#elora larkin

Waiting around for the lights in the apartment to dim, signifying that he had finally gone off to bed felt like eternity. Her heart was racing with anxiety as she sat there, feeling useless; what if he remembered, and she lost her chance? But it would be too dangerous to try to escape while he was awake. She’d only consider it as a last ditch effort, if all else went wrong. For now, she had to be safe. She had to wait.

After thirty minutes that felt much more like several hours, the lights were off. The small bit of light that streamed underneath the crack between the ground and the door disappeared. Elora waited even longer still, just to make sure that he was really asleep. Only after she had nearly fallen asleep herself with boredom did she carefully reach over to her side in the dark, feeling around for the keys the best she could in the darkness. The chain attached to her handcuffs was just barely long enough for her to reach the keyring. She sighed with relief when her fingers finally found the keys in the blackness, clutching them tightly before bringing them over into the bathtub with her. She had been able to make out the small handcuff key from the bit of light that came in through the gap earlier while the man was still awake and the lights were on, but now she couldn’t see a thing, and had to resort to feeling around for the smallest key. After painstakingly surveying them all, she felt it-a small key with a rounded top. What she had seen earlier. Maneuvering it into the lock with her hands bound was another hardship, but she grinned as she figured it out after a few tries, disbelief still clouding her mind. Wow. She was doing this.

She was hasty to turn the key, removing the handcuffs from her red, achy wrists. But in her rush, she dropped the keys as she wiggled her hand loose from the right cuff.

There was a loud CLANG! as they hit the metal plug of the tub, reverberating so loudly it sounded like a huge, ringing bell in the dead silent room. Elora’s heart began to pound all over again. She sat completely still for a moment, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, petrified that she had woken the man up.

And her worst fear was confirmed as she heard stirring in the room down the hall. Shit! Abandoning all caution, she stood as fast as she could, climbed out of the bathtub, and dashed to the bathroom door. Agony lit up along her leg as several of the sloppy stitches in the large gash on her thigh split with the sudden movement. She suppressed a scream as she slapped a hand over her mouth and applied pressure to the wound with her other, costing valuable time. Just get out the door. You just have to get out of the door. She hurriedly swung open the bathroom door, running into the hallway.

She made it all but a step until a heavy figure slammed into her in the dark, tackling her to the ground. She hit the old carpet with a thud, groaning as she cried. What had been her only chance was completely foiled. She knew he’d never mess up like this again. “NO!” She shouted, wriggling desperately as she sobbed. “NO, GET OFF OF ME!” Her voice was shrill as she screamed.

“Oh, you bitch,” the man’s voice grumbled. All of the sudden, Elora felt a cold blade at her throat and she panicked, going limp in an instant.

The lights in the hallway turned on after his hand felt around the wall for the switch, revealing an enraged face she knew she’d have nightmares of for a long time staring down at her.

He was almost bright red, scowling as he held the knife to her throat.

“Do you want to die?” he asked, pressing the blade in just enough to form a small line of blood. Elora shook her head just slightly, her eyes wide as she was too scared even to speak.

“Then stay right here.”

The man eased off of her slowly, leaving her on the floor. For a moment, she considered getting up and continuing to run, but a second glare stifled that thought quickly. He had a knife. He had the upper hand. She laid on the floor, dejected, shaking in fear and anticipation of what was going to come next as the man stomped off into the living room. He was unpredictable when he was angry. All she knew was that pain would come.

She heard him rifling through one of the old boxes. He pulled something out-she could hear the displacement of the other items, clanking into each other-and then there was a click, more rifling, and another click. The noise stopped and his footsteps pounded back towards her.

A mallet rested in his hands. The wooden handle and metal head looked impossibly massive from where she laid on the ground. She knew what was happening the moment she saw it, yet still, she was in disbelief, denying the inevitable. She shook her head rapidly, sitting up, even scooting backwards until she hit the wall at the end of the hallway.

“Which hand did you grab them with?”

Elora looked up at him, her eyes watery and confused. Her voice was a tiny, crackled whisper when she replied. “What?”

“The keys. Which hand did you grab them with? Tell me or I’ll break them both.” His voice was firmer, rougher this time. She had a feeling that refusing to answer might end her up with her head smashed in rather than her fingers. And she’d grabbed the keys with her right, purely based on how she was positioned. Had the faucet she was chained to been on the opposite wall, it would’ve been her left. Her dominant hand, crushed to bits. It was a bit of mercy, perhaps, from the universe.

Still, she found it hard to answer. Her shoulders shook and she inhaled sharply twice before forcing the word right out, then dissolving into sobs.

The man was scarily unemotional, showing no anger, no fury towards her. He was the calmest she’d ever seen him, standing there with the mallet in his hands. He abandoned all his rage when he dug out the toolkit and retrieved the mallet from it.

“You stole the keys. I have to do this. You have to learn.”

In a way, it sounded more like he was rationalizing with himself rather than her, excusing his actions like he felt bad about them. Like he had to reassure himself. It was sickening.

And with that he descended upon her, shoving her down the wall with a heavy foot on her shoulder. She screamed as she slid down until her head was back on the carpet, and then he dropped, kneeling on her stomach with one leg to pin her down, the other balancing himself. A rough hand wrapped around her right wrist and pinned her hand flat to the ground while the other held the mallet high, above his head, and brought it down.

The first wave of pain was nauseating. There was a sharp cracking that worsened by the second before turning to a deep throb. She screamed until she was coughing and the man held the mallet above her, staring into her eyes. He paused, hesitating until she looked back at him. There was a spacey look in his eyes.

Then he brought it down on her fingers again, then up, then down, rapidly, again and again and again until Elora lost count. She was screaming so loudly her ears were ringing, thrashing and groaning as the pain intensified each time he hit her fingers. They were done for, wholly broken after the second hit, but the man just kept going. It was like he was entranced, no rhyme or reason to his actions other than pain. Any time she wiggled he simply increased the pressure on her torso until it was hard to breathe, deaf to her screams as he kept striking with the mallet.

He didn’t snap out of it until twenty or thirty strikes later when her screams died out and turned to choked, gasping inhales with each hit, which apparently was concerning enough for him to ease off of her chest and let the mallet drop to the floor. He exhaled heavily and wiped his hand across his forehead, genuinely extenuated from the effort.

Elora immediately gasped for air and curled onto her side, closing her eyes and clutching her right hand tightly to her chest. She wailed loudly, throbbing pain shooting through her hand, pulsating every second with no relief. she wasn’t looking at it, only focusing on protecting herself, but her hand was a sorry sight. The fragile bones of her fingers were pulverized practically to dust, and while he hadn’t been aiming for her hand, just the fingers, it still took quite a beating from slipped strikes, several bones cracked or fractured. Her fingers were bent in several unnatural directions, and had an almost flattened appearance, crushed beyond anything easily repairable. She refused to look, but the pain, the intense, throbbing agony, told her enough.

She opened her squeezed-shut eyes for a moment and saw the man stand up and dust himself off, leaving the mallet behind on the floor, just beside her. His back was to her, about to walk off, when she had a revelation.

It doesn’t have to be over yet.

She was still unchained. The front door was still right there. She had the upper hand.

