Her name is Cynthia.

Short story I wrote because another friend wanted me to write at the same time as her to compare. Not my best.

Her footsteps pound on the pavement, crunching leaves as she sprints down the sidewalk. Her kidnapper chases after her, screaming obscenities down the road. In the dead middle of one of the colder November nights, in a small town that seems to roll up the streets after dark, the sounds were deafening. She ran towards town; she ran towards the only place she knew would be populated at the late hour she'd finally managed to escape. It was a tiny gas station on the edge of town. Not in the best part of town, being across the street from the lovely neighborhood crack house, but it was better than nothing in a pinch.

She was a young girl, no more than fourteen or so, the onlooker guessed. Sitting on his porch in the dark, she never saw him; nor did her captor. He was an older man, worn from years of hard work and poverty, but age made the man wise, at least wise enough to stay hidden. He did not move as they ran; as he saw the man tackle her; as she screamed and kicked, trying to get away. He did not utter a sound as the man beat her, drugged her, and stripped her. He made no attempt to stop him as he dragged her upright by her hair, her sedated body now leaning on him, her white skin shining with sweat in the winter Moon. The Man pushed her, yelling at her, beating her to the ground, pulling her up and throwing her again and again, slowly moving them back the direction from which they came.

He watched, silently, blocking out the girl's anguished cries to take a quick inventory of their appearances. She appeared to be about ten years old, now that he got a closer look. She was so small, so thin; he wondered how long she'd been with this man.  Her skin was white as snow, such a huge contrast to the dark tan skin of the man holding her. He was a larger man, leaning toward obese, but strong (or compared to the weak girl, anyway). His head was shaved, and he had tattoos down both arms, and on his neck. The man couldn't quite see what they were of, but they were dark in color, making them barely visible against his skin.

As they made their way down the street, the quiet old man quickly but silently stepped inside. Fumbling around in the dark - bumping his hip, as always, on that damn chair his wife insisted be kept by the door - he made his way to the phone.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"I've just witnessed a young girl being kidnapped, drugged and beaten. Please send help!" he cries into the phone, releasing into the words the desperate plea for someone to save the young girl.

"What is your location?" the voice asks calmly, an almost angering calm.

"I'm at the end of Hendrix Street, the man was dragging her towards Perkins Mill road, please hurry!" the man yells in frustration.

"We have help on the way, please stay calm, sir."

The voice on the other end of the line irritated the old man. He snapped at her, "Ma'am, I'm 68 years old, and I've been through a lot. The loss of my daughters was the worst thing in my long life, and I'll be damned if I sit here and let it happen to someone else."

Slamming down the phone on the kitchen counter, and grabbing a bottle of water in case he could find the girl tonight, he walked quickly back to the door - flipping the light on as he walked, to avoid that damn table and find his keys and shoes faster. A wasted moment could be life or death for that poor girl, he thought while he put his shoes on and grabbed his gun on the way to his truck. "It's a good thing I keep gas in this thing," he thought as he backed out the driveway.

Meanwhile, down the road, the young girl continued to struggle even through the drugs. Despite her tiny size, or maybe because of it, she was almost having luck escaping him, but was simply too weak to keep running. So while she could get away, for just a moment, she couldn't fend him off. Between the drugs and the pain, her body told her to give up, and go back with him calmly, that maybe he wouldn't kill her if she did. But her mind was telling her not to give up, that there was always the hope someone saw, that help was on the way...that if she gave up this was her last chance. So through broken bones, through the drugs, though the blood loss and beating, through everything he threw at her, she stood up and fought back. She fought like this was her last chance to breathe ever again. And, in reality, it could have been...the man intended it to be, for such a transgression as running away... until the headlights shone on them, illuminating the broken girl and threateningly large man standing over her. The man instantly dropped the girl and spun around, a heartbeat reaction: Run! A loud noise dropped him to the ground - a perfectly aimed gunshot from the man in the truck to the back of the man's head. He was dead before they realised he'd been hit. The girl stared in shock at the light, then at her captor, then back at the light... a bewildered look on her face, as if she was lost. Then she, too, fell to the ground in a sobbing heap.

The man jumped out of his truck, grabbing the girl. "I got you, baby. it's okay. You're safe now," he whispered and sang to her, rubbing her back and hair and offering her little comforts. "Do you want some water?" he asked gently, to which she emphatically nodded. "Is it okay if I go to the truck? Do you want me to help you with me?" he asked, though he would rather take her with him, he didn't want to hurt her.

She nodded, again, so he gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lifted her up. She flinched, then whimpered. He kept telling her little things to try to distract and comfort her, telling her that help was on the way, that he wasn't going to hurt her, that he had water and food and a comfortable bed for her if she wanted, and was allowed. Taking an unusually long time, thanks be to the girls' injuries, they made their way to the truck. He opened his toolbox, and spread a sleeping back in the back, picking her up and helping her to get comfortable before he handed her the bottle of water. "Only a little, though," he warned. "It'll make you sick to drink too much, too fast." She nodded her response.

What felt like hours later, they heard sirens in the distance. The girl reacted violently, throwing herself down under the toolbox and wrapping up in the blanket, screaming and thrashing. The man watched, wide-eyed and stunned for a moment, before he understood: someone had tried to save her before. It was bad for her. "Sweetie, no, no, it's okay. It's okay, he's gone now, girl, he can't hurt you again!" He was, in a sense, pleading her to be okay for him. Her screams calmed, now that she was reminded he was dead, but she refused to come out of the corner, and she continued to whimper and cry.

The police appeared in many, many cars, seemingly never ending. They surrounded the scene in tape, taking pictures and asking question after question after question. The man told them everything he'd seen in the street earlier, and everything that happened since he'd found her. He asked if he could take her to his house for the night, since he had a comfortable place for her to sleep with plenty of food and drink for her, and a wife who'd been a psychologist back in the day, who worked with the state programs in child abuse cases. They ultimately left it up to the girl where she was to stay until everything was settled, and she tearfully whispered, "he saved me... he saved me! I'm alive because of him. Please don't make me leave him!" Desperation entered her voice toward the end of her statement. It was okayed by the medical staff, as well, who checked her over and told him that the drugs were not deadly in dose, and that while she was severely malnourished and ill, she was not in danger of dying before she could be treated for her injuries, but they judged that she was in no shape for that to be done immediately, so she was allowed back into the truck to lay down while they talked to the man about what would be required of him.

Once the legal situation with her was explained, and the man gave them his phone numbers and address, they were free to go home. He gently awakened the girl, who had fallen into a light sleep as they talked, to let her know that they were heading home. She whimpered and nodded, so he figured he would let her stay where she was until he moved her to her bed. "I'm so sorry..." he whispered to the young girl as he got into his truck. He was the kind of person that couldn't stand to see anyone in pain, and this just tore him up that anyone did this to such a young child.

Author's Note

In my opinion, this is way too descriptive with not enough actual story. But I'm not sure what the best way to be to change that because I feel like that's most of my writing. Please give me tips on this! :3

Reviews

[DarkRainbowPie]

Really nice tale :) Nice to see a story of such horrific violence actually end well. I was so scared that the old man was going to be one of the bad guys in the end, so glad he wasn't! :)

[Silent Wolf]

This was amazing! I loved the amount of detail in the story, and I loved the story! It is sad to think that this actually happens...
100/100

[MoriartyMesa]

The description is totally apt for the story. It is graphic and hits the reader many times across the face. When you can get them (yes i was) on the edge of their seat, than you did a great job.