Kidnapping Seems To Be A Better Alternative

Lauren Isabel Calderon was many things, as most people were. Complex, with a myriad of things that made her up. She never really did like the concept of trying to explain oneself in a few scant words. She felt that the essence of a person was much more than what most words could describe. Despite the nuances that words portrayed, she always felt they fell short of describing someone. She herself felt that whenever she tried to explain the things that made her up, she fell to the old pattern of picking the worst traits of herself, and putting them at the forefront.

She would think of a few adjectives... Clumsy, anxious, an over-analyzer, prone to procrastination, lazy-

An insomniac.

Ever since she was a child, she was one of those people who had trouble sleeping. She, knew, with some remorse she had been a constant nightmare for her mom. An amusement for her dad, maybe, when she would crawl into their bed in the middle of the night, or in the earliest hours of the morning when she had been very young. Wiggling into her mom's side, or kicking gently at father's legs as he made room for her, barely opening his brown eyes, a sleepy grin on his face, even as her mother muttered irritably at the interruption of her sleep. Her mom would push away Lauren's hands when she tried to check if her mom was awake, poking at her eyelids. Her dad would sometimes use her as an alarm clock- it was usually three when Lauren would sleepy slip into their bed, and that meant he had an hour before he had to be out the door for work. It was only made worse by the fact that Lauren wasn't only hard-pressed to fall asleep in the first place, but also a light sleeper.

The slightest thing could wake her up: sometimes she found herself waking up because her TV had turned off or because she had kicked off her blankets, or she heard someone in the house moving to get water or going to work. It was easy to say, when she went to sleep, she often mused that if they were ever to be robbed, she would notice it. She doesn't, however, notice, not this time. Another adjective, oblivious. Especially when it matters most.

Because when she wakes up, she isn't in her bed.

When she had gone to sleep, it had certainly been in her own bed. She had been curled tightly in a ball, hands underneath her head, on her side. Sweat trickling down her neck, despite the loud, whirling fan pointed directly in her face. It was the middle of November, but that meant little in Texas, and while it got to a cool sixty on the nights they were lucky, she always overheated in her sleep. It was another one of those things that often woke her up. Lauren usually went out of her way to try and minimize her discomfort beforehand. Wearing skimpy clothes to bed, always having her fan on, even in the middle of Winter... That night had been normal, and going to bed hadn't really been much different than many nights before that. Her mind had been a whirl, her tv had been low and muted, and she had drifted off so late, or early depending on who you asked, with that annoying trickle of sweat going down her neck. So when she woke up, it is with every expectation that it would be in the same place she went to sleep.

At first, she doesn't realize it's not, because she's sort of a zombie at least an hour after she wakes up and the room is still somewhat dark.

She moaned, pulling whatever is covering her body up and over her head, trying to block out the muted light she felt on her face. That should have altered her to something because she remembered kicking off her own thin blanket just before she had fallen asleep. But she didn't particularly want to notice, even as a weird shiver ran down her spine. It's cold, that's nice. She burrowed even further into the warmth, a contented sigh at the ideal temperature she felt. Because she was tired, and she didn't have to get up yet. She wanted to sleep more. Wished to sleep more, probably needed to sleep more. Relished the first free time she's had in a month to just rest since her projects had piled up. Thanksgiving was such a short break... The week off had been a welcome chance for her to eat left-overs, and plan out the rest of her semester without the worry of a deadline, just yet. The bed was comfortable. She's tired. Five more minutes, body. Or thirty. Or an hour.

Her planner is on the little coffee table, she used as a desk in her room, she knew. Telling her of critique days to come and test dates, half planned projects sketched out ready for her to refine, essays due. All pending. All sooner than she wished, all somewhat started or constantly on her mind. The responsibility of her scholarship, hanging overhead, the hope of her family on her shoulders like a weight she tried to ignore.

But it was Saturday. Last real free day of break.

She could look at her planner tomorrow on Sunday. It wasn't Monday, so she didn't have to get up so early to catch a bus to school. She could enjoy a lazy day, read something not connected to the theory of aesthetics, or focus on the logistics of her next important deadline. Shrik responsibility for a little longer, because she's caught up at the moment. She can ignore her school workload for one more day. Relax. Enjoy something unrelated for another breath. Maybe do some sketching for something that isn't entrenched in intent, or loaded with meaning that was meant to be poignant. Sometimes a pretty picture can be just as good to make, as a picture that is filled with the emotions or beliefs of the artist.

