Page 4 of Savage Hope

Four.

Five.

I gulp, panic flooding my limbs as I stare in horror at the looming figures in my doorway.

The man at the front takes a step toward me, and it’s as if the movement sets off a trigger inside of me. I scream.

My lungs burn, my throat raw as an almighty cry parts my lips.

I have no idea if my parents can hear me. I can only hope. All I know is that I set the men in my room into motion the moment I shriek.

Fingers coil around my arms and legs as I’m torn from my bed. I panic, freezing in place as I scream and cry, but I just can’t fight them off. The noise doesn’t seem to bother them as they march me from the room.

My general cries become pleas for my mother and father, but I still find myself outside in the cold night air, growing no closer to them as a black van waits on our driveway.

Reality kicks in and understanding dawns on me.

I have to fight. I have to.

Swinging my arms and legs against their hold, I catch them by surprise and manage to slip my right arm free. My hand is balled and ready, with my coin still pressed tightly against the palm of my hand, but before I can attempt a feeble swing, a white cloth is pressed against my mouth.

My vision blurs.

My mind goes quiet.

My screams become muffled.

For the first time tonight, the darkness truly takes me, and my last thought plays on a loop in my mind, wondering if this is what death feels like.

2

P

TEN YEARS OLD

Everything hurts.

My legs, my arms, my back, my tummy…all of it.

Even my eyelids feel like they’re sealed shut. Confusion makes me frown, and as I try to wiggle my fingers, I feel the weight of something in my palm.

Already aware of the impression it leaves on my hand, I know it’s my father’s coin. The one he gave me to be brave. My brain plays catch up to the recent memories floating in my thoughts; my birthday, and I’m overwhelmed with a stark reminder of how it ended.

The bad men.

The black van.

Panic has my eyes opening wide. Light bursts against my pupils, making it impossible to see anything for a moment, but when my gaze does come into focus, I wish it hadn’t.

It wasn’t a dream—the men, the van—it was all real.

The four walls that surround me now don’t offer a sliver of likeness to my bedroom. The ceiling is pure white. Whiter than white. Blinding. There’s a small square window above my head, black bars standing scarily in the opening.

Gulping, I tilt my head down, noting the black windowless door on the other side of the room. The handle is steel, thick, and robust, as if it’s wearing a giant neon sign advertising just how heavy it is.

The room is bleak and bare.

A steel two-drawer cabinet sits in the far corner, and there’s a bed beneath me. The mattress is hard and reminds me of lying on the rocks by the river back home. However, there are no trickling sounds of flowing water or the rustling leaves in the distance. It’s just quiet, and scary, and…not home.

---