And she’d be damned if she didn’t at least try to save herself while she still had a fighting chance.

She rolled over onto her back, seconding guessing herself for a moment before shaking the thought off. She grabbed the mallet with her good hand, sat herself up, then stood quietly behind him.

Then, she hit him as hard as she could in the back of the head.

He crumbled to the ground immediately, falling to his hands and knees as he groaned, shouting a few swears and rubbing futilely at the wound.

But Elora didn’t stay to watch him. She didn’t even see him fall as she turned and sprinted for the door, the mallet still in her hand.

She was doing it. She’d be free.

But something was odd. She didn’t hear footsteps chasing behind her. She only heard him get up. And as she reached the front door after dashing through the apartment, she heard laughing. Loud, throaty cackling.

She turned her head and saw the man standing there, staring at her, laughing. She turned back to the door, and she saw the reason for laughter.

Two padlocks held the door closed, one with a keyhole and the other with a numerical keypad. Additionally, across the middle was a huge bar she was far too weak to lift up, especially with one hand. No. No no no no nonononononono she was right here, she did it, she had to get out, she needed to get out now-

There was no getting out. He’d told her that, hadn’t he?

She screamed as the man started to walk forward, towards her. She pressed her back to the door, extended her good hand and tried to keep him back, but there was nowhere else to go.

He was still laughing. “You really fucked up, didn’t you?”

Her eyes were shut tightly in fear and defeat as he reached her, pried the mallet from her hand, and seized her by the neck before smashing her head into the wall until her body fell limply to the floor.

Her expression hardened and her heart thumped in her chest. That was the point. She wanted to say something, but her mouth suddenly got dry.

The man simply grinned. “Get up,” he repeated, but she didn’t. She just laid there, dumbfounded.

He groaned angrily, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Be that way.”

He gathered up her hair in his hand, locked his fingers in a tight fist, and pulled up. Elora yelped and scrambled to get to her feet to relieve the pain, but he didn’t give her the chance; he carelessly dragged her off, out of the bathroom, through the hallway, and into the living room. She screamed and thrashed wildly, her hands desperately trying to push him away as her scalp burned like fire. Again and again, her feet scraped the ground to no avail, kicking and kicking but never able to gain enough traction to stand as she was mercilessly dragged. The man finally dropped her on the floor at the foot of a worn leather couch, releasing his death grip on her hair. Her hands immediately flew up to her head, applying gentle pressure to her scalp to try to ease the burning pain as she looked around the new room.

The living room was barren, like the man had half moved into it then given up. There was a dusty box in the corner, the couch, a worn coffee table, a small stand, and an old TV. Other than that, it was empty, in an eerie way. The aged carpet spanned the floor like an ocean.

The pressure didn’t do much and Elora dropped her hands, still wincing as the man plopped himself on the couch behind her, the leather making a loud crackling noise as he sat. She whipped her head around as her shoulders raised up to her ears instinctively. The man made a sour face, his features twisting into an ugly frown.

“Relax,” he commanded, forcefully pushing her shoulders down. At first, she tried to wiggle away, but that idea was abandoned when he tightened his grip, clearly as a warning. He grabbed the TV remote from the arm of the couch and turned it on. It started on some history channel documentary about cars, but Clyde quickly flipped through channels until he found the local news station.

A grin spread across his face as he read the blue banner spanning across the bottom of the screen. They were just in time.

UP NEXT: CAPE COD GIRL GOES MISSING; DESPERATE MOTHER PLEADS FOR HER RETURN

His hands wandered to Elora’s scalp and began to gently card through her hair. She inhaled sharply, and it took everything she had in her not to immediately shove him off. Somehow the gentleness felt worse than the pain; the false sense of care disgusted her. He was a maniac. He hurt her, he branded her, and now he was sitting on the couch petting her hair, pretending like none of it happened. It didn’t escape her attention how he set her on the floor instead of the couch, below him, like a dog.

The banner was bad enough, but she felt sick to her stomach when the station cut to a reporter sitting at a desk with a picture of her on half of the screen. It was the picture her mom took of her at the orchard last fall. It was candid; she remembered it. She was intently focused on a butterfly off on a tree, ignoring her mom as she snapped the photo. It was one of her favorite pictures of herself. And now, it was plastered all over the news.

The reporter on the TV began to speak. “Tonight, a desperate mother pleads for her missing daughter’s safe return. Elora Larkin, nineteen, of Barnstable county, Massachusetts has been missing since Friday night. She was last seen walking home from her job at Agathangelou’s bakery, wearing khakis, a black t-shirt, and black sneakers. The police have opened a tip line and are offering an unspecified reward for any information that leads to Miss Larkin.”

Elora felt a lurching sensation in her stomach, so visceral she wanted to throw up. That was her. On the news. Gone. Missing.

Behind her, the man chuckled.

“Look at that, baby. You’re all over New England.”

“I’m not your baby,” she snapped, turning around. But her head was spinning. All over New England? It wasn’t the Cape Cod news station on the TV. It wasn’t even a state news channel. It was entirely unfamiliar, the reporter’s face one she’d never seen.. So he’d taken her across state lines, making her chances of being found lower yet.

The man shushed her and put a finger up to her lips. “Watch.” She almost bit him, but decided it wasn’t worth the inevitable punishment that would follow. Besides, they might say something useful, something that could help her. She needed to pay attention.

The screen changed, and a missing persons poster popped up. Hers.

It was up for a minute before it faded away as the reporter came back on the screen.

“Such a sad story. Everyone in the studio is hoping and praying for her safe return. Unfortunately, vigilance is so important in this day and age. Up next, we have a recording of a press conference with the girl’s mother.

The girl’s mother. Her mother. Elora felt her heartbeat thumping in her chest.

And there she was. Jodie was standing at a podium in a building that had to be a police station. Demetrios was standing by her side, offering support by merely being present. While Elora hadn’t seen him cry even once in all the years she’d known him, he now looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Her mom started to speak. She looked so sad. Withered, like the life had been sucked out of her, from fear and overthinking and sleepless nights.

“My daughter-My daughter Elora has been missing since Friday night. She’s got-she’s got blonde hair, and green eyes, and she’s real tall. I’m sure pictures have gone around by now. She was walking home from work and-and then she disappeared. We were supposed to have dinner Sunday and she never came. It was supposed to be her weekend off. I- If someone has her, please, I’m begging you, let her go. Bring her home safe. She’s a good kid, she works hard, she rescues cats in her spare time...she doesn’t deserve this. And Elora, if you’re seeing this, I love you. I love you so much, honey. If you chose to leave, please just tell us you’re okay. It’s okay. You can go see the world, just tell us you’re okay. And if something-something bad happened, we’re gonna find you. I promise, baby, I love you and we’re gonna bring you home. Promise.”

At that point, she set the microphone down and began to cry, tears streaming down her face as she hurried off to an exit, the cameras following her for a few moments. Elora’s heart twisted in knots. Seeing her mom’s face brought her so much joy, yet knowing how worried she had to be made her feel sick with guilt.

But she promised. She promised she’d find her.

“That your mom?”

Elora stilled. He already knew the answer.

"She’s kinda pathetic. Could barely keep it together long enough to tell them about you.”

