Kidnap

Tears, shouting and fists on the door lull him to sleep.

It’s the silence that wakes him.

He jerks awake, falling to the floor his hands slap the concrete and send rats scuttling. The pigeons flap to the roof, the flurry of their wings match the panic in his heart, his stomach feels empty, weightless, and he’s breathing hard. He picks himself up off the floor and looks around. It takes a few seconds for him to remember where he is, what he has done. He puts the hard backed chair straight again and sinks on to it. Head in his hands, he slips back into the memory of last night; dressing head to foot in black, sneaking in to the dark house, clapping his hand over the girl’s mouth, drugging her and dragging her back to the truck. The images flash in front of his eyes, as if there had been a shaky cameraman there that night as well.  

He shudders, pulls himself back to the present. There was no one else, no witnesses. Her family were all out of the house. That was more luck than good planning, he realises now. But who is he to question fate? He stares around the concrete room; it’s as much a prison for him as the basement room below is for the girl. He checks the camera linked to his computer. The grainy image shows a girl slumped in the corner, her eyes closed, but he can’t tell if she is actually asleep. He doesn’t really want to know.

He drags himself over to the sink, fills up a pot and places it on the stove to boil. He makes tea and a sandwich, and discovers the bread is stale. On the other side of the room a phone rings, he walks over cautiously, picking it up on the third ring. He waits for a voice.

“You have her.” It should have been a question, but he sounds as though he already knows.

“Yes.” He tightens his hands around the mug, even though it’s burning his hand.

“Good, well done, we’ll contact you when we need to move her, keep your head down until then.”

Then he is gone and his patronizing voice no longer real. But the grating, upper class accent is still in his head, just like it’s always been, slippery and hissing. Ordering him about, telling him what to do and how and when, like he can’t think for himself.

The mug is flying through the air in slow motion, the last drops floating out, like muddy rain, the mug is against the wall and he thinks he sees each crack appear before the whole thing shatters and lands on the floor in pieces. He strides over to the mess, still angry; he grabs them up in his fist, clenching them tightly before throwing them back across the room. He looks around for more to throw and his eyes fall on the knife he used earlier. Before long the room is a mess, a shattered mirror reflects the carnage; doors from the cupboards are on the floor and bright white plates are smashed on the floor. Crushed glass from an ugly painting is on the floor, glistening in the sunlight that pours in from the only window.  

He walks gingerly over to the sink again, the debris crunching and cracking under his feet. He looks down at his hands; blood fills the lines and wrinkles on his aged hands. He fills the sink with cold water and plunges his hands in. The blood instantly colours the water, floating about; making shapes, it is gruesomely beautiful. Once he has washed his hands he uses an old shirt as a bandage. It is only then that he surveys the room. His eyes fall on the broken mirror, his reflection stares back at him. A gaunt old man, tears running down his face, he knows this is pathetic, but it doesn’t stop him from slipping to the floor. His hands clutch at his face as his body is wracked with sobs.  He stays in this position until the silence becomes too much, he looks up to watch the girl on the computer screen. She must have heard him, as he was able to hear her making the exact same noises the night before.  On the computer screen he can see that she’s definitely awake now; she’s pacing around the small room, arms wrapped around her stomach. He watches her for a few minutes, registers that she is only wearing shorts and a thin t-shirt, that she is older than he previously thought, realises that he doesn’t even know her name. He turns away from the computer and leans over the sink again. He splashes water on his face then sets about getting food for the girl.

As he walks down the stairs to the basement he stops telling himself that he doesn’t feel guilty about taking the girl; instead he wonders what the hell he’s got himself into.

 He opens the door, but doesn’t go in, just looks at the girl. She watches his eyes travel up and down her body, his eyes narrow as he takes in her appearance, the scrapes on her knees, the way her top clings to her, her long blonde hair and the way she fiddles with it. Finally he looks at her face, meets her eyes, they watch each other for thirty seconds, but to him it feels like hours. Finally he breaks the silence,

“I brought you some food,” he is awkward, he might be a criminal, but he’s never done this before.

“I can see that.” She is trying to act brave, but her voice shakes.

                He takes a few steps in to the room and places the plate in front of her. She doesn’t look down, instead she stares at him and he’s unnerved, her gaze isn’t just scared, it’s angry, full of questions, trying to figure out what he’s going to do to her. It’s hateful too; she can guess what he might do. He can tell what she’s thinking,

                “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” He tries to reassure her, taking another step forward.

                “Really?” He starts to talk but she cuts him off, “because I’m feeling hurt already. In fact, I’m feeling kidnapped and bruised. And I don’t remember the last eight hours.”  She paused. “So how can I trust your promise?” Her voice breaks and she sobs the last word. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, she can’t trust him, he doesn’t trust himself.

Author's Note

A story I wrote for english cw.

Reviews

[Sheffer]

I'm mainly interested by this that the story is being told from a view point not necessarily used often; the 'villain' himself. Showing the conflict the kidnapper is battling with is an interesting take on this sort of story, and even though he only seems to be what you could call a henchman of a higher power, showing that he still has humanity makes you look at him from a different perspective.

I do recommend you try to split some of the paragraphs so they aren't such a giant mass of words, particularly the section that begins with "He walks gingerly to the sink again..." It helps the viewer read through the story with a better flow.

[a]

Really interesting but no backstory