It still felt stifling to make only work for the sake of a grade, especially as much as her Professors wanted her to make each work mean something. Trying her damndest to learn a technique before the next one was thrown at her and make a piece that she enjoyed was difficult, not impossible. Her latest series in Metal Smithing was taking a toll on her emotionally too, and it felt raw to do something more in it. She had finished six within the series, and she knew she was reaching a natural ending point with this work. Despite the praise it was gaining, Lauren felt it was time to let the series end. Whether or not her professors would agree with her, or like it if she turned to a new series was another matter.

But half-asleep on the bed, Lauren pushed back the thoughts of what would come Monday morning, and the things she would be doing until the Fall semester ended. It was Saturday. Not Monday. She debated with herself the pros and cons of getting up now or trying to get back to sleep. Felt her mind spin back and forth as she wiggled a little in place, curling into a smaller ball.

I could finish off that fanfiction I was reading last night. Or I can grab my sketchbook and draw something. Finish that episode I was in the middle of- Enjoy all the day.

Or sleep. Glorious, precious sleep. Another five minutes. Another thirty. Just an hour won't make me lose too much of the day.

She sighed, squeezing her eyes together in frustration. Because Lauren knew if she had enough of a mind to debate with herself, then she has already made her decision, however reluctantly. She was mostly awake and there's no point in trying to get back to sleep. It would take too long for her to drift off again. She yawned, licking her fuzzy teeth and grimacing at the morning breath she tasted on her tongue. Gross, she thought, as she rubbed her eyes. She sat up, stretched her arms wide above her head. She gripped her wrists with the opposite hand before she slowly let them fall in a large arch back to her lap. She repeated this, relishing the small cracks in her back as she moved her arms, eyes closed as she took a measured breath after measured breath through her nose, exhaling out of her mouth. In and out, she thought calmly, keeping her breath even and calm as she rotated her ankles on the bed.

She felt strangely stiff, body aching as if she had slept a little funny, or too long in the same position. She absently ran a hand through her short-cropped hair, eyes still closed as she patted with her other hand around in the direction of her window. Damn light sensitivity. She reached for the sile specifically, where she always put her cell-phone, along with her remote for the television, and her metal water-bottle. She really wanted to check the time so she could plan her last free day well. It felt early, she knew, but that could mean three in the morning or six.

She got empty air.

She blinked, finally opening her eyes. What the frack? She squinted at the soft, muted light, a sharp twinge going through her eyes. She blinked rapidly as she wondered for half a second if she fell asleep downstairs on the couch. She realized as she looked to the side, that she is on a bed. This is not mine. One as tiny as her own twin-sized one. It's longer than her own, and the comforter, which is draped over her, is a pastel lavender, and one she does not own. The frame is different, white metal to the wooden one she's used since she was fourteen. The floor, next to the bed where her window should be, is wood, instead of cream carpet.

Lauren Calderon took a sharp, startled breath, spine stiffening as the fine hairs on the back of her neck started to rise.

I'm not at home. This isn't my room.

The room she is in, isn't familiar in any way. It isn't her's, nor any room she could think of. Firstly, it's much larger than her room, even in the dark she can tell that. It had slopped ceilings, pointed curiously in a way that denoted a very old house, something that is completely different than the flat rectangle shape of her own room. The walls were a soft blue. It's a far cry from the mixture of peach and yellow cream of her own room, and they are plain; bare of posters or picture frames of artwork, with the only thing, tacked on the wall a large corkboard on the far side of the room. It's bare of any furniture, except a pale rocking chair in one corner, near the window with old lace curtains that were touched with a hint of aging yellow, and a simple desk with a dinosaur of a computer. The computer really struck her as strange, as it was one of those large, rounded things that had been popular until flatscreens had taken over. Plastic, jeweled blue, and pale grey, with a chunky keyboard and an old ball mouse. The rounded screen reminded her of the TV her brother kept for vintage video games, a relic of childhood. It was the type of computer that she hadn't seen since she was in elementary school.

It wasn't the strangest thing, no that was being somewhere I have never been before with no memory of why. But it was something you noticed, being so anachronistic.

The room was a very far cry from her cluttered, shelf filled room. It gave her no clue to where she is and why- neutral colors, pale blue walls, and pale wooden floors. It was clean. So clean, smelling strongly of bleach and some sort of wood polish. But somehow it was stuffy. As if the room was seldom used, or hardly opened at all, and had been quickly cleaned.