She went cold. “Stop,” she seethed. Her voice was eerily calm, given her anger.

"Or what?” he replied, twisting her hair up in his hand and giving it another tug.

Elora was silent. There was no or what. She knew that.

The reporter came back on the screen.

“Well, folks, that’s all we have on the case for tonight. Remember to be safe and vigilant. This has been Hannah Brown with News12.”

The man released her hair, picked up the remote, and turned off the T.V.

“Notice how they only talked about you, not me?”

Elora turned her head around. She was crying.

“What?”

He scoffed. “I said, notice how they only ran their mouths about you the whole time. Never said a word about me. You know what that means? They don’t know jack shit about me. They don’t know who you’re with or where you are. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re in Connecticut. We crossed state lines twice. They’re never going to find you, you know that?

She tried to hide it, but he could see her expression falling with every word he said, hope beginning to seep out of her. She shook her head vigorously, her bottom lip trembling.

“N-no! No, they will, you’re just crazy! You’re just fucking crazy!”

A scowl formed on his lips. “No, they won’t.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but in a split second, his hand was gripping tightly around her throat, cutting off her air. Her eyes went wide.

“No one is coming to save you.”

Elora swallowed, fear bright in her eyes. She tried to rip herself away, but the man raked his fingers across the fresh brand on her collarbone, sending her to the ground, keeling in pain.

“We could’ve had a nice evening if you behaved. Listened,” he grumbled, standing and once again grabbing her hair tightly before dragging her off towards the bathroom.

He still didn’t even know what he thought about her. He was fascinated, of course, by her magic, by her mere life-that’s why he had to have her-but he still didn’t know how he felt about her as a person. She was awfully stubborn and had terrible language for a young woman, but she was beautiful, exquisitely so, especially when her eyes were watery with tears and she had that determined expression despite the fear he knew was crippling her.

God, he just wanted to break her. He wanted to study her first and foremost, of course, but as a side project of sorts, he wanted to see that iron resolution dissolve, just like that, because of him.

He decided to head to sleep, freshening up in his master bath before heading to sleep. His room was nothing special; it smelled like a mix of dirty bath mats and moth balls, and all it really had for furniture was a desk on the verge of collapsing, a mattress on the floor, and boxes that still hadn’t been unpacked despite him having moved in over a decade ago.

But that night, he went to sleep happy, unbothered by the chaos and dirty apartment and his seemingly menial life. Because he knew what to do. He had direction, for once. Elora brought him that. She was like a quest, a puzzle to solve, and he’d had a eureka moment. To break her, he’d have to teach her that she wasn’t her own anymore. That she was his, because clearly, she’d been struggling with the concept.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

~

When Elora woke up, she felt like she was having the worst hangover she'd ever experienced, multiplied by ten. She was dizzy, her mouth was dry, and a pounding headache had settled in the back of her skull, each throb feeling like a firework exploding inside her head.

It was pitch black, not a single ray of light coming in from the crack underneath the door, so she assumed that it was either the middle of the night or early morning. That meant she slept for, god-eighteen, twenty hours? That was probably half of why she felt like shit. Draining her body of all the energy it had like that was both excruciatingly painful and awfully exhausting. It was also decidedly horrible for her body-she was never supposed to work herself like that. Hell, she wasn’t sure how she even survived exerting that much.

At the very least, she had some time to herself. It was nice to be alone for a while, to recoup between sessions of vicious torture.

She sat back against the wall, staring up at the pitch black ceiling. Time was fuzzy, but she thought it was...Tuesday, now? So her mom certainly knew she was gone, and she had told the police, and they were looking for her.

She hoped. She just-she really, really hoped that someone was coming for her soon. Before anything worse happened, while she could still come back from it. While she could still come home alive, herself, shaken, but herself.

She ended up dozing off for a few minutes and waking up again a few times as the hours passed by, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She knew exactly when the sun was rising; the crack underneath the door slowly began to get less dark, going from black, to an inky gray, to a pale orange, and finally, to real yellow light. A little sliver of a sunrise. Even after just a couple of days, she missed the sun. The bathroom was windowless, and that alone made it suffocating. She’d do anything, pay any amount of money in the world, just to go outside, see a sunrise, and breathe. Just breathe, for a moment, just catch her breath.

As excited as she wanted to be about the taste of a sunrise, all she felt was dread. Every morning she’d been awake to see the pattern, so far, she’d noted that he came in just after sunrise.

So she only had a few minutes, then.

She just hoped that he would make the pain brief.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply when she heard his footsteps pattering down the hallway, exhaling when she heard the doorknob turn.

He flicked the light switch on and the sudden brightness hurt her eyes, so much so that she quickly wrenched them shut. And when he spoke, it felt like his voice was booming, much louder than it actually was. She wanted to cover her ears, but resisted the urge, much too scared to take out another sense and be so vulnerable to him.

He acknowledged her reactions with a hum, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Jeez, you’ve been out for a while. It’s about time you woke up. What’s the face for? You okay?”

Elora shook her head, replying bitterly. “Not supposed to use that much magic. Feels kinda like a really bad hangover.” He always smelled like cheap beer. Maybe he’d have some sympathy for that.

“Mh. You’ll be fine. We have things to do today.”

Elora opened her eyes, at that point, looking over at him despite the deep burning sensation in her eyes. He was holding something behind his back, out of her view.

“I-I’ll do what you want,” she said shakily. “Whatever magic shit. I don’t care. We can-h-how about we just act symbiotically, huh? I’ll do whatever you want and you just don’t hurt me. Easy deal on your end, really.”

The man scoffed. “Funnily enough, I actually don’t need anything from you today. Just for you to stay still and be a good girl. I’ve got something to teach you.”

Her throat felt like it was coated in honey. She wanted to spit back that the last thing she would ever do is be a good girl, but she couldn’t form words. It was hard to breathe properly. She knew she was panicking. What did he mean?

Casually, he revealed what was behind his back. It looked like a big pen, with a long cord on one tapered end and a thick, linear metal tip on the other. He plugged the cord into the wall and set it down. Dimly, Elora wondered where she’d seen a weird pen like that. She knew it seemed familiar, it was for crafts, but she couldn’t remember quite what it was for. She blinked, her panic slowing her thoughts-

Woodburning. It was used for woodburning.

Her mouth dropped open in shock, her eyes instantly tearful as she looked on in pure horror, knowing what was going to be done to her. Clyde basked in her terror, grinning as he watched realization and fear strike her.

She was frozen, shocked into silence, so he took the opportunity to speak first. “You seem to be having a hard time with the concept that you’re mine. And what better way to mark that something is yours other than putting your name on it? That’s how I get my coworkers to stop eating my tuna salad from the community fridge.” He stopped to laugh at his own joke. No one liked tuna salad but him. His coworkers would never touch it. Elora looked utterly terrified. He didn’t care a bit, and went on. “But of course, you don’t need to know who I am. You don’t need my name. All you need to worry your pretty little head about is being good for me, got it? So what better than to teach you than to just mark you as mine?”

As panicked as she was, Elora suddenly went into survival mode, no longer able to just stand there and wait to be hurt. “NO!” she screamed. “No, please, I c-can learn! Please, you don’t need to do that. I-I-I told you, I’ll do what you want today, please!”

