The pavement flying past beneath me, far below. A flash of yellow as a little girl walks with her mother below me, unaware. Wind whistling through my pixie haircut. The sound of someone, more masculine than me, but not older by more than several years, yelling in my ear at intervals. A cold hand gripping me around the waist. The world passing me by.

These are the things I'm aware of.

I already know my life is over.

My name is Roxanne Ritchi. I'm eight years old. I've just been kidnapped. These are the things I'm sure of.

Most kidnappings result in death within eight hours. If I'm alive in forty-eight hours I'll probably wish I'm dead. My kidnapper is possibly someone I used to trust heart and soul. These are the things the news and channel 31 tell me.

I don't want to look into my kidnapper's face, for fear it is someone I know. I want someone to look up and see me, to take notice and save me. I want a hero. These are things I know with all my heart.

But when I'm still being held, when I'm being carried inside someplace, the voice now quieter and somewhat frantic, I know I have to face them now. I close my eyes as they pull my hands behind me and tie me to a chair. I give a single dry sob before sitting still, my eyes clenched shut, fighting back tears. I won't give them the satisfaction of crying; not yet. As if they were just a bully and I was still back in school at Recess. As if this person hadn't swooped down and picked me up before knocking me out.

As if I still had a chance of living happily again.

I shouldn't be thinking these morbid thoughts being just eight years old. But my Mother is a reporter, like I want to be one day, and she interviews girls who've been kidnapped more frequently than we'd like, any three of us. Me, my Mother, or the victim-girl.

But I know I can't hide in the dark forever, because if I hide, it might prolong my suffering. Maybe I should make them angry so they kill me right away, so I don't get raped or tortured or sold, so after forty-eight hours I don't have to wish for death because it'll already be there.

And when I force my eyes to open, I sigh in relief for a second, as I realize that I don't know this person. That's good. I don't want to be afraid of my friends for the rest of my life. But then I feel fear well up in me as I get a clear view of my captor. He's blue. His head is huge. And he's a least a year older than me.

I don't know what to think of him as he stares into my blue eyes, and I into his green ones. I'm afraid. Terrified. Frozen. I'm the most afraid I've ever been, but I don't know what to think. They say that our first judgments of the people we meet are the most important, because it sets the precedent for the future relationship the two people will share, as friends, enemies, or indifferent parties.

I don't show that I'm afraid; I set my chin and stare defiantly into his face as he watches me. I keep hoping maybe he IS just like a school bully, and if I don't give him a fight, he'll go away. After a while, he stands and gets up, walking over to a window and peering out the shades. He seems to see something that scares him, because the blue boy shuts them immediately and sits right back down across from me.

I notice now that he has a companion, and his companion is a fish. It shocks me, but I refuse to react. I refuse to give them pleasure. When the fish offers me cookies, I am silent. Silent because I know they're poisoned, they must be. But I still don't know what to think of the boy.

He's blue. Bald. Big-headed. Different. We're not supposed to like different people. But I can't make up my mind that I don't, or even that I do. But he doesn't seem to know what to do, either. We're at a standstill. Maybe he doesn't know what to think of me?

When a few hours have passed, or so it feels, I feel fresh fear well up in me when the blue boy, who has only tried to talk to me three or four times before giving up, stands and walks towards me. I cringe a little, but he doesn't notice.

I'm about to be raped, or murdered, or worse, I know it, because of what those girls have told me and my mother. So I'm surprised when he doesn't touch me, but instead releases the ropes that bind me, and watches while I rub my wrists and slowly stand.

"You can go now," he tells me, pointing to the door. "I think he stopped following me by now. You can go home." He says it quietly, and I walk, slowly, hesitantly, to the door. As I twist the doorknob, I turn, and I look into the eyes of my captor, and I feel confused. I don't say anything at first, but neither does he. I don't know what to think of him, this child who could be in my grade or one above me, this blue boy. I don't know what to think of him, but I feel the need to say something before I leave.

"I'm Roxanne Ritchi. I'm going to be a news reporter," I tell him, and he nods, as if he already knew. Then I shut the door and leave. Now, as I walk home, I think of the things I know for certain.

My name is Roxanne Ritchi. I'm twenty-five years old. I've been kidnapped over seven hundred times. My parents are dead. I'm a news reporter for Channel Five. I've never known quite what to think of Megamind. And maybe that's the reason it was so easy to fall in love with him.

Author Comments:

I'm in a mood for first-person tonight. So this is a little thing about Roxanne's first kidnapping, and her immediate reactions, with a nice little ending. I like it, it's shortish, quaint, and sweet. Enjoy! :D