It didn't look like it could belong to anyone in particular, really, a blank slate to fill your own personality with. Or a guest room of some kind if you take in the bed.

It's a contrast of where I fell asleep, Lauren thinks, breath starting to heave. Her room is her's, it screams Lauren Isabel Calderon: colorful, half the time it's a mess, but it's organized neatly, divided into areas for maximum use in the space. It's her sanctuary, her studio, and her little nest when her anxiety and depression is at its most potent. Her room is full to the brim with knick-knacks, dorkily based on her favorite media. Artwork lines the walls in frames, both fine-art, and fan-art. Her shoes scattered on the floor, her cardigans, and scarves tossed on the ottoman she mostly used as a desk chair. Her childhood stuffed animals, the ones she didn't have the heart to toss out, are on top of one of the shelves in the corner. Books, comics, manga, and movies fill that shelf, stacked up neatly, if overflowing, and screaming of her haphazard tastes of fantastical, nostalgic, and the bizarre. Art supplies, pens, and papers are constantly scattered across her long coffee table, half started art projects, stacks of partly filled sketchbooks. A long line of reference books stacked in one corner, with a small coffee maker in the other corner. It was what made her room smell of tea and coffee constantly. Brewing it in her room because going downstairs was a little too much sometimes, especially in the middle of the night.

She can feel herself each time she enters her room; smells her lotions and perfumes, the dust she spread on the carpet to make it smell like apples and cinnamon, the candles she lights, and that distinct smell of sharpies, paint or nail polish.

She felt safe and beautifully alone in her room because... well...

It's lived in.

The room she was in was cold and impersonal. It would've been sad, really, if she didn't already feel so confused, and frankly alarmed. Because she can see some semblance of life, very old and long gone. Faded pictures pinned up on corkboard; crude and speaking of a very small child. An awkward flower that was made of clumsily circles and fingerprints. A sun with a grin and sunglasses that was scribbled harshly with chipping yellow crayon. Fairy lights and purple lanterns sit awkwardly on the desk as if they had been meant to be put up, small little nails, and a hammer sitting next to the long strands. The fold-up desk chair has a small cushion that obviously matched the bedspread that Lauren was clutching in her hands, so hard she felt her nails pressing into her palms. Half ready, not quite prepared for its new inhabitant.

It was a room that was meant to belong to someone or at least have someone make it their own.

Lauren took a deep breath, sucking in sharply, deliberately through her nose. She held it. Tried to ignore the smell of disuse and bleach and sheer emptiness that the room held. She let it go, through her mouth, the taste of the smell lingering on the back of her tongue. She took another, even as she knew her effort to calm herself was not working. She can see dust lining the computer as if the person who had cleaned had rushed the job. It was squeaky and clean and at the same time it is haphazardly cold in its unlived state. As if it's trying to be pleasant and welcoming. But it just scares her more, the effort she sees in the room.

As if it was waiting for her.

Wake up. Come on Lauren, wake up, get up right now.

She blinked again, rubbed hard at her eyes as if she's having an after vision of a dream. But the strange room doesn't go away. She looked away from it, stared at her small hands in her lap, clutching desperately at the comforter. It's tangled around her legs and is vividly different than the blanket she had kicked off her legs at home, white with large Christmas flowers. It made it impossible to ignore the situation she's in. The comforter is pretty and shiny. A satin material with some beading, matching the lanterns on the desk. It looked brand new, and when she lifted it to her face, she knew it was. Because it smelled new, not like any sort of detergent. She squeezed her eyes shut, scrambling for a logical explanation of why the hell she was in a room she didn't recognize. She doesn't find one that is plausible or anyway reasonable. Her breathing isn't settling, and even as she tried to work on it, it kept growing shallower, quicker. She's trembling and she wondered, licking her lips, What the hell was going on?

Stay calm. Don't scream, don't panic too badly. Don't be an idiot in a horror movie. Don't be an idiot in a horror movie.

Quickly and as quietly as she can in her panic, she got out of the bed. Scrambled out of it as she tossed the bed comforter off of her, unclenching her fists and trying to relax them. But it's hard when her hands are shaking so badly, not to curl them into fists to make them stop. She froze. Going even stiffer as she stared down at the second change that she had failed to notice. A low, high pitched whine made it out of her throat before Lauren pressed her palm on her lips to suppress any more sound. She let out another shuddering breath and shook her head in slight denial.

