1

Step, step, breathe, breathe, step, step, breathe, breathe. My shoes kept a steady rhythm with my burning lungs. I veered off my regular path, opting to hear the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet. The image of my sister's disapproving face was ignored as I leapt across a gurgling brook.

Breathe, breathe, crunch, crunch. If I wasn't mountain climbing, I was running. I craved speed and freedom. I had to escape the oppressive perfection of living in my suit and tied life.

Thinking of my older sister, a star mother and so sure of herself, my legs lunged, lengthening their stride. Not good at team sports and terrified by cameras, I knew my family felt my height was wasted on me. If only they knew what I really did. If only I could tell them.

A stitch pinched my side. Breathe, breathe. I knew I was going too fast, not pacing myself right. Something was urging me on, pushing me to scale the hill before me, and plunge deeper into the woods. I refocused on my rhythm, my inhales and exhales, and my body realigned itself, goose bumps shooting across my arms.

There it is.

I'd hit my second wind and I surged on, not caring where my feet led.

It's freedom! Complete and—

There was a rush of air, a whistling in my ear, and a sting to the back of my arm. Instantly, I tumbled to the ground, sliding into the damp morning dew. Cold dirt filled my nostrils as blackness enveloped me.

I heard my own laboured breathing long before I realized I was somewhere in between awake and asleep.

Forcing my eyes open, I gasped. My senses took everything in at once—the smell of wood shavings, the scratchy ropes on my wrists and ankles, and the pressure of the mattress beneath my body. I screamed, but the empty room with grated floors and metal sheets for walls was empty. No one burst through the door in the corner.

Realizing it was useless and only making my throat raw, I fell silent. Panic flooded me. How did I get here? I pressed my thoughts to retrace my steps, but my mind felt sluggish. My last memory was running in the woods just before sunrise. I could still feel the burn from the autumn air hitting my lungs. Now the solitary window painted a yellow rectangle on the floor. The room felt stuffy.

It's probably late afternoon. But is it the same day?

The minutes rolled slowly into hours, the silence suffocating. What had my handler said to do when I was scared?

Breathe deeply and don't panic.

It was too late for that; all the years of therapy after my childhood accident were rendered useless.

I'm burning all over again.

Only this time, it wasn't smoke filling my lungs but pure fear and terror pressing down on my chest. I gulped in dry air, my eyes burning with tears.

No one's coming to save me.

A sob escaped me as the real horror of the situation washed over me. I'm tied up. Someone knows I'm here. What would happen when they came back? As the last rays of light were snuffed out by the shadows of the night, that someone came through the metal door.

"Just tell me—what do you want?" I asked, knowing it was pointless. In the three weeks—or had it been longer?—of my imprisonment, I had yet to get an answer.

She never spoke.

I blinked, trying to clear the blurry blob that occasionally floated across my right eye. Never having glasses before, I was annoyed by my hazy vision. I blinked again, my eyes refocusing on the figure pacing the room. What had started as a dull headache was now a hammer drumming at the back of my eye sockets.

I need water.

My stomach grumbled with nauseating hunger.

There was no escaping the noxious, pinstriped mattress that seemed to mock the pinstripe suits I usually wore, except for the periodic bathroom breaks, which weren't frequent enough.

My jaw quivered, and I clamped my mouth shut.

Don't start chattering now, I commanded myself, knowing it usually ended with my whole body convulsing. October was merciless on my bare skin; my arms and legs were permanently smattered with goose bumps.

Stupid running shorts. I wished for the thousandth time I'd listened to my sister and worn a sensible sweat suit that day. The swish-swish of her warm jacket and pants seemed to mock me, as she continued her route of six steps forward and then six steps back again.

Too late, I realized it was quiet, the rhythmic swish-swish gone. In one impossible leap, she was next to me.

I squeaked out in surprise. This wasn't the first time she'd come close, but usually she ambled over, producing a long needle from her pocket.

Silently, she pressed her face against mine, the short black hair tickling my forehead and nose as she checked the monitoring leads on my chest.

I shied away, terrified by both her touch and the change in her behaviour.

My bindings made my attempt to move useless, so I squeezed my eyes shut. My chest heaved up and down as my heart galloped against my rib cage.

It's ok. She's got a needle. The pinch's coming still. It'll be over soon, I consoled myself.

I tried to steady my pulse, inhaling slowly. Not daring to open my eyes, I waited, but there was still no pinch. The stillness stretched on, with only her heavy breathing letting me know she was near. Never talking, the mechanical sounds she produced reminded me of Darth Vader. I long since decided that she was actually a human and the protruding square under her surgical mask was just a voice modulator.

She's still a monster.

Her breathing sounds sent chills through me.

Maybe she has food.

I cracked my eyelids, peeking through feathered lashes. Her body leaned over mine, elevated by knuckles planted in the mattress. Terror rippled through me.

Why isn't she drugging me? Why isn't she drugging me?

I welcomed my arm being stuck with a needle. It was my only escape from this nightmare.