The man grinned, wagging his pointer finger at her. “Uh-uh-uh. We’re past that, little lark. You already showed me that you don’t know who you belong to when you so rudely refused to do as I told you with the plant and adamantly denied to heal yourself up until I made you.”

He stepped towards her, and she screamed, scrambling back to the other side of the bathtub. It didn’t do much, of course; he was still able to grab her just as easily. She kept screeching, and she fought, she fought tooth and nail, scratching, kicking, trying to bite him, but nothing worked. She was already getting weaker by the day.. He managed to unlock her handcuffs and lift her out of the tub within a minute, completely stopping her desperate fight when he threw her down on the hard tile by the sink where the pen was plugged into an outlet, knocking the breath out of her. She sputtered and coughed, trying to roll on her side, but before she could, he stopped her, straddling her waist, pinning her legs down with his own, and both her arms with his left, pulled tightly across her chest, his elbow digging into her right arm, keeping it in place, and his hand holding down her left. With his right hand, he grabbed the woodburner, the cord just long enough to reach down to the floor.

He frowned as he looked down at her screaming, thrashing form, then put the burner down. For a moment, Elora thought she was free. She thought she was free, she thought he was safe, she thought he reconsidered, she thought he wouldn’t do it.

“Woops. Forgot a step. You’re too damn much of a fighter.” Instead of letting her go like she wished, he fumbled to unbutton all three buttons on the top of her polo shirt. She felt like vomiting the entire time his fingers brushed against the skin of her chest, undoing the buttons painfully slowly, one by one. She shivered, but the room felt hot.

He picked up the burner again. “This is for your own good,” he said, his voice gruff and firm. He pulled her unbuttoned shirt to his right and brought the hot metal tip down upon her left collarbone.

The agony was blinding. She saw pure white as she screamed, keening, much louder than she had been before. She dimly felt the pain move up against her skin as the woodburner stroked upwards, then down diagonally, then up again diagonally, then back down. It left a trail of searing, red-hot pain. M. Mine.

Three more letters to go, and she already felt more blinding pain than she thought was possible.

Clyde frowned at her screaming, briefly putting the woodburner to the side, exchanging the pain for a gentle touch, softly running his hand through her hair. She continued screaming and tried to wiggle away from his hand, yet he ignored her blatant discomfort.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Quiet, my darling, it’ll be over soon.”

His words were far from comforting, though her screams did stop for all but a moment. They continued when he brought the woodburner back to her skin, drawing out an I, three torturous burning strokes. She thought she might pass out, might vomit, might die, the pain was so bad.

“Halfway there,” he said gently, when he finished burning the I into her skin. His voice had become gentle, kind. She didn’t understand it. “Shh, you’re alright. I had to do this, you know. This is for you. To help you learn.”

She shook her head madly, tears falling down her face and onto the tile floor. “Stop,” she croaked, her voice breaking. “Please, stop.”

He seemed genuinely apologetic. Maybe this was too much for him, too. Or maybe it was all an act. Elora couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. We’re halfway done already. It would be strange to stop here, with half of a word, no?”

And with that, he went on, with just as much brutal carelessness for her pain.

N. She had been switching between staring up at the ceiling blankly and squeezing her eyes shut while he branded her, but she was looking up for this letter, watching the ceiling spin, watching black spots dot her vision, watching as she slipped in and out of consciousness for a few seconds at the time.

She couldn’t even say that she was getting used to it. It hurt just as much now, a minute later, as it had when he started.

The smell started to catch up with her halfway through the N. It was awful, the overwhelmingly sickening scent seeping in and filling her nostrils. She couldn’t escape it. She had to breathe, had to inhale the scent of her burning flesh. There was no choice.

Just as the last upward stroke of the N danced like fire across her skin, the man’s hand carded through her hair again, his fingers rubbing her scalp kindly.

“Almost done, honey. Almost done. You’re doing great.”

She didn’t even have the strength to shake her head. She wasn’t his honey, she wasn’t doing great, this wasn’t for her, it was for him, he was crazy-

Her screams began to die out, her throat burning and raw, begging for air. They turned to weak, sobs, her expression twisted with agony.

E. A stroke up, one to the side at the top of that, another sidestroke in the middle, another at the bottom. She started to feel like she was up on the ceiling, floating. She couldn’t handle this.

What she felt was more than pain. She didn’t know how to describe it. But it was much, much worse than any sort of pain she knew. The burning agony mixed with the scent of her charred flesh in the air, the sensation of the man’s weight on top of her, his hand in her hair, his fingers unbuttoning her shirt combined to create the the most horrific thing she’d ever felt.

It was a new kind of misery. Something much worse than she even knew existed.

She gasped for air as the man slowly eased off of her, her chest finally able to expand properly. He let her arms go first, as a trial. She didn’t make any attempt to retaliate, so he got off of her legs, too, and stood. She laid there, half disassociated. The pain was too much for her to bear. Even though the woodburner was no longer directly on her skin, it still hurt just as much as when the hot metal had been making direct contact with her collarbone. It was still pure, utter agony.

“Remember,” the man’s voice boomed. “This was for you. You chose this, with your actions.”

She didn’t shake her head no, but she didn’t agree, either. She stayed perfectly still, right where she was, sobbing. She just sobbed. That was all she could do.

“Ice,” she begged weakly, her voice hoarse from her screams.

The man chuckled. “Oh, no, sweetie, no can do. Don’t want you getting any sort of first aid. I need it to scar as much as possible. That was the whole point.” He chuckled. Another sob ripped from her throat, and he began to feel slightly guilty.

“Here. I can do something for you. He opened the bathroom door and left, the burning flesh scent thankfully beginning to waft out. Elora knew that she should have gotten up and ran for the door the moment he left. She knew that she was missing what was probably her only chance to escape.

But she couldn’t make herself do it. She couldn’t make herself move.

He was back a few moments later, with a pillow and a blanket from his bed. He lifted her head up and placed the pillow beneath beneath it, shielding it from the hard tile. He draped the blanket over her body, smoothing it down around her with care. She’d be disgusted by his falsified kindness if she weren’t so distracted by the pain.

“And I’ll let you stay uncuffed for a while. I’m sorry, Elora, I really am, but this was the only way. You and I both know that. I’ll have to call out of work, can’t trust you alone and unchained. But that’s fine. I’ll just stay right here until you’re feeling a little better.”

He slid down the wall and sat across from her. All he could see on her face was pure sorrow. She didn’t sleep, despite the pillow and blanket; she wasn’t tired. She just hurt. She lay there, limp, weak, and crying, the pillowcase soaking up her silent tears as she pressed her mouth into a tight, thin line.

Clyde stared at her for several minutes then sighed and lit a cigarette. They’d be here for a while.

Tags: @exploringspaceinpyjamas

Her expression fell immediately as she began to shake her head rapidly. Her heart was hammering inside her chest; out of everything he’d done, all of the pain he’d caused her, she’d take anything over the agony of her bones being smashed to pieces by the heavy tool. She didn’t know if she could take any more hits on her hand- it looked sickening enough as it was-but what else could he want from her?