Lauren went to bed with booty shorts, braless, and in a black tank top. It had been eighty degrees outside and boiling in her room. Because her room is at the front of the house and constantly receiving sunlight. She hated the heat, loathed it entirely. Hated to sweat hated the feel of it against her skin and the oppressive feeling of heat that across her pale-ish skin, as it made it red and splotchy. She avoided bras when she's in the comfort of her own home because she is well endowed and her mammaries appreciated a break, as does her back. But now she's dressed in a bra, black sweatpants, a ratty t-shirt full of holes and thick, plain gray socks.

It's cold as fuck in here, I have goosebumps.

She felt horrified. She felt it deep in the pit of her stomach, clawing at her. The realization that her clothes had been taken from her, without her permission, without her knowledge is beyond description. Her ears ring, and even though she knew it was only her own disgust, it felt as if phantom hands were on her body. The same hands that had brought down her shorts, lifted off her tanktop. Carefully lifted her breasts to encase them in the bra. She checked her underwear, and that too had been changed from her cotton pink to a nude pair that matched the expensive-looking bra. She felt her breath, quick and shuddering. Where the hell are my clothes? She licked her lips and looked up. Jerking her head away from the clothes that are on her body.

She doesn't see any shoes on the floor, like in her room, just worn pale wooden floors, a large window with the lace curtains, and two identical doors. She took a chance, and tiptoed to the one nearest to the window and opened it. A closet, very bare and small compared to her own cluttered, walk-in mess. But it has shoes, she breathed a sigh of relief. Four pairs of shoes lined up neatly, right on top of a small dresser that barely fit into the cramped space. She checked the sizes, shivered at the fact that they are just her size, six. She grabbed the white chucks. They seemed almost new, with neither a scuff or a stain, but they were still broken in. Worn to suit, frighteningly enough, her slightly wider foot at the toes. Her own pair of printed roses had the same crease where her toes started and curved slightly just like that. What the hell.

It's dumb. Probably wasted precious time, but Lauren reached for one of the pair of hung jeans, boot cut, and pale acid wash that still had the dangling tags. She grabbed a royal blue blouse. She scrambled for a new pair of underwear and a bra, another pair of socks. Everything is in her size, staying in the range she usually wears. Size five underwear, size five to nine jeans, medium to large-sized shirts. Bra size DD and thirty-eight band. But she ignored that. Stripped, quickly, out the clothes she was wearing. She felt as if she was shedding the second piece of rotting skin as she put on the new clothes, tossing the other clothes into the corner of the closet. Not mine, but at least they aren't what someone else forced me into. She put them on with trembling fingertips, and she tried to stop the stinging heat in her eyes and her breath that was made up of harsh, hiccupy little gasps. Lauren then snatched a huge, thick black hoodie, noting again, that it's her size and walked back to the room as she stuffed her arms into it.

Don't scream. Try to stay calm. Don't be an idiot in a horror movie. Don't be an idiot in a horror movie. You're an intelligent, non-promiscuous brunette. Points for you, less chance of being the first killed, and more chance of being the plucky last survivor. Increase your chances of survival and think.

It's something she told herself each time she walking home from school late at night. For her usual route is downtown in the less touristy bits of town, where there's little to no foot traffic and it screamed of slasher vibes. It was usually dark, the streets deserted and she's usually clutching her pepper spray in her right hand, with a box cutter in her back pocket. She listened to music softly in one ear, to keep herself from freaking out completely, and kept her other ear ready to hear footsteps behind her. The distance from her bus stop and her campus is roughly seven city blocks and half the time it's filled with shady people that she does her best to ignore. She walked quickly, even when she was loaded with a heavy portfolio on her arm or a box of metal. Her resting bitch face is her best friend, unfriendly and screaming 'don't talk to me'. She always tried to never show fear or hesitation, ignore if anyone talked to her directly. She's been followed more than once, catcalled more times than she can count, and had always tried to keep calm even when someone is freaking her out. The mantra has helped her walk home at night is the only thing keeping her from screaming hysterically now, even if it doesn't stop her from hyperventilating.

Don't be an idiot in a horror movie. Don't be an idiot in a horror movie.

