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roped_wrists · 06-05-2013, 07:02 PM

The Legacy of Damien Denzel

This is a work of fiction.

I awaken with a start. The last thing I remember is a shadow standing over my bed holding a rag over my mouth and a sickly-sweet smell chemical smell. As soon as I come to I feel like I'm still there, fighting to stay conscious despite the overpowering fumes.

But I'm not there any more. I lay curled up in the back seat of a car. My wrists and ankles are bound with soft nylon rope and a strip of duct tape covers my mouth. The blanket from my bed is wrapped around my body like a cocoon, my head poking out one end and my feet poking out the other; lengths of rope are bound around my knees and upper-abdomen to keep the wrap tight. Terrified I sit up, bracing on my bound fists, watching streetlights pass. All I hear on the radio is —riot last night at Winchester Pen— before the radio goes silent. The hard, icy barrel of a gun presses against the underside of my chin.

"Lay down and be quiet."

"Mmmmph?!" I turn to the driver, who still wears a black ski mask. We pull up to a red light and he turns around to face me, holding the gun steady. His eyes are cold and narrowed--and somehow familiar.

"This is a stolen car. I have no problem decorating the interior with your brains." Trembling, I lay down in the seat. We start moving forward again.

I take a moment to survey the situation but with so many unanswered questions--and the chloroform still playing tricks with my mind--it's like putting together a puzzle without all the pieces. One minute I was sleeping soundly, the next I was being abducted. My family is wealthy so my kidnapper probably intends to ransom me. That means I'm worth more to him alive than dead. I run my bare toes over the lock of the door opposite my head but refrain from making a break for it. For one I probably wouldn't fare well tumbling down the road at forty-five miles per hour; for two, there are lots of rich families with daughters ripe for ransom. I'm valuable, sure, but in this situation I'm not exactly one-of-a-kind. For the time being it’s better to go along with the situation and bide my time.

I don't know where we are or how long I've been unconscious, and I don't recognize the city we leave, nor do I recognize the wooded area into which we travel. The road turns to dirt under the tires.

My kidnapper kills the engine and exits the car, rounding the bumper and pulling open the rear passenger door. "Time to go."

"Mmmmph!" I cry out into the gag as he manhandles me out of the car and slings me over his shoulder. With my hands tied behind my back it's impossible to lift my head much, but through the veil of long brown hair cascading around my face I get a feel for our location. He's toting me toward a single-story cabin situated in the center of a small, claustrophobic clearing. The woods appear thick to begin with but the moonless night has darkened them to the point of solid blackness.

I squirm helplessly as he carries me up the porch and into the cabin. The interior is pitch black but the smell of rot, mold, and cobwebs is unmistakable. He carries me upstairs, each step crackling and threatening to snap beneath every footfall.

My kidnapper lights a lantern at the top of the stairs with an orange Bic. After baking in the mid-June sun all day the attic is like an oven, and being wrapped up in the blanket is doing me no favors. The attic is empty except for an old bare mattress resting on the floor. The floor is dotted with small piles though it's too dark for me to make out what details. With a grunt he drops me off his shoulder and onto the mattress.

I curl up against the angled ceiling, trembling with fear. Sweat dribbles down my brow as I watch my captor move about the attic, silently lighting lanterns. "Mmmmph." I squirm, hoping to draw my captor's attention. It's getting hot as hell in here and a glass of water would be nice. Being held for ransom is thirsty work.

Upon finishing with the lanterns, my captor turns and pulls a knife from his belt. I swallow hard and freeze, staring up at him. "Pretty warm. Probably because there's such a hot little minx in here." He pulls off his mask and comes at me with the knife.

"Mm!" I squeal and flop onto my side. He slices the ropes around my knees and chest and unfolds the blanket, laying it across the mattress. My sleeping gear is soaked with sweat. My t-shirt, several sizes too large for me, clings to my skin and my underwear is drenched. My face goes red when I realize that the absence of a bra has made my chest visible through the thin white fabric.

My captor puts away the knife, setting me somewhat at ease. As he pulls me up into a sitting position against a nearby support post I can't help but notice his face. Not just his eyes are familiar; I've seen him before somewhere. But where? He's not someone I know personally and he's too young to be one of my friends' fathers. I'd be all-too-happy to subscribe to the 'stranger' theory if I wasn't dead certain I'd seen him before. In any case--

"MMM!" Feeling a rope tightening around my neck snaps me back to reality. What the hell is going on?

"Stay put." The man stands erect and starts down the stairs. I wince as the rope grates my soft throat. It wraps around my neck and the post, keeping me upright and tethered in place. On top of that I'm bound hand and foot, sitting in a cabin miles from civilization. Where does he think I'm going to go? Helpless, I listen to my kidnapper stroll outside. The car door opens, closes, and he re-enters the cabin. He closes the door at the base of the attic stairs and I hear a deadbolt close.

"Let's get down to business," he says, holding up a small camera as he crests the top of the stairs. "Don't smile. Cry a little bit for brownie points." He brings the camera to his face.