Her leg. Her free leg. He didn’t make a mistake. It was untied for a reason. He broke her fingers for stealing, he’d-for running-he would-

Tears began to well in her eyes as she realized what was going to happen and how helpless she was to it all. She was terrified, her vision blurring with tears of pure fear as he started walking towards her.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. He didn’t stop advancing. “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, I learned, you don’t have to-“

She felt a rough-skinned finger at her lips and let out a weak, broken sob, tears falling down her face and dripping on his hand.

“How could you possibly have learned? I didn’t punish you for running. Only for stealing.” The man’s voice was matter-of-fact, showing little sympathy for her plight. Fear so potent it made her chest feel tight ran through Elora as she continued to shake her head, breathing unevenly. Her hand hurt so badly. So, so badly already. But her ankle? That was bigger-that would be-he’d have to do more-hit it harder-

She began to cry even more, wailing, not holding on to even a shred of dignity in her terror. “Please. Please, it hurts. I can’t-I learned-I can’t do-again-“ her words were choppy as she inhaled and sobbed between each one, desperately pleading for her safety. “I’m scared,” she whispered, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

The man paused for a moment, like he was thinking. She started to let relief seep into her, but then he uttered one word that made her go stone cold.

“Good.”

He spun the chair around, so she was facing the wall and an old wooden desk. Elora began to scream, but he ignored her as if he couldn’t hear her, going scarily calm like he did when he broke her fingers. He ducked beneath the chair and pulled the lever to lift it up high, until her hips were almost level with the desk. At that point, he reached for her free leg. She kicked it wildly, trying to escape his grasp, even managing to nail him in the chin at one point. The terrifying glare and intimidating don’t that came after stopped her in clear her tracks, long enough for him to grab her leg with a tight grip.

“You don’t have to,” she pleaded as he set her left foot on the desk. “I learned. I know-I won’t try it again. Ever. I promise.” She was lying through her teeth, but god, she’d do anything to save herself.

“I don’t give a shit,” he replied coolly, standing at her side and lining up the mallet with her ankle. He lifted it up above his head and Elora squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for a world of pain.

But nothing could have prepared her. Not any deep breaths, not any shut eyes, not even knowing the agony from her hand. The pain was explosive even from the first strike as the man brought the mallet down with as much force as it seemed was humanly possible. And her ankle, of course, was much less fragile than her fingers-it would take much more force to shatter it, more hits, more pain-none of which she was equipped to handle.

She screamed even with the first hit, dissolving into hiccuping sobs. “You d-don’t have to,” she pleaded, making the man stop for just a moment, staring intently at her. His gaze felt like fire and she wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor and never come back..

“Yes, I do,” he chided firmly. “Shut up.”

Her words must have had the opposite effect of what she wanted, because the second strike felt even more violent, as did the third and fourth as he picked up the pace, with little care for her ear-piercing screams and fervent thrashing. At first, the bones merely fractured, but with each strike they splintered and cracked further until sharp shards of bone poked dangerously close to the surface of her skin. And like the last time, the man seemed barely cognizant of what he was doing-he just kept going, with absolutely no awareness of her reactions.

Her vision was beginning to blur and darken as time went on and the pain continued to skyrocket with every hit, her mind spinning as the brutality of it all was just too much for her to handle. Just when she thought she might pass out, a loud crack resounded through the room. At first, she feared the worst, thinking it had been the sound of one of her own bones breaking. But when she blinked the floaters out of her vision and grounded herself, looking ahead, she saw that the desk had begun to split and splinter from the mere force of the mallet coming down on it. It was thick-it looked sturdy, but even the wood couldn’t withstand the force of the missed strikes of the mallet. The man, of course, paid no attention, continuing to strike at her mangled ankle.

He hit her again and again, missing her ankle half of the time in his daze until the desk finally gave out, the wooden surface simply splitting in half and caving in with an even louder crack. Her leg fell in an instant and her butchered ankle hit the floor with so much force from the sudden drop that the shattered bones slipped out of the joint, leaving it now both badly broken and dislocated.

Elora couldn’t even scream as the horrific pain exploded all up and down her leg. The noise that came from her throat sounded like inhuman-she let out a strangled, animalistic gasp as all the air pushed out of her lungs with the force. Her vision instantly blackened to the point of total darkness with the intense pain, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as her body went limp and lax against the ropes binding her to the chair. The man must have realized the gravity of the situation-his mistake- at that point, because in an instant, she heard the mallet hit the floor and felt rough hands against her face, grabbing and stabilizing her head from either side.

“Hey now,” she heard his voice call. “Alright, all done. Wake up.”

But she didn't. Her hearing, too, slipped, as she let her eyelids shut, not unconscious but not quite awake, either. She was swimming in blackness, the pain so immense it was too much to bear. She was relieved to finally just rest, but moments later, she felt cold water splash across her face and run down her chest, soaking her shirt. She shivered and her eyes opened, seeing the man standing in front of the broken desk, staring down at her like some kind of giant.

“Welcome back,” he grumbled. “Come on, now, we’re done. It’s over.”

Elora looked up at him, making eye contact for all but a moment before her chin dropped down and she brokenly sobbed. She trembled, shutting her eyes tightly as bitter terror ran through her veins.

The man sighed heavily and she felt the ropes around her chest loosen. They fell to the floor and she slumped forward, but he was there in an instant to catch her, supporting her with his shoulder as he turned to the side to untie the ropes around her wrists. She wanted to move away from him, a faint feeling of disgust clouding her mind as her body rested against his, but she was too exhausted, too drunk on pain and fear to do anything about it.

“Almost done,” he muttered, crouching down to untie her left leg. She bitterly thought that she should kick him again, but she didn’t have the energy to even move her leg. She didn’t protest as he lifted her out of the chair, lifting her over a shoulder before carrying her to the bed. He set her down with a surprising amount of caution, careful to support her head and not jostle her hand or her ankle on the way down. Elora was only dimly aware of what was going on, lost to the pain as he tucked the blankets around her and slipped a pillow underneath her head.

She wanted to be comforted by the bed-she hadn’t slept anywhere comfortable in a week, it should have felt like sweet relief-but she couldn’t. Something felt so viscerally wrong-the bed smelled like cigarettes and old sweat, the sheets were scratchy, and she could feel his gaze on her. It didn’t feel right. And something about the fact that it wasn’t just a bed, but his, sparked a fear so potent she was afraid to even sleep.

But he didn’t join her, rather settling down on the floor beside her with his back against the wall.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” he said. “I really do. But you never learn. That’s the problem with you, Elora. I keep trying to reach you better, but you never learn.”

She felt a lump form in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say, so much anger, so much hate, but she knew stepping out of line was the last thing she should do.

“I know,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t really sorry.

“If you just did what I asked, it wouldn’t be this way.”

She thought about that for a moment, but in the end, she knew he was lying. This wasn’t about her. It never had been. It was always about him. She stayed silent.

“If you can’t learn not to steal, not to run yourself, I just have to take away the option. That’s how it is.”

Elora turned on her side and curled up into a tight ball, facing away from him. “Stop,” she mumbled. Her voice and her eyes were teary.

