"Are you going to murder me?" I blurted out as he made his way to the front seat. Stuck in the back of the truck, I had nothing to defend myself with.
I strained against my bonds until my limbs ached with effort and drooped with exhaustion.
Flat on my back the seat felt comfortable and despite the obvious reasons I wouldn't fall asleep, my head eventually became fuzzy and light.
My eyelids grew heavy and slid shut, only to snap open as I urged myself to stay awake.
My efforts proven futile, a few minutes of easy consciousness passed before falling victim once more to physical exhaustion.
...
The world swayed violently and I was ripped from unconsciousness as the truck came to an halt.
As soon as the door was open, he snatched me out of the car.
At this time, the invitation of a new day enveloped me. Birds sing to its shine as snippets of the its rays peaked through the bag.
I was brought back to reality as I felt the prick on a needle against my skin. Once again I was rendered unconscious.
...
My eyes fluttered open. The walls spun and as I tried to clutch my head, a force held my hands down. The throbbing in my head brought tears to my eyes as I lowered my head and whimpered in pain.
Where was I?
What happened?
Why couldn't I move?
My eyes finally opened as the pain in my head dulled. I glanced at the chains that held me captive. The last thing I remembered was being shot up with drugs.
The place was a complete mess. The windows were boarded, the shabby wood paneling and peeling door was bolted with iron rods. The only light source for the dark, gloomy room was the cracks between the barricades over the windows, only allowing stripes of light into the abandoned building.
There was an peripheral of a man in my visual. He'd been sitting there for several minutes; I saw him as a brownish blur at the corner of my eyes. My eyes registered movement as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.
I turned my head slightly, briefly to look at him, accompanied with him was my captor.
I presumed— he wanted me.
His three day stubble and a neat pressed suit, the kind you only see on high priced lawyers and gangsters; scared me shitless.
His eyes shone at me; hazel also and small. Dark hair on his knuckles and what seemed to be tattoos that are like artwork—who am I kidding? Tattoos are artwork.
His eyes were trained at me. He strides towards me, his eyes surfing my body, committing every crevice, every curve to his memory. He touched my cheek with the side of his thumb. His palm wrapped around my neck, his lips forming one of ardent.
"Ich mag dich," he made known, as if I should have understood a phrase in foreign language.
And yet somehow he seem more authoritative than his aura already suggested.