They have a story. He has a story. She has a story. Everyone has a story - who they are, where they are from, and what has happened to them.
This is my tragic story. This is how I became,
Stuck.
Confined.
Trapped.
A fate none should suffer from - the fate of the poor, unfortunate souls amongst our world.
However you consider it, they suggest a constant thing - Stuck. Trapped in a dank basement to be exact. A vile, disgusting basement. A worn door behind me. Old, torn paintings to my left. In front of me a window barely bigger than my infinitesimal fist. And to my right, I observe my savior. My emancipator. My possible rescue.
A rusting, copper key on the dull wall, if only I could reach it. The unique key is admittedly quite a queer one at that with its pentacle. But, but, but a quarter of the circle is missing, most likely broken off during a scuffle. It was unquestionably unmade that way with the jagged metal sticking out this way and that.
Intermixed metal bars - iron, copper, brass or steel? I can't specify at this time, for they were so oxidized that I could scarcely tell. I reach out to stroke it with my cold, dry fingertips. I feel the rough patch-work welding of the metal.
A sharp pain shoots through my unknowing hand as I cut my finger on a corner. I keenly watch as the blood bubbles from the scrape and runs, slow as a drizzle, down my dainty finger and onto my hand. A drop falls onto the pale white dress I awoke in. For some unapparent reason, it soothed me even though the blood was naturally my life, my liberty, and my freedom trickling away as I remain trappedâŠ
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I wake to a creaking door and the shrill screech of rust against rust. I swiftly dash to the back corner - the farthest away from my mysterious captor. As the squealing ceased, the door was swung open with an ear-splitting crack as it ricochets off of the wall.
He, I assume is a man, is tall and lean. A black hoodie covers the majority of his body - all the way to his mid-thigh. Under is a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a set of black Converse. The up hood conceals the majority of his pale face. The only visible features are sharp jawline and dull, cracked lips.
"Lo-look who's up?" The mysterious man began awkwardly, stuttering as he went. "I didn't exp-expect you to have woken up yet." His voice has the lilt of a teenager, and soon I will acquire the vocabulary of a sailor.
He scarcely undertook a hesitant step forward and feebly attempted another. Heed my words - the innocent man attempted to. He tripped on a piece of wood that had fallen from the collapsing ceiling sometime before I came to. The leg had given out from underneath him and I witnessed him falling for eternity until I heard the teen yell an unsavory word as he landed on his ankle.
"SHIT!" The child yells as he stands up again. I keep contemplating him in wonder thinking about why this scrawny teenager has imprisoned me. Why am I here? Why is he of all people? Why?
"Hey!" I heard him yell frantically in my sensitive ears. I squeaked and scrambled away from the boy. "Sorry, sorry, y-you just didn't answer after a few times so." He trailed off coyly and massaged the back of his neck. I don't know how to respond to that - Was it out of spite or ... was he worried about me?
I dwell on the thought silently for the remainder of the conversation as he discusses miscellaneous topics. One topic, however, inevitably comes back to an infamous murder that is well recognized among the cities. He continuously says odd phrases like; 'you already know that' or 'as we both know' but the weird thing is ⊠I don't understand. I have no idea who or what this beast is! Whoever the unknown assassin maybe, I have no idea, but I've never heard of this.
Have I been out of it for that long?
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The boy is still sitting in front of me by the time I adequately manage to pull myself out of my dreadful thoughts. The thing is, he has stopped talking incessantly. He is completely silent as he lays on his stomach and draws in what I assume is a sketch pad. His agile strokes carefully cover the page. Each mark is of key importance to the visual- which is saying a lot for there must be hundreds of them. As he draws, I notice the concentration upon his face. A slight grimace when he makes a mistake, a nod of the head when they approve of the progress, and a bite of the lip when he is neither - just drawing.
After about 10 minutes I finally realize what, or I should say who, he's drawing. Well lo-and-behold, I am looking at a remarkable drawing of me. Me, of all simple people. Me sitting awkwardly in a molding dungeon. Me behind mismatched bars for unknown reasons. Me in deep thought with a pensive look in my eyes as I think about what I can retain, which I recognize isn't all that much.
Now that I think of it, I can't remember anything from before I woke upâŠ
The thought is so frightening. Waves of fear wash over me accompanying sadness, anger, and loneliness.