Broken Things

A young woman gets kidnapped. From the point of view of both her and the kidnapper.



The eerie silence deafened me as I sat down, dripping wet, upon the best looking seat I could find. Most of them were falling apart, loose threads hanging off, bits of sponge on the floor beside them, stains all over caused by things I really didn’t want to think about at that moment in time. How I wish that I had taken my car.


My carriage was empty, apart from me that is, I could see a man in the next carriage along though. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t particularly like the look of him. I’m still not entirely sure what it was about him that I didn’t like, he was smartly dressed, not shabby in the slightest, he looked quite important in fact, I just didn’t like the look of him. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t exactly the normal type to be on last train to Camden, it was normally full of drunken tramps and the likes.


He probably didn’t like the look of me either; I bet I looked a right mess. My hair had somehow been transformed by the rain into long, horrible rattails that hung pathetically down to my waist. I also have a strong feeling that my make-up had run, leaving me with streams of jet black mascara all down my face. My trousers were stuck to my skin, and my shirt had gone see through, in fact now that I think about it I probably somewhat resembled a cross between a zombie and a circus freak.


The train gradually ground to a halt, so I rose from my seat and stepped through the open doors across the gap and onto the platform, which was almost as deserted as the train. I stood for a moment, and observed the people around me; a few tramps and a drunkard if you must know, but there was no sign of the man from the train. This pleased me a lot, I would have been happy if I never set eyes on him again, but I did, I saw him again and again.


At first I thought it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, but the more I saw him the more real he became. I would see him in the park when I went for a walk, on the street outside my office window, over the other side of a shop I was browsing in, even lurking about over the road from my house. I knew that I should tell G but I didn’t, and now more than ever I wish I’d told him. I wish I’d told him the first time I saw the guy, G would have put a stop to all this before it even started. But that’s the exact reason that I didn’t tell him, for once in my life I wanted to deal with something by myself, to prove that I was capable. But my method of ‘dealing with it’ was to lock the doors, shut the windows and hope that Mr creepy would spontaneously combust as soon as possible.

The fact is though that I didn’t tell him, and I still haven’t, so now all I can do is hope that he finds out. If he finds out he’ll find me, but if he doesn’t then he won’t, he’ll just wonder why my phone continues to ring in an empty house, why the alarm is still on in an empty garage, why my pager bleeps in an empty office. I’d mention my mobile but I have no clue of its whereabouts, my main suspicion is that it has been cast into the deep abyss of a lake, which no sun can penetrate, which nothing inhabits, somewhere in-between wherever this is and home.


Wherever this is, is unfortunately not a very nice place to be to say the least. Large haunting cobwebs coat every wall, the windows are covered over with layer upon layer of stale, timeworn fabric that looks as if it would be too heavy for me to lift or rip from the rails which held it even if I could reach high enough to take a tug at it. One could say to be honest that strength, had never been my strong point, at least physically anyway. The room itself is huge, and made to feel even huger by the fact that the only object in it is me, and I am curled up in one corner against a wall that looks as if it were once saturated in blood.


I pray constantly, pray that G will find me, pray that I may escape from this hellhole, or at the very least pray that I won’t die alone in this forlorn looking room. It had once been a grand dining room I think; filled with laughter and conversation, but now it was filled with cobwebs and ashes of what once was. The room would have been brightly lit with the warm, comforting glow of hundreds of candles, carefully mounted upon delicate gold candelabras or hanging amidst the twinkling glass of a chandelier suspended from the intricately decorated ceiling. But all the candles had been cruelly extinguished long ago, and the ceiling was collapsing forlornly under the weight of the ash encrusted light fixture. The only remaining glimmers of light enter the room through the infrequent gaps in the window coating fabric, or the more frequently occurring fractures in the plasterwork of the ceiling.


At first I wasn’t entirely sure what it was about her that made her so special, but now I know. It’s those eyes; sparkling green emeralds, telling wondrous tales of the unimaginable. At first they were filled to overflowing with joy, shiny and bright, but their emotions changed as quickly as a kaleidoscope, through fear, anger, and now to sadness and desperation. Soon she will give up, give up hoping, give up praying, and give up fighting. She will be broken. I will break her, just like I broke all the others before her.


 When something is broken, there are three options; repair it, dispose of it or keep it just for the sake of having it. She will be broken beyond repair, and past experience tells me that bin men don’t tend to take kindly to people in bin bags, so I will keep her. I’m not sure where yet, perhaps I’ll just leave her where she is, or maybe take her down to the cellar with a few of her predecessors. She won’t like it down there, she complains enough about the lack of light as it is, she never says anything but I can see it in her face; fear and disgust. It’s even darker down there, but perhaps she would enjoy the company. Doubt it though; they’re not really much fun.


Wherever I decide on though, I’m definitely keeping her, forever. Getting rid of her would be pointless, all of my hard work would have been in vain, and she’s definitely been the hardest of all of them. She’s only 5’7, and a skinny little thing at that, but she still gives a good fight. Definitely been taught by somebody, probably her precious G. He’s all she ever goes on about, on and on about how wonderful he is, how he’s going to rescue her, and how I’m going to rot in jail for the rest of my pathetic excuse of a life.


Little does she know that it is in fact her who is the owner of a pathetic excuse for a life, she is the one sat on the floor of a derelict wreck of a house, day after day, night after night. She thinks that I don’t hear her crying, thinks I don’t hear her whimpering, thinks I don’t hear her weeping. When she becomes aware of my presence though, she puts on a front of anger, those brilliant green emeralds concealing all true emotion from me. But as the days go by she realises more and more that it is all pointless.


  Psychopath. A person with an antisocial personality disorder, manifested in aggressive, perverted, criminal, or amoral behaviour without empathy or remorse. Psychopath. That’s what he is. A psychopath. There is no other word to describe him.


I see him two or three times a day; once when it’s getting light, once when it’s getting dark, and sometimes once in-between the two. He stays the longest at night, sits as close to me as he can, his putrid stench sending shivers down my spine, and then after a while he gets up, walks to the door, opens it and closes it. It’s impossible for me to tell whether or not he actually leaves, so I just sit there all night and wait for the smothering blackness to lift before drifting off into a restless sleep filled with frightful dreams.


 I used to sleep better, but one time I woke to find him inches from my face grinning like a Cheshire cat on LSD. It’s a miracle I didn’t die on the spot, there and then. I would have screamed, louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life, but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth but no sound came out, not even a squeak. His face simply contorted into laughter, laughter as evil as his sick, warped mind.


What bothers me the most about him is the way he sees the world, his distorted view of reality. I know that he sees nothing wrong with taking somebody from their home, from their friends, from their life and locking them up in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason. He probably doesn’t even see himself as being a bad person. I almost pity him, pity his very existence, but what I really want to do is repeatedly beat him around the head with something large and solid, until the stupid grin is undistinguishable through pools of blood.


Perhaps this desire makes me a bad person, but I don’t know anybody who wouldn’t share it with me if they were in my situation. What definitely does make me a bad person is that I keep asking myself, why me? Why did it have to be me? He could have chosen anybody, but he didn’t, he chose me. I find myself wishing that he had chosen somebody else; I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help it.



She’s lasted the longest out of all of them you know; fifteen days and still counting. Soon she will be beyond repair though. Soon all rational thoughts will have disappeared from her pretty little head. Soon she will join the others beneath her. The papers have all already assumed that she’s either been murdered, committed suicide or ran off with her boyfriend. There’s not even been much media interest though, if she was under 16 it would have been a totally different story, but a woman in her mid-twenties goes missing and nobody cares.



The End

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