It's still somewhat dark, but lighter than when she woke up. Giving her fairly good internal clock a good sense of what time it was. She guessed it was very early morning, roughly six or seven. She looked around for a weapon, eying the door that led to the rest of the house with almost painful awareness. She shivered again, licked her lips and, ignored it, and went through the closet again. Nothing small, or really heavy enough there. She grabbed a metal coat hanger just in case. It's underneath the bed that she finds a baseball bat. It's dark purple with cartoon butterflies in a lighter shade, obviously meant for little kids, short as her forearm. It's still metal, though, and if she hit someone on the head it would at least distract them. There's a little shoebox next to it, under the bed, that says 'Isabella's' in a mixture of crayon and Crayola scrubbed onto the cardboard.

More clues that this used to be a child's bedroom. But nope, don't give a damn about it. I'm getting out of here.

Much to her damn relief, she finds her phone sitting on her pillow when she checked the bed. She stuffed that into the bra, for the lack of pockets in the hoody and the jeans. Then, she went to the window.

It's really green outside, is her first thought. She lived in a very green suburb, with trees and wildflowers in the summer, that stayed that way most of the year unless it got too hot or too cold. But this green is very dark, evergreen, vibrant, and rich, unlike the softer colors she's used too. Her second one is that she's on a second floor. A floor is roughly ten feet, not too bad of a fall. Just don't land on your face or back. There's a tree right next to the window when she whipped away the condensation on it. She looked back at the door, white, looking so innocent. Whoever brought her here could be right outside, and she rather not risk that.

She opened the window and is dead relieved that it can be open, but cringed when it started to squeak about halfway up. She stopped, breathing deeply, licking her lips, checking the door that led to the rest of the house. Waited from some sort of noise to indicate that someone had heard. It doesn't move and the house stays silent. She threw caution to the wind and flung it open. The noise is a loud squeal, high pitched, but after a minute of the door not moving she relaxed her tense posture. She licked her lips, turning back to the outside. There isn't a screen, which she is glad for. With trembling hands, Lauren lifted herself onto the window sile.

The window is large, not floor length, but she can sit comfortably in it without hitting her head. She isn't very tall, just five foot nothing, but that still surprised her. The smell just after the rain hit her, like a physical weight as she took a shaky breath. Rich, heady and in any other circumstances she would have loved that smell. Would have loved the biting cold that settled over her, nipped at her exposed cheeks, nose, and her chapped lips. But right now she can only think of the cold that had just started to settle, chasing away the Texas sun and easing into a tepid winter. There were only three seasons where she lived, hot as hell most of the year, wet as hell for a bit of the year, and cold as hell the rest of it. The biggest part being hot, with only a little bit of wet and cold. She can guess it to be around forty degrees, if colder, and that is not normal for November. Not in Texas.

How long have they had me here? Have I blocked it all out or did they just move me somewhere where it get's this cold in November?

Lauren licked her dry lips, squirmed on her perch. Because of course she just realized she really needs to pee on top of it all. Bodily functions later, bodily safety now. She eyes the tree in front of her, clutching at the small, metal bat with one hand and the other at the edge of the insanely big window. The closest branches touch the side of the house, but those are thin and definitely won't hold her hundred and sixty-something pounds of squish and tush comfortably. One branch, about a foot away, looks like it can hold her weight. Thick and as wide as her hips, it would hold her weight unless it had some sort of rot in it. Por el amor de Dios, por favor no. She licked her lips again, blinked rapidly and looked towards the ground. Mostly grass, full of dew. She can do grass. If you don't make it to the tree, bend your knees. Like when I was five and I would jump off the top of the monkey bars, no biggie, easy peasy lemon squeezy.

She tossed the bat to the ground and scooted the furthest she can on the ledge towards the thick branch. She braced her feet on the edge of the wood paneling, eyes narrowed. Lauren wasn't athletic, not like when she was a kid zipping around like a meth head on a sugar high. But the thought of whoever was in the house that had stripped her changed her, touched her and brought her God's knows where is enough. It made her take a deep breath, lick her lips, and launch herself off of the ledge.

She almost doesn't make it. Her first hand slipped right off the slick, moss-covered branch. It's her second hand, snatching up, flailing and with her hissing in a high pitch panic that saved her. The dangerous swing she gets is what allowed her to straddle the slightly vibrating and creaking branch. Drops of water drip down from soaked leaves, getting in her eyes and soaking her partially through. She scratched her palms, and her thighs ache from the force of smacking against the tree branch. But she's stable and the branch held her weight. Now to get down, slowly, swing yourself up, just like at recess. She had been a boss at the handlebars, could flip and swing herself up, get to the tallest set, and everything. Except the swings had been her favorite most of the time and it's been a long time since she'd set foot in a playground.

