I am almost done with the next chapter, so you'll see it soon. Probably tomorrow. Thanks for the reviews! :)


None of them remembered much. The first one to wake was the oldest, the big and brawny, overworked Darry. He glanced around the room with a mild curiosity at first, but when lucidity set in, he began to panic. He saw that his feet were chained together, and his hands were hanging above his head, attached to the wall with a seemingly unbreakable metal chain. He tried to squeeze his hands out of the wrist irons, but was unable. After several minutes of struggling, he gave up. He looked over at his brothers, wondering whether he should wake them or not. Before he could decide, a voice sounded from a dark corner.

"Don't wake him up dimwit, he's tired." She growled.

He could see nothing more than a shadow. He didn't recognize the shrill voice. He had to assume that she wasn't the one who had done this to them, because women don't do those sort of things. She had to be the prisoner of some maniac serial killer, and maybe she had come to their aid.

"Where are we?" he beseeched, hushing his tone as to not wake his siblings.

"Well brainy, if you actually took in your surroundings you would see that there are no windows, and that the floor is sloped slightly. From that you should be able to conclude that we're in a basement, on a house on a hill. You could go even further and try to think of neighborhoods that lie on hills, and then you could guess that it's possible you are in a wealthy area."

Her voice was like millions of bees and wasps stinging repeatedly all over your skin, a voice that was painful to hear, but the speaker was so vicious that you were afraid to shriek or scream. He dismissed his theory. He couldn't assume anything at the moment, he realized, especially not in such a disoriented state.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Oh, I don't want much. I never have. Since that day, I haven't wanted anything else. It's not so much to ask is it?"

Darry said nothing else. He didn't want to tangle with someone who was as nuts as she sounded. He began trying to think of a way out while Angie sat in her corner, hugging her knees to her chest, reminiscing as she stared at the boy in the middle.

It had been a clear autumn day. The golden sun loomed overhead, a breeze ruffled the colorful trees, the leaves were whispering to her. There was no doubt in her mind that she looked absolutely stunning in this light. She had managed to get her car to a gas station. She was waiting for someone to fix it as she leaned on the passenger side door, wondering when or if one of her parents would swing by and give her a ride home. Not that she cared. She hated them.

"They can go to hell." She grumbled under her breath, gritting her teeth angrily.

Someone approached her from behind. His shirt had oil stains, his golden hair was greased back, his jeans had holes in them, but nevertheless, he was gorgeous.

"This your car?"
She turned, and upon spotting him, stifled a gasp. Her heart stopped. Suddenly she recalled the first time she had tried alcohol, how it lifted burdens off her shoulders and felt warm pulsing through her veins - how it sent her into a state of delirious ecstasy. She was not herself anymore.

"Y-yes."

"You want me to take a look at it?"

"Um…y-yeah."

She groaned internally, wondering why she wasn't her usual smart ass self. She wondered where all her bitterness and narcissism had gone. Her face flushed when he looked up from the hood a few moments later.

"It's nothing much, I could have it done in an hour."

She regained some of her hateful self that moment, because she realized she would be stuck there for an hour. It was a school night. She desperately wanted to be home, or at least out doing something fun.

"Could you make it snappy? I don't have a ride."

"Sure,"

She laid in the backseat of her car while he did the repairing. She stared at the ceiling as the sunlight streamed down through the window, making her eyes glow golden. Her hand was on her wrist, always searching for a pulse – a sure sign that she was indeed alive. She recalled the night she had allowed things to go too far, a night that had occurred only a few weeks ago.

Alcohol had been her best friend. Heck, everyone admitted she was more likable when she was drunk or at least a bit tipsy. It made her feel better too. It wasn't the rush, no, it was the sudden blur of the lines between dreams and actuality. Between (hopeless) hope and (horrific) reality. But she took it too far. Her parents were gone, she'd had a party, and of course, she'd had a ton of alcohol there. She woke up on the floor, barely alive. No one had stayed to take care of her or to even check if she was breathing. They'd left her there. This didn't concern her –she hadn't even flinched when a boy had been stabbed at her last party-, but the fact that she could scarcely remember where she was did, especially when she was in her own house.

Two days later she finally managed to get up. Angie had no doubt that she could've killed herself with as much as she'd drank that night, and vowed not to drink again. If she had one drink, she'd want another. She couldn't become addicted, because that would make her needy, and Angie was not needy. She needed nothing and no one. She wanted a lot of things –she would get them in due time-, but she would never need anything or anyone.

"Well, if you have any more problems just come up here."

She sat up, rather slowly, and reached for her purse in the front seat.

"You don't have to pay me."

She ignored him. She wanted to pay him. Not for being nice or for fixing her car, but for being so damn sexy.

She placed a fifty in his hand, and his eyes widened.

"But…"

"I don't need it doll, I have more than enough money." She said, waving him off. She then climbed into the front of the car, started the engine, and drove off, giving a small honk of the horn as a farewell.

Since then she'd tried to come up with a reason to visit again. She often drove by as slow as her car would allow and stared at him. He was so intent when he was working on a car that he never noticed. She had once discreetly followed him home.

If this were a movie, the camera would now pan upwards from the dreary basement to the third floor of the house where Angie's room was located. On her walls she had plastered countless sloppy drawings of the boy she'd never even caught the name of. She drew him sweating as he leaned over a car, she drew his handsome, flawless face, she drew him as a groom with his glorious bride – herself.

Angie came back to the present. The boy was muttering something.

She jumped up.

"What is he saying?"

"He always mumbles in his sleep."

Angie settled down again. It would be awhile before the others woke up. They weren't as strong as Darry was, and therefore would not be able to overcome the drug as quickly. Even Darry himself was beginning to nod off a little.

Angie had talked to her parents a day ago, while the unconscious boys were hanging in the basement. She'd encouraged them to take another week off, perhaps even two. They needed no convincing. Angie didn't suggest, she demanded. The sound of her voice, like nails on a chalkboard, was venomous to her parents' ears. They would do anything to avoid hearing it again.

She couldn't, however, make up an excuse not to go to school. It was now Monday, and school would start in a few hours. As much as she wanted to stare at her prince, she could not.

Angie stood, her weak knees aching in protest. Still, she made her way over and planted a soft kiss on the lips of her prince.

"It'll be you tying me up soon." She whispered with a wicked smile, and then turned to leave. After eating and dressing for the first time in days, she left the house that morning with an assurance to herself that her prince would be awake and animated when she returned.