I wake up to the horrid smell of rotting food. I lean up to see I am laying in a basement. Every piece of furniture this lounge contained had the ugliest shades: the green carpet, the mustard yellow recliner, the brown walls. Nothing matched. Nothing seemed right. The two book cases were cluttered with old books that smell of soggy yellow pages. There were miscellaneous articles of spoiled clothing around the room. The drawers to the dressers were half open as if it was rummaged through. The bare mattress in the corner had leftover takeout, pizza crusts, and beer cans.
When I had come to consciousness, I almost puked as I took in the smells and view of this dark room. Who would live in this condition? Oh yeah, my kidnapper would.
My wrists were tied with wire and I was taped from the waist down with duct tape. There was a rope around my mouth, straining me like a horse. I squirmed for what seemed like forever. I almost loosen my hands when I start to hear footsteps outside the door followed by a turn in the lock. I quickly lay back down on the cold carpet.
A blond haired man walked in followed by a taller bald man. The blond man was dressed in a blue polo with khakis. As he walked in he checked his expensive-looking watch and nodded to the bald man. The bald man, who was dressed in a white tee and blue jeans, walked over to me. He slapped me and I began to cry. He picked me up so I was sitting on my knees. The blond man walked over to me. He leaned in to my face so close that we were almost touching noses. He had the prettiest blue eyes. His eyebrows wrinkled in confusion and he cocked his head to the side. I closed my eyes and a cold hand stroked my cheek where I was slapped. My eyes flutter open and tears escape my eyes. He opens his eyes to say something but sighs and pulls his hand back.
"We've been waiting for you."
The blond man turns and nods to the other. He walks to me, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder. He turns and carries me out of the room. With all the blood rushing to my head, I pass out.