She hooked her right leg, gripped the branch after shimming closer to the trunk, where the branch is thicker, more stable and tried to get on top. She slipped again, not quite able to haul her weight on the first time. She fell back. Her head hits some branches and it sends a stream of water from rain all over her. She blinked, gritted her teeth, and tried again until she's seated on the branch, panting and trembling. Lauren squeezed her eyes shut again, breathed deeply through her nose, and then out her mouth. All that yoga gotta be worth something, she thought as she shook her head, trying to ease the adrenaline high she was on. But mostly she just shakes some water from her now damp hair.

She managed to get down from the tree; damp, bruises, and scratches galore, probably covered in moss and with leaves in her hair. She doesn't care. On wobbly legs she went to snatch the cold and wet bat, and then she started heading for the treeline, away from the street. Once she's in the woods, near the tree line, she stared back at the house. It looked so normal- smaller than her own house, but with a larger back yard, no fence, just a straight-up opening into the evergreen woods. She could pass it any other day and think nothing of it. She squinted at it, trying to memorize the color and look of the house before she slowly started making her way right. She made a deliberate effort to keep an eye on the vastly spaced houses, just out of reach of the forest. It isn't until she can see a road with no houses anymore, that she stopped and fished her phone out of the bra. She huddled against a tree, facing the direction of the house she just came from.

She dialed 911 with trembling fingers thanking God she had a wonderful reception in what's obviously a rural town.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" the voice is female calm and it made Lauren realize how tense she is.

Her shoulders slump, her entire body sagged and she fell to the ground because her legs are trembling so damn much. She sobbed, a little high pitch sort of snort that would have horrified her had she made that noise on any other day. I'm going to be fine. I'm more or less safe. Help is on the way. She still clutched the butterfly bat tightly against her chest, blinking rapidly as she cried, hot tears leaking down her cheeks.

"Ma'am, are you still there?"

"Yes," her voice is rough and high, a combination of stress and sheer relief, "Yes, I'm here, I'm sorry."

"That's alright. Now tell me what's the state of your emergency."

"I think I've been kidnapped," she blurted and she gave a half little giggle at how ridiculous that is.

Her family isn't rich.

At best, they had been lower middle class when she was a child. Now, they are slightly lower than that. She's unemployed, a full-time student, a fine arts major, with long hours and scraping and scrimping to make the best of the meager funds her family can give her. There's no ransom money to be given. If there was it's because of her extended family. Maybe it was because of her Godfather, also her maternal uncle. He was rich and somewhat prominent down in Mexico. He had some run-ins with the Cartels because of it, mostly theft of his nicer cars, maybe some minor threats. There was respect granted to him, however, that has never had that escalate beyond that. Something about her mother's family, and her Godfather in particular for being in charge of the one's living there despite not being the oldest, that made them leave her family alone. Maybe this is an escalation that had been too tempting, too much for them not to take up. But at the same time, there are other family members that are better, easier targets than a niece that lived in another country. Her Godfather loved her, for sure, and she long suspected she was his favorite niece, but she wouldn't have been a target most people would think of.

She doesn't think she's particularly appealing; she has a baby face and is heavier set, not enough to be quite considered fashionable curvy but enough to have a bit of a muffin top and passable girls. But sexual predators sometimes don't need a gorgeous captive. The thought that maybe her baby's face got her nabbed is vivid and entirely plausible. She had been given the kids menu until she was in high school and has been hit on enough with 'hey, you're sixteen right?' and a crude leer by many men that have no business hitting on teenagers. She was still mistaken for being underaged, and it wasn't odd for her to be carded more than once during a night out with her friends.

But the old way of thinking, that it couldn't possibly happen to me is swirling in her brain, even as she knows that being kidnapped is the only reasonable explanation. She's stunned that this is happening, that she's in a strange place crouching in mud, muck, and moss after escaping her captor's house. She's sobbing again, but there's that odd interruption of a hysterical giggle that she can't stop.

"Can you describe what happened? What makes you think that you were kidnapped?"

"I woke up in a room that wasn't mine. Someone changed my clothes," she started to gag, vivid imagination thinking that, knowing that foreign, stranger hands had touched her, "I just… Got out, and now I'm in the woods and I'm so scared..."

