His Darkest Obