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EXCERPT:
As
soon as I close the cabinet door, my whole body is chilled. I shiver, turning
toward the microwave to find myself face-to-face with her. Her dark eyes gaze into mine, her cold breath so close I can
feel it on my cheeks. My heart racing, I jump back, colliding with the counter
behind me.
What
happens next is a blur. I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head and I am on
the floor. She stands over me, her tangled hair hanging down, covering parts of
her face while she stares down at me, her eyes wide and intense. I am unable to
look away from her, unable to scream or move or even breathe.
Suddenly,
she is gone and the room spins. I can finally blink, and I try to steady myself
as the room finally settles. I am still on the floor, still in my kitchen,
except it looks…different. Mom’s mixer that sits on the counter is gone.
Instead, a wine rack sits in its place, and I count nine glass bottles resting
inside of it. The walls are a dark brown color, and the lights seem dimmer.
“Aven?” I call out weakly, but the voice I hear is not my own. I try to use my
hands to push myself up off the floor, but I can’t; they are behind my back,
stuck on something.
I
twist my neck around, trying to look at them so that I can figure out how to
get them loose. That’s when I feel the shooting pain go up through my arms, and
I realize it’s because my wrists are bound together with rope and it’s cutting
off the circulation from my hands to the rest of my body. Desperately I try to
pull them apart, but the fibers of the rope dig deeper into my wrists and the
pain is unbearable, so I let them go limp behind me, giving up that fight.
Calm down, I order myself. Breathe. Don’t panic. I ignore the throbbing pain in my arms as I squirm,
inch by inch until I am in a sitting position. Looking down, I see that the red
long-sleeve shirt and jeans I had on have been replaced by a white nightgown.
The blood stains around the collar and down my sides make my heart race faster
– even more so when I realize that they’re mine.
“Help!”
I cry out, again surprised when the voice I hear is a little deeper than mine.
“Somebody please help me!”
“You’re
wasting your breath,” a deep, masculine voice says from somewhere behind me.
There is a hint of laughter in his words when he says, “There’s no one here but
you and me.”
The
voice is vaguely familiar, but I don’t have time to analyze it as a cold,
pressing fear weighs down my body. It is then that I realize that he’s right;
there’s no one here to help me and I am going to die.
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