Hostage

November 23, 2010
By writerdude17 BRONZE, Brooklyn, New York
writerdude17 BRONZE, Brooklyn, New York
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Love never did run smooth" - William Shakespeare


Entry #1:



I didn't know where I was when I woke up. I felt cold and hollow. As if someone stabbed me with a butcher's knife and I just wouldn't die...



But there'd been this journal left behind. A pen. It seemed like it was just for me. And, of course, after I finished my rant on how to escape, and it became clear, that we weren't getting out, I searched refuge into writing. Praying that someone will find me. Oh. I mean, us...



Tim's blind. He told me so. With freckles, red hair, and a dazed and dirty look on his face. He had told me that he just turned fifteen. That among the many things that has happened to him, the bullying, the criticism, the exclusion, that this had indeed been the worse. I knew he was trying to be resilient, and a “man” by hiding the fact he missed his folks, but I could just tell by the way his eyes lingered and the edges of his mouth quivered when he told me about them. He was blind. Yes, that was for sure. But Tim had also been scared.



The woman in the corner, opposite to me, she introduced herself as Caroline. A veterinarian at the community college in Burlington. Also, a mother of two. Expecting another one pretty soon. I saw by the shape of her belly that she'd been pretty close to pregnancy. It scared me a bit. To see how many smiles she threw at Tim and I. I'd only been nineteen, so I could understand her sympathy for Tim, using nice tones and enthusiastic responses. Somehow, I felt sorry for Caroline. She said she dreamed of having a girl, that both her others were boys, and that all she wanted was a girl and she'd be as happy as a lily. But, it appeared that, she wouldn't be living through this..



And the last person had been a brooding body-builder. Caroline knew him as “Mr. Campson”. He'd been a huge pile of miseries in his own personal corner, crouched, knees in gut. He didn't talk much, but from what I could see there'd been a whole lot of fear behind his muscles.



And as for me: My name is Kyle “Nathan” Thomson. I'm a photography major. In between, actually, with film. Not sure which to choose. Film brings pictures together, tell's a story. However, photography brings question and discussion... Well, I guess I don't have to worry about that decision anymore... I don't know what happened. I don't know why I am here, but if any one... anyone at all... is reading this then please tell my family and friends that I'm alright. My name is Kyle “Nathan” Thomson. I live in Virginia Beach... Now. I'm pretty much lost.

A silhouette cast inside the tomb we'd been buried inside, a canvas of piano keys thrumming, and violins and guitars. We heard those sounds mostly beyond the threshold. And farther across there'd been our kidnappers. I pictured them as the run of the mil average Joe, just taking up spontaneous behavior.

I know, right. You would have screamed.

I would have too, if Caroline hadn't stopped me.

The pregnant brunette answered in slow and concise whispers that barely gave an echo.

“We cannot yell. It will only anger them.” Caroline explained, arms neatly on her lap, while dirt had been on her once lovely skin.

I stared at what looked like a woman with no hope. “Anger them?”

“We're chained... There's nothing we can do. We cannot fight back... We can't win...” There was a sharp tone that praised fear in every single volume that it actually frightened the teenage adrenaline I barely had left, so I listened. “Those men out there... They're disfigured and psychotic. They will kill us all if you make one noise they can hear. These men... are not right...”

Caroline trembled, holding her elbows into her breast. Cradling herself and the baby at the same time.

Tim had been smiling, openly.

“What the hell's wrong with your face, kid?” I spat, as his grin spread wide, and his gaze shifted off and on.

He had been sunk on the ground, filthy, and his legs spread out in a 'V'.

“It's nice to hear a new voice.”

I hesitated.

Caroline smiled just like him and leaned as far as her chains would allow and whispered, “Tim was born blind...”

“Yes, Caroline,” He agreed, still the same simple and innocent face. “Blind. Not deaf.”

They shared a low laugh that barely seemed befitting. It felt like soft moans. Sex without the screams and passions and fireworks. Well, basically, sex without sex. Nothing. A void. Interpreted of black and must—a scent that I was sure Tim and Caroline were familiar with. They wrecked of it. And even if I could only see parts of there face of some of their shape, I could assume their clothes had been ripe and stained.

“How long have you've been down here?” I said, as I caught another smell.

Urine and turd.

And I saw the contents. Both in two buckets at the far end of the room. Far away. Though in this case wasn't far at all.

“Days...?” Caroline thought.

“Weeks...” Tim said. “Or at least that's how it feels.”

I nodded, unsure of why the hell I'd been in a cellar with rotting waste? Then, I wondered if I would ever survive it?

I saw the man in the corner, but didn't say anything.

Who were these people exactly?


The author's comments:
This piece had been about survival. How even at the most unexpected time that anything you love or cherish could be taken away from you. It could be the parents of a blind child, a family of a pregnant woman, or nothing at all like a wandering spirit. But inevitably, we all have something to lose.

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This article has 4 comments.


on Nov. 29 2010 at 9:23 am
Andy51196 BRONZE, Manhasset, New York
4 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"It ain't over till its over."- Yogi Berra

Great Plot. I really liked the story. Again, how does it end?

on Nov. 28 2010 at 5:09 am
Well, I should add another part... and thanks!

on Nov. 26 2010 at 3:39 pm
MidnightWriter SILVER, Ontario, Other
6 articles 0 photos 225 comments

Favorite Quote:
Writers are a less dangerous version of the career criminal. Everywhere they go, they see the potential for the perfect crime. The difference is that writers have better self control.

A very engaging story.

Lizette SILVER said...
on Nov. 25 2010 at 1:12 pm
Lizette SILVER, Delphos, Ohio
5 articles 0 photos 47 comments

Favorite Quote:
Everyone is entitled to be stupid. But some people abuse the privlidge!

i'm on the edge of my seat....how does it end?!?!


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