06-05-2013, 07:02 PM	#1
roped_wrists Junior Member Join Date: May 2013 Location: Struggling in the Back of a Van Posts: 17 Reputation: 169	The Legacy of Damien Denzel The Legacy of Damien Denzel This is a work of fiction. I awaken with a start. The last thing I remember is a shadow standing over my bed holding a rag over my mouth and a sickly-sweet smell chemical smell. As soon as I come to I feel like I'm still there, fighting to stay conscious despite the overpowering fumes. But I'm not there any more. I lay curled up in the back seat of a car. My wrists and ankles are bound with soft nylon rope and a strip of duct tape covers my mouth. The blanket from my bed is wrapped around my body like a cocoon, my head poking out one end and my feet poking out the other; lengths of rope are bound around my knees and upper-abdomen to keep the wrap tight. Terrified I sit up, bracing on my bound fists, watching streetlights pass. All I hear on the radio is —riot last night at Winchester Pen— before the radio goes silent. The hard, icy barrel of a gun presses against the underside of my chin. "Lay down and be quiet." "Mmmmph?!" I turn to the driver, who still wears a black ski mask. We pull up to a red light and he turns around to face me, holding the gun steady. His eyes are cold and narrowed--and somehow familiar. "This is a stolen car. I have no problem decorating the interior with your brains." Trembling, I lay down in the seat. We start moving forward again. I take a moment to survey the situation but with so many unanswered questions--and the chloroform still playing tricks with my mind--it's like putting together a puzzle without all the pieces. One minute I was sleeping soundly, the next I was being abducted. My family is wealthy so my kidnapper probably intends to ransom me. That means I'm worth more to him alive than dead. I run my bare toes over the lock of the door opposite my head but refrain from making a break for it. For one I probably wouldn't fare well tumbling down the road at forty-five miles per hour; for two, there are lots of rich families with daughters ripe for ransom. I'm valuable, sure, but in this situation I'm not exactly one-of-a-kind. For the time being it’s better to go along with the situation and bide my time. I don't know where we are or how long I've been unconscious, and I don't recognize the city we leave, nor do I recognize the wooded area into which we travel. The road turns to dirt under the tires. My kidnapper kills the engine and exits the car, rounding the bumper and pulling open the rear passenger door. "Time to go." "Mmmmph!" I cry out into the gag as he manhandles me out of the car and slings me over his shoulder. With my hands tied behind my back it's impossible to lift my head much, but through the veil of long brown hair cascading around my face I get a feel for our location. He's toting me toward a single-story cabin situated in the center of a small, claustrophobic clearing. The woods appear thick to begin with but the moonless night has darkened them to the point of solid blackness. I squirm helplessly as he carries me up the porch and into the cabin. The interior is pitch black but the smell of rot, mold, and cobwebs is unmistakable. He carries me upstairs, each step crackling and threatening to snap beneath every footfall. My kidnapper lights a lantern at the top of the stairs with an orange Bic. After baking in the mid-June sun all day the attic is like an oven, and being wrapped up in the blanket is doing me no favors. The attic is empty except for an old bare mattress resting on the floor. The floor is dotted with small piles though it's too dark for me to make out what details. With a grunt he drops me off his shoulder and onto the mattress. I curl up against the angled ceiling, trembling with fear. Sweat dribbles down my brow as I watch my captor move about the attic, silently lighting lanterns. "Mmmmph." I squirm, hoping to draw my captor's attention. It's getting hot as hell in here and a glass of water would be nice. Being held for ransom is thirsty work. Upon finishing with the lanterns, my captor turns and pulls a knife from his belt. I swallow hard and freeze, staring up at him. "Pretty warm. Probably because there's such a hot little minx in here." He pulls off his mask and comes at me with the knife. "Mm!" I squeal and flop onto my side. He slices the ropes around my knees and chest and unfolds the blanket, laying it across the mattress. My sleeping gear is soaked with sweat. My t-shirt, several sizes too large for me, clings to my skin and my underwear is drenched. My face goes red when I realize that the absence of a bra has made my chest visible through the thin white fabric. My captor puts away the knife, setting me somewhat at ease. As he pulls me up into a sitting position against a nearby support post I can't help but notice his face. Not just his eyes are familiar; I've seen him before somewhere. But where? He's not someone I know personally and he's too young to be one of my friends' fathers. I'd be all-too-happy to subscribe to the 'stranger' theory if I wasn't dead certain I'd seen him before. In any case-- "MMM!" Feeling a rope tightening around my neck snaps me back to reality. What the hell is going on? "Stay put." The man stands erect and starts down the stairs. I wince as the rope grates my soft throat. It wraps around my neck and the post, keeping me upright and tethered in place. On top of that I'm bound hand and foot, sitting in a cabin miles from civilization. Where does he think I'm going to go? Helpless, I listen to my kidnapper stroll outside. The car door opens, closes, and he re-enters the cabin. He closes the door at the base of the attic stairs and I hear a deadbolt close. "Let's get down to business," he says, holding up a small camera as he crests the top of the stairs. "Don't smile. Cry a little bit for brownie points." He brings the camera to his face.