“It’s been a hard day, hasn't it?” the man asked, getting up from the ground to sit beside her on the bed. She cringed as his hands began to comb through her hair, painfully catching on knots several times before he sighed and gave up on the endeavor.

“You should clean yourself up soon. Brush through your hair, get some fresh clothes. Maybe we could do that tomorrow, if you’re good.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want any of that. She just wanted to sleep.

“It’s hard now, but think about it. In a few weeks, months, you’ll be so well-behaved. We won’t have to do anything like this ever again. Look at you now. You’re already breaking and we’ve hardly done a thing. Just imagine it.”

The mere thought made Elora press her face into the pillow and bawl.

The man sighed and stood. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you some space. Get some rest.”

He left for the door and Elora heard it shut behind him as he walked off. It didn’t take long before she’d cried herself to sleep.

He pulled away, finally, standing up straight. She knew from when he attacked her that he was a couple inches shorter than her, but when she was chained down, forced to stare up at him, he felt immeasurably tall, immeasurably powerful.

She could still feel his hand on her shoulder like it had been made of acid, still seeping and burning into her skin. It might as well have been. She’d always enjoyed affection, gentle little touches here and there from people who loved her-but every time the man touched her, it felt wrong. Awful. Like fire against her skin.

He coughed, as if to gain her attention, like he didn’t already have it, every bit of his presence keeping her on edge.

“Since you’ve decided you don’t want anything to do with the plant, we’re going to try something else I know you can do.”

Elora’s expression darkened, her mind filling with all the terrible possibilities of whatever the hell that could mean. What else did he know?

Without warning, he pulled out his pocket knife and slashed it along her thigh, dangerously close to the large, sloppily-stitched wound from the first day. In one slice, another hole was torn in her pants, and a small, bloodied red line formed. Elora whimpered, but didn’t have much else of a reaction; he had given her much worse pain so far. She didn’t understand the purpose of this, here and now, when she’d had so much worse. The pain was sharp, but minimal, stinging as her blood started to coagulate in the air.

“Heal it,” the man instructed.

Her heart sank.

He knew that, too?

“I-” the girl started, before Clyde grasped her chin and dug his dirty fingernails into her skin.

“You know what happens when you don’t listen. You know. It’s not that fucking hard, Elora.”

She swallowed, hard. She could feel her heart thumping in her throat, rhythmically, like an instrument. Thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump-

In a way, he was right. It wouldn’t be hard to give in. In all honesty, it would be easy.

The lines were beginning to blur between what resistance was beneficial to her psyche, and what would be better for her to just let go.

But this, she knew she wanted to resist. Needed to.

Her healing was only ever meant to help others. Never herself. She’d tried, several times, to heal her own body, and the results were always horrifically painful. Whenever she used her magic to heal, she absorbed the pain of the individual that she was healing; it was a simple transfer of energy. She took away the wound, closed up the edges, and bore just the pain, not the physical injury, briefly, just how brief depending on the severity of the wound. She never took much joy in it, but for situations that called for her help- emergencies, hurt kids, severe bleeding or head injuries, and the like-she’d do it. After all, she bore the pain for a much shorter amount of time than those who had been hurt in the first place. It felt like her duty to help, when it would be so much easier for her to take the pain temporarily than for the one who attained it in the first place to hold onto it for days, weeks, months, even.

But that blessing, the ability to transfer another’s pain to herself, to give mercy, became a curse, when turned on herself. Instead of experiencing just her own, usual level of pain, it reverberated like an echo chamber, intensifying every second until it was explosive, muchmore than she could handle. She phantom-experienced her own pain twice over initially, and then quadrupled and so on, going on and on, growing exponentially from there, leading to an amplified misery like no other. Even healing a tiny bruise off of her own skin felt like healing a bullet wound.

And the man was making cuts. Big ones.

“I c-can’t do that,” she stammered.

He tilted her chin up with the blade of the knife, forcing her to tilt her head back in order to escape the sharp point.

“Yes you can,” he growled.

She looked over at him, cold fear in her eyes.

“Y-you don’t understand,” she continued. “I can’t.”

“Elora.”

The man’s voice was eerily calm. He didn’t have to say another word; that tone, and the glare, were enough to make her skin crawl.

“Y-you’re right about the healing,” she stammered, “but that’s just for others. I c-can’t do it to myself, it doesn’t work like that. Don’t you-don’t you think I would’ve healed myself and run away from here a-already, if I could?”

He sighed heavily, standing up straight and spinning the knife around casually.

“You can,” he said. “You just don’t want to. It hurts you, I know. But what’s a little pain, in comparison to your life, my lark? I’m being gentle, light with this knife. But just as easily, I could dig it deep into your throat, cut you ear to ear. You’d be gone within minutes. Is that what you want? If I were you, I’d choose a little pain, no?”

There he was with those nicknames again. Elora swallowed, staring ahead at the wall in silence, her eyes blurring in and out of focus as she looked at the white tiles. She still didn’t know him very well, but he didn’t seem to be lying. No, he seemed impulsive, impulsive enough to kill her simply for noncompliance.

And she didn’t want to die.

“Okay,” she whispered.

She placed her hands on either edge of the cut on her thigh, inhaling deeply before closing her eyes, focusing deeply on directing her magic to the wound.

She wasn’t watching it, but she could feel it as it started to close, the pain going from a small throb to a roaring wave in just a few moments.

Clyde stood there, watching in pure awe. He didn’t pay much attention to her agony, too focused on staring at the healing wound in amazement. That was quite the trick, and a useful one, too. Imagine how much you could punish her, over and over, simply by making her heal herself up only to repeat the same torture.

It didn’t take much longer than ten or fifteen seconds, but by the end, she was writhing in agony, sucking in breaths sharply through her teeth. When she finally did open her eyes, she saw her skin, perfectly clear and in tact, like the man had never cut her.

“Do it again,” he instructed.

Elora let out a shaky breath. “Please,” she started. “You know it-”

“Did I ask you if you wanted to? No, I told you to do it again.”

Elora looked down, biting her lip. Do it, or he’ll kill you.

“Where?” She asked. “You just-you only cut me once, just now.”

He huffed. “I suggest you choose another spot yourself. You’re covered in plenty of cuts. Unless you’d like me to slash you again, hmm?”

She shook her head immediately, pausing for a moment to think. What would hurt the least to heal?

The cuts on her arm from yesterday. They had already started to close up, and they were small. Just one wouldn’t take her very long. She moved her hand and covered one cut with her fingers, taking a moment to focus and breathe before she began.

The man smiled. “Ambitious, aren’t you? Go on then, since you chose your arm. Fix them all.”

Her heart dropped. “N-no! You said one more! I didn’t mean-”

He cut her off again. “Right, and now I said them all. Go on. Do I need to remind you of the consequences your actions can bring?”

He’ll kill you. He will.

She shook her head, trying to be calm. She would-she had to try.

She whimpered as soon as her magic made contact with the first cut. Her fingers on the hand of the arm being healed curled up and grabbed a fistful of her shirt, trying to brace herself against the pain. It didn’t do much. The dread was almost as bad as the pain, cold fear seeping into her every time she looked at her arm. It was cut up and down-there were at least thirty of them, maybe more.