"Ma'am, can you state your name and age?"

She loved true crime shows, Forensics Files, and F.B.I. being some of her favorites. And once upon a time, she had wanted to be in law enforcement herself. She recognized that the operator just wanted to calm her down, get her coherent to assess her validity of her claim. But it worked, made Lauren bit back the next sob.

"Lauren Calderon, I'm nineteen," her faint Mexican accent slipped like it always did when she' s stressed.

Spanish had been her first language and while she had been born and raised in the United States, sometimes her first language is emphasized in odd words. Normally, her English is perfect and without a slight hitch, but Spanish's rolled r's or odd infliction snuck its way into her voice. Especially when she's emotional. At the moment, she feels more than emotional.

"Can describe the location, some sort of landmark, Lauren? Are you near a road?"

She looked around, heading cautiously toward the road.

"I'm on the end of a street called Fern Hill Road. It's some sort of residential neighborhood, it's surrounded by a forest. Um, maybe pine trees? I don't know. I'm not a botanist. I do know that I came from the house that is at the furthest down the road."

She has never seen such a place. She's been a city girl all her life, even visiting her parents' rural hometowns in Mexico didn't match up to anything like this place. Those were tropical, high grasses and short trees with heady, humid smells. Flowers and fruits and dusty forest floor that dusted her bare feet in a layer of dry grime. Wherever she is, it is wet, cold, moss everywhere and had trees that towered over the two stories houses that littered the one-sided street. Her neighborhood is just a sprawling nearly gated community on the very edge of the city, a mixture of city and undeveloped half-hearted forests that break the rolling grass meadows full of bluebonnets and tall grasses. This, where ever she is, is foreign.

Like an alien planet. It would have been beautiful if Lauren wasn't so damn terrified.

"Do you have any injuries?"

"Some cuts and bruises, from getting out of the house... I jumped out a window," she muttered, and quickly, she headed for the trees again. She felt exposed and not comfortable, "I didn't want to risk running into the person who... Who took me."

"That was very brave, kid. Now, there is no Fern Hill road in the city," said the woman suddenly and Lauren froze.

While she didn't live in the biggest city in the country, she did live in a big city. The chance of it not having a street name aren't very high, because cities tended to repeat names across the country. She sucked in a sharp breath. She stared in front of her with unseeing eyes, head spinning.

"What?" her voice broke and she felt herself start to shake again.

"Stay calm. I want you to head towards the road. Away from the direction you came from and find the nearest house or passing car. I also want you to stay on the line. I'm going to track you and send some your way if I can, is that alright Lauren, hon?"

If the American school system had taught her anything, it was to follow directions from an authoritative, calm voice.

"Okay. Okay. I can do that," she started to walk away from Fern Hill Road. She doesn't run. But she does speed walk, quickly, mindful of the many tangled roots that line the forest floor.

She walked for longer than she expected. There had been hardly any houses beyond the house she had just escaped from, but away from Fern Hill Road, there is nothing but a single road and endless expanse of towering trees. She stayed fairly close to the road and learned that the woman on the line is named Holly, and she is trying to get a trace on her location, which is somehow not working. The calmness of her voice is what gets Lauren to take one step in front of another. It is about twenty minute into her journey that a single-car appeared on the road. It's driving fairly fast, but all she can think is that she can find out where she is.

She sprinted to the middle of the road, waving her arms like a crazy person. The car slows, sleek and easy, black and gleaming metal, turning so that it's blocking the entire road and the driver's side is facing her. Its windows are tinted and Lauren wonders if it's too dark, knowing that there's some law or another that stipulated that it can't be darker than a certain shade. But that slipped from her mind the second the window glides down.

Her phone clattered to the floor.

"Are you alright?" said the man, a frown on his pale, bowed lips.

Lauren is no stranger to pale. She was milk-white until recently, even with the rosy undertones of her skin. She has seen alabaster skinned people who burn in the sun. They literally have nothing on the man staring at her, blond brows furrowed. She licked her lips and blinked rapidly. Lauren is an artist, she's seen works of arts that make her want to weep. Been stirred by the beauty before, is an avid movie and tv show binger so she's seen many a hot celebrity.

The man in front of her is so good looking it's frankly alarming.

