“You’re my favorite”.
I heard him whisper in her ear but he was staring straight at me. Her pale grey eyes were wide open. She just laid there like a rag doll not moving not screaming. I strained to see what was happening his focus was back on this blond motionless girl. He was sitting there with his face pressed into her hair. I thought he was smelling it. But when I looked and I mean really looked, I could see that he was licking it. I saw his tongue gliding across the top of her head and as he lifted his head he saw me looking at him. And he smiled. That smile was terrifying. I’ve never been so scared of a smile in my life. I pulled my gaze from him and focused on the girl or what was left of her. I knew she was dead but my mind wouldn’t let me recognize that fact. The fear and terror that was sweeping through me made the room spin. I had to calm down, I had to think. I started to wonder what color her eyes were before they turned this murky grey. I wondered whether or not she laughed or maybe she was a bitch and I started to wonder if this was my fate as well.
The man stood now. It’s funny because he looked just like an average man on the street. He didn’t look scary. But here in this dark dirty space, he’s quite terrifying. He has that short thin comb-over hair. Basic brown is what I would call the color the same as his eyes. He’s tall and skinny and slouchy. He shouldn’t be scary but right now I am terrified and I am pretty sure that warmth I’m feeling is pee flowing down my leg. I watch him walk over to me. My hands are tied to a hook in the wall. I start pulling on them. The flight instinct in full swing, I need to run. As he approaches me I notice a scar on his face. It stretches from the corner of his dirt brown eye to the edge of his lips. I wonder if one of his former victims gave that to him. I play hundreds of scenarios in my head of my escape and my murder. He stands over me now smiling that same smile. He reaches his hand down towards me and pets my brown hair and says “You’re my favorite”
I’m a writer… I love to write! I’ve been writing since I was eight years old. I can’t imagine life without stories. My life, and your life it’s a story that we are writing everyday.