Worse than anything else was the man’s glare. He was staring at her, with an amused sense of wonder. Every time she looked up, she saw him smiling.

She tried to do as he told her. She did. She knew he would kill her. But after cut six or seven-she had a hard time keeping track, especially because they disappeared without a scar-she let her healing arm drop, her fingers twitching slightly. She couldn’t do it anymore. The pain that had grown was excruciating, worse than anything that had happened before, and her energy was near completely depleted.

“Why the hell did you stop?” the man shouted at her. She looked away from him. She was so exhausted, it was hard to focus. She’d just woken up, but she wanted to curl up and sleep. Using that much magic, in a way she was never supposed to, felt like it sucked the life force out of her just like a leech.

“I-I can only do so much,” she explained. “O-only have so much in me.” Her body was starting to droop, just about ready to give in to sleep.

Clyde didn’t like that answer. He grabbed her arm roughly and returned it to the cuts, but even he could feel that she was becoming loose and limp, from what he assumed was pure exhaustion. When he let her arm down and nothing happened besides a quiet groan from the girl, he gave up.

“That was hardly anything. God, you’re useless. We’ll have to work on that, and your...disregard of my authority. You know, I think I know exactly what to do. Perhaps we’ll take a little trip away from the bathtub tomorrow.”

With that, he turned and left the bathroom. Moments later, Elora turned on her side and slept, left without the time awake to wonder what he meant by that.

@exploringspaceinpyjamas @badthingshappenbingo

     The drive was long, but not terribly so; it was just about two hours, driven straight through. That was another of the geniuses to his plan; they’d be crossing state lines, twice. That, on top of the squeaky clean scene, made Clyde confident that the police wouldn’t have even the slightest chance of ever finding Elora. 

     In all honesty, he didn’t know what he was going to do with her. He had a couple of plans, but after that, he was lost. It didn’t seem plausible to keep her forever, but a body to hide would complicate things even further. He could let her go, eventually, but he’d have to rough her up pretty bad to scare her out of telling anyone about him.

     Overthinking was a demon. That was a problem to be dealt with later. All he knew at the moment was that he had to have her, and now he did.

     Ever since some drunk guy at the bar started rambling to him the wretched bitch who killed his niece, curiosity had eaten at his soul, itching to know more. They became newfound drinking buddies, and he pressed the other man for details every night out for weeks, yet somehow came off without any suspicion. Clyde asked for all sorts of things-her name, where she was from, how she knew his niece-and Dante always answered without question. 

     The gist of the story he was given was that Dante’s niece, Wren, had been dating this girl for years, which he had never liked in the first place, but one day, when they were sixteen, she took Wren up a mountain and killed her. Clyde had a feeling that wasn’t the entire story, but he truly didn’t care. His fascination was with the Elora, not what she’d done three years ago.

     He truly didn’t need much information from Dante, anyways. After a few basic questions, he got everything else he needed from facebook stalking.

     And now he’d been watching her for almost five months.

    It still felt surreal that he’d finally talked  himself into biting back his worries and taking her. He couldn’t explain his feelings about the situation if his life depended on it, but something felt so viscerally right now that she was finally with him, just a few feet away in the trunk.  It was as if Elora had always belonged to him, and now things were just as they were supposed to be. 

     He had her. He finally fucking had her.

     About thirty miles away from where he grabbed her, he tossed her SIM-cardless phone out of the window into a soaked ditch on the side of the road. Even if the device was recovered, it wouldn’t have a chance of turning on after soaking in rainwater for so long. 

     The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, just as Clyde had hoped. He never stopped once, and was incredibly careful to drive lawfully so as to not attract the attention of any cops.

      Their final destination was a shitty apartment in an even shittier town in Connecticut. The name Pleasant Park Apartments poorly hid the harsh reality of asbestos-filled walls, cigarette butts lining the sidewalks like snow, and neighbors who were either always too high to give a shit about anything or just naturally apathetic on their own. Clyde had been there for seven years, and was numb to the conditions at this point. He used to live in a nice condo on the better side of town, but after some bitch that couldn’t take a damn joke got fired from his job as a mechanic that paid a pretty penny, he couldn’t afford it anymore. His new job as an insurance agent hardly covered rent for the shithole he had now, but it was all that he could get. At least the coworkers weren’t shit.

     After parking the sedan close to his building, Clyde took Elora’s bag out of the trunk and slung it over his shoulder, then proceeded to lift her out of the trunk, holding her beneath her knees and around her back in a bridal carry. She was still completely limp, her body almost jelly-like in its unconscious state. He didn’t anticipate just how heavy she’d feel when he had to carry her up three flights of stairs. By the time he put his key in the door of apartment 307, he was panting heavily, more than ready to drop her in the bathroom prison he’d already prepared for her. 

     The bathroom was obviously not an ideal location; a basement would have been preferable, but in a two bed two bath apartment, there wasn’t another place to put her. The spare bedroom was too close to the outside and had windows-what if a cop patrolling around looking for druggies heard her, or she lifted the blinds to signal for help? The master bath and bedroom weren’t options for the same reason, and neither were the kitchen or the living room, with far too much open space to properly contain Elora. That left the small guest bathroom in the hallway; the door to it was directly across from the front door of the apartment, but that was the only negative. It didn’t have any external walls, and was easy to rig into somewhat of a cell.

     It wasn’t anything fancy, but it wasn’t awful, either. Clyde had never used it, sticking to the master, so it was clean, but the decor was straight out of the eighties, with yellowing floral wallpaper and a big white mat that had begun to grow mold from the surrounding humidity in the center of the room. The bathtub was straight ahead from the door, and the very clearly aged toilet and vanity were along the right wall, lining up with the showerhead. 

     Clyde did indeed drop Elora, kicking the door closed behind himself then immediately heading over to the bathroom and all but tossing her into the tub. He flinched, though, at the sound of her head smacking against the hard tile that lined the side walls. That was probably overkill-even he knew that.

     He didn’t have time to fuss over it, though. He didn’t know how much time he had until she woke up. 

     A week prior to the kidnapping, he’d purchased a length of heavy duty chain and a few padlocks from a local store. With a bit of ingenuity, he figured out a way to rig them to the bathtub’s faucet without having to install any sort of extra hardware into the walls to prevent them from slipping off. All it took was the tension of looping them around both the faucet and the handle that controlled the water and a few extra wraps around; after being secured with several padlocks, there wasn’t a single plausible way for the chains to be pulled off of the wall. All he had to do after that was secure the loose end of the chain to a pair of handcuffs with another padlock, and he had all he needed to keep Elora exactly where he wanted her to be.

     He untied the ropes from her hands and feet, replacing those around her hands with the cuffs. He didn’t worry about securing her feet in any way, as the amount of chain left after the jerry-rigged suspension between the handle and faucet was so short that she would have to hunch over to stand, anyways. She wouldn’t be able to go far with that.

     He double-checked everything before leaving the bathroom, each padlock, each individual chain link, and the bathroom itself for any hazards that could be within her reach. There were none. Everything was utterly perfect.

     Satisfied, Clyde turned off the lights, closed the door, and headed into his bedroom which was just a door away down the hallway, a gleeful smile on his face.

-

     Elora awoke slowly, in several stages. At first, she couldn’t even tell that she was waking up at all, as wherever she was, it was pitch black. She then realized that she was in fact somewhere, and that somewhere was unfamiliar. She bolted upright with a start. Her head ached horribly from the sudden motion and she flinched, sucking in a loud breath. Ow, shit. Confusion then hit her. Where was she?

     The memories came next. She jerked her wrists back abruptly and heard the clanking of metal, feeling tightness around her wrists as something resisted them moving. It kept them together when she tried to pull them apart, as well..handcuffs?

     Her first instinct was to scream and jerk as much as she could, fighting chains that she couldn’t even see. She thrashed as hard as she could, her throat feeling raw as she screamed for what felt like an hour.

     Soon, though, she fell silent. Dead silent. She swore she could hear footsteps, and they were getting louder. Maybe someone was coming to help her? This could all be a huge misunderstanding.

     A door she didn’t even know was there opened and she held her breath. A small amount of light came into the room, but it seemed to be dark outside of wherever she was, too.

     She watched as a shadowy figure reached into the room, flipping a light switch. Bright fluorescent lights crackled on immediately, and Elora blinked, her eyes having become accustomed to the darkness.

     She whipped her head around to look at the figure after her eyes adjusted. They panned to his face, first; he was a man, with a scraggly goatee and brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed or cut in a long time. His eyes were brown, the whites bloodshot. She could see it in his face that he was slightly overweight, and his skin had an almost-sunburned appearance despite it being the middle of November.

     His mouth started moving. He was speaking. His voice was rough and loud.

     “Hello.”

     Elora’s eyes then panned down to his body. She recognized the clothes he was wearing. She recognized them. It had been too dark to make out his face when she was being kidnapped, but she remembered his clothes. A gray tee shirt and straight-leg jeans. He took her. He was the one. He-

     She began screaming again, and then she heard him laugh at the sound of her cries.

     Demetrios was an older man, with graying hair, bright blue eyes, and lines across his face that made him look like he was always smiling, which wasn’t far from the truth. If anyone in his life were asked to describe him in one word, it would undoubtedly be kind. He cared for his family and his employees above all else, far above any concerns of profit or productivity. The incredible workplace he’d created through his gentle nature, though, meant that there were very few worries about any of that nonsense, anyways. They made plenty of money to keep everyone afloat, with enough left over to buy fancy new machines that made Elora extra excited to come in to work every once in a while.

     His kindness was why he always asked her if she’d like to be driven home after her evening shifts like clockwork. She’d bought a small cottage just a mile down the road only a few months ago, and ever since then, she’d begun walking to and from work, both for the joy of the outdoors and to cut down on her carbon footprint. Before then, her mom would drive her every day, always stopping in for a few minutes to greet Demetrios. Their connection was how Elora got the job in the first place; his wife, Lucia, worked as a neonatal nurse at the local hospital along with Elora’s mother, Jodie.

     Elora’s walking habit always worried Demetrios, especially when she worked late and it was dark by the time she clocked out. She always passed on his offers to drive her home, though, despite his insistence. She was a stubborn girl, set in her ways; that wasn’t going to change any time soon.

     She wiped her hands off on her apron before untying it behind her back, locking up the register and stepping out from behind the counter.

     “I’m okay, Dima. Promise.”

     Demetrios gave her a look that was almost fatherly, resisting the urge to put his hands on his hips. Elora grabbed her backpack from the break room and put her apron away in it, her grin cracking wider at his expression. 

     “Oh, come on. It’s nice out. Autumn breeze and everything.”

     Demetrios simply shook his head at her, smiling back.

     “Go home, you mule. See you Monday.”

     Elora grinned. She was excited to have the upcoming weekend off; she usually worked a Saturday or Sunday shift, at least, but Demetrios had insisted on a nice long break, and she was looking forward to it now that she had gotten used to the idea of it. She already had plans; tomorrow she was going to go down to the beach and read out there all day, and Sunday, she’d go over to her mom’s for dinner.

     “See you Monday.”

     She slipped out of the front door of the charming bakery, giving one last wave through the window before she headed off towards her home.

     The streets were just as quiet as usual, the sidewalk covered in leaves that crunched under her feet as she set on home. When she’d first moved, going home alone at night had unnerved her, but now, she was familiar enough with the whole route that she didn’t have a single worry. It was the same old walk every morning and night she worked. Nothing was ever wrong.

     And she was right-tonight, as usual, nothing was wrong. Following a few minutes of walking, she could see her cottage at the end of the road after taking her normal right turn.

      Nothing was out of the ordinary until a car she didn’t recognize started following behind her. She looked over her shoulder, the bright headlights shining right at her.

     Okay, that was weird, but not too weird. Maybe they’re just lost. Oh! Or maybe they’re the one who moved into that house up on North street. That would make sense.

     The car was just a small black sedan, anyways. It looked shabby, and Elora really had no reason to fear it. She turned her head back in front of herself, continuing to walk on like normal. It was probably better to mind her business, anyways. She didn’t want to be rude. She kept on going, shaking off any fears she had.

    Just a few seconds later, she heard the car abruptly break, and the driver’s      side door opened with a pop. She whipped around, turning on the flashlight on her phone and pointing it towards the car. Instinctually, a strong pulse of magic flowed and sat around her fingertips, its energy buzzing beneath her skin.

     “Hello?” She called into the night, ready to change from the flashlight to the phone app to dial 911 in all but an instant. 

     There was dead silence. A figure stood there, unmoving, their features indiscernible in the low light. Yep, okay, time to call the police, time to run-

     She didn’t have enough time to get past the nine before they pounced. 

     Elora screamed at the top of her lungs as her phone was knocked out of her hand. The attacker tried to wrap an arm around her neck, but she shoved it off, muttering a spell under her breath that sent a shockwave of sharp pain through them. She winced at the sound of the load groan of pain that resulted, guilt eating her. 

     Magic isn’t supposed to be used like this. But she-there isn’t another choice, is there?

     The attacker had already picked up her dropped phone, leaving her with no choice but to turn on her heel and sprint back towards the bakery. It was a ten minute walk from this point, but she could make it a two minute run.

     Unfortunately, the attacker was right back behind her in seconds. Frustrated by their initial failure, they lunged at Elora, their weight sending the both of them tumbling to the ground. Elora screamed gain, her cry sharp in the silence of the night. 

     Before she could even think of what to do next, they flipped Elora over, straddling her waist. She kicked and clawed at their face with her nails, but in one swift movement, they pinned both of her arms against her sides by leaning down and draping one large arm across her upper body, applying all the force they could. Without hesitation, they used their free hand to hold a rag they’d been carrying since they got out of the car to her face, their fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

     Elora thrashed with everything she had, desperate to get away. They weren’t far from the bakery; if she could just get up, she’d have a fighting chance…

     The rag smelled like chemicals. She knew instantly that this was bad, really bad. She held her breath while kicking and trying to utter spells that were too muffled by the fabric to have any effect. She could only resist breathing for so long, though; after hardly half a minute, her body forced her to gasp for air, taking the chloroform soaked into the rag deep into her lungs.

    Her thrashing stopped a few moments later. And a few moments after that, she was out.