Quickly, she scrambled for her phone, noting, surprised that its screen is black, and even as she smashed the power button on the back that it does not turn back on, even if it had half a battery just a second ago. She looked back at the man, blinked rapidly at the killer and heavy bags he has underneath his eyes. The only imperfection she thinks is on his creepily smooth face. Seriously it's like the uncanny valley and perfect Squidward smashed together.

"Miss?" he leaned forward and got out of the car.

His movements are just as eerie as his appearance, too smooth, too easy, too inhuman. The hair on the back of Lauren's neck stood up. She took a scrambling step back. And then what comes out of his perfect cupid bow of a mouth causes her world to tilt on its side, do the Gangnam style and then punch her in the face:

"My name is Carlisle Cullen, I'm a Doctor, are you hurt?"

At first, she just wanted to laugh in his face. Because seriously, talk about a dated reference. He looked nothing like the guy who played Carlisle in the film, and though it's been eight years since she's read so much as a fanfiction for Twilight, she can bring his general description fairly easily to mind: perfect, but somehow less perfect than Edward according to Bella, blond hair, roughly in his twenties and somewhat tall, with golden eyes. Movie star good looks, yet somehow inhumanly beautiful and pale. She blinked at the stranger and really looks at him.

He is entirely too pretty- the best features mashed together. He has a firm and strong jawline, squared, but somehow delicate all the same. Not blunt, just sculpted beautifully. Perfect, bowed lips slightly pinker than his white skin, with a straight nose and, luminous, wavy blond hair that looked incredibly soft, yet looked almost metallic it was that bright a shade of blond. His eyes are large but not too large, heavily lashed with golden burnished hair darker than what's on top of his head, his eyebrows are slightly arched, thick and a darker shade of blond than his lashes. His eyes are honey, cue nearly fucking yellow to her. They're on the darker side, like some sort of light beer, but not black. And it is inhuman, the way he looked, but not in the entirely fuckable way, or beautiful way as Bella described for the majority of the books, it's frankly…

Eerie.

He's moving, breathing, blinking, and shifting foot to foot but it's so synchronized that she can almost find the pattern that he's following to appear to fidgety. And that is something that an actor could never, ever achieve. Her knees buckled and Lauren collapsed on the road in a heap. Because this can't be fucking happening.

"I'm lost," she said softly and the hysterical edge to her voice is high and clear.

Lauren wondered faintly, how on earth that being kidnapped is a better alternative, more plausible explanation than being in the world of Twilight.


AN: I do not own Twilight in any shape or form.

*Edited: 24 May 2020... I went from 6000 words to nearly 8000... Yay?

I was fairly young when I read the Twilight series, about eleven and the book series ended just as I was turning fourteen. Just like everyone at the age, I got obsessed with it, read it religiously, bought all the books as soon as I could. I have not read the series proper since Breaking Dawn came out, never watched all the films (I got up to first few minutes of New Moon). To be frank, I don't hate the series, I even loved it once upon a time. But like most books I read at the time, I matured beyond them. I found better, more expansive books with more interesting characters and more complex plots. I've found some really good fanfiction over the years that gave me a fuller story than what was given in the actual series, which looking back is rather bare-bones. Twilight, I remember vividly, was the sort of book where I could ignore Bella's limited personality and insert myself easily into it. I've been thinking about that a lot lately and wondered how I myself would react to the situations that Bella found herself in.

Hence the thought of Eventide kinda came into my head.

This is sort of a rewrite and critique of the series all rolled into one, with a self-insert to top it all off.

Lauren Isabel Calderon is heavily based on me- I've changed the name because of paranoia with the exception of my middle name(Yes, my middle name is Isabel) and certain details will be kept deliberately vague. But her family will be my family and towards the beginning of this, I'm going to keep it as close as my personality as possible. How it develops might deviate from me and I'm okay with that. I'm writing Eventide because I want to deconstruct a series that once adored and now feel a little... I don't know. I have very mixed feelings about it, like it well enough but looking back at it, it surprises me how it held my attention so ardently.

I won't be mean spirited as I write this. But I will be very honest with how I feel about certain aspects and be very blunt about what bothers me about the series now that I'm older.

Notes:

- Size Range: Depending on the brand, I'm a different size. Because woman clothing is not regulated like men's clothes. Roughly a medium to large shirts wise and 5-7 on pant's size is my range.

-Por el amor de Dios, por favor no: For the love of God, please no.

I hope you enjoyed my first chapter, and please feel free to review or to pm if you have any questions.

~Happy Reading,

Moon Witch '96