The darkness, everywhere. The sounds, dull. Her ears, blocked.
The sight of the man in front of her was more than she could bear. An involuntary throbbing, nearly a twitch, occurred in her right eye. He was thin, sallow almost. His hair was short – nearly to his scalp. He had a small amount of stubble – a common look, but it looked more like he had forgotten to shave. Twinkling, dark eyes. A grin full of mischief. He flashed by in her line of sight. In one flash, he looked gay. Tinted eyebrows. Foundation. Lime green underwear clearly visible. In the next, he was different. Very different. No foundation. The tint in his eyebrows gone. A suit. Dark, charcoal grey. Socks the same colour, to look taller. Both items were quality. Expensive. Vivienne Westwood. That particular suit was four hundred and eighty-five pounds. Amazing amount of money. He was short, even with the advantage the socks gave him.
The sound of laughter. Evil. Maniacal. Disconcerting.
A sensation of heat. Blazing orange against her shut eyelids. Cringing.
Trying to get away. Unable to move, bound by twists of rope. Handmade rope. Tied tight. Chafing against her wrists.
Must quell the panic.
Fear is not an option.
Failure is not an option.
Must escape.
Short of breath.
Heart pounding erratically.
Panic, however much it was quelled, returned.
Fear permeated throughout.
A cry of help, the voice hoarse. Her own voice.
Coughing. Choking on the smoke.
Trying to get lower. Unable to.
Trying to get away. Unable to.
Trapped. Forced to die.
She gasped, sweat covering her in a slick coat. She was relieved to see that there was no fire, no heat. It had been a dream. Her fear, her panic, the erratic heartbeat – they had been real. Physical reactions to the subconscious mind. She shivered and looked down, a bark of laughter escaping from her lips. No wonder she had felt trapped. Her legs had gotten entangled in the sheets.
Sheets? Last thing she remembered was feeling extremely exhausted outside her father's house. How had she gotten into a bed, and more importantly, how had she gotten there?
She was still dressed. Her bags lay next to the bed. A CCTV camera in the corner of the room. It dawned on her. Her uncle had gotten her. Oh wonderful. This wasn't anything like the way she had planned it to be. She didn't want to be dependent on anyone, and her uncle was extremely low on the list of people she'd turn to in an emergency. He practically wasn't even on it. She sneered in contempt toward the camera, before sitting upright in the bed, trying to wrap the sheet around her lithe form in some form of modesty.