speak of the devil?

"Chris?" I whisper tentatively. "Is that you?"