The Stranger in the Closet

Trying to breathe, whilst the gun was placed, cold steel tilting towards my head, I looked around where I had woken up. I seemed to be a small closet, the kind that clothes should have been kept in; this one, however, had only the scraps of surprisingly-sturdy linen binding my wrists to the chair. No other clothes were in sight.

"Please..." I said. "Who are you?" I couldn't even turn my head to look at the stranger.

In a second, whilst keeping the gun-barrel to my forehead, my captor, a man with strong-smelling breath, turned to face me. I noticed that the cold, white mark of a scar jutted across his left eyebrow, creating a break in the neat row of brown hairs. I would have expected a gruff beard to adorn his chin and neck but, surprisingly, he was clean-shaven. I could even smell aftershave, as though he had made himself ready for me beforehand.

I tried desperately to think. Oh, why couldn't I? I guessed that the identity to this person was locked up in the day that I forgot. If only I could recall it, it would perhaps provide me with an escape; but my head and memories were full of fuzz. It could not grasp the missing pieces…

The man continued to watch me. He didn’t seem to notice the frantic way my eyes would not look into his leering ones.

"Don't you recognise me, little Daria? I've been with you all this time."

I tried to cry out, but my mouth, and my speech, felt all as though my tongue had swollen to block out everything. Even my air choked itself in and out my body.

"What do you want with me?" I finally managed to whisper.

"It's been oh-so long though," the man continued, as though I had no spoken at all. "Perhaps..."

I couldn't shake my head, but I desperately wanted to.

“I don’t…can’t. Sorry,” I eventually choked out.

The closet seemed air-tight, fool-proof; I had got myself into something terrible this time, and I wasn’t going to get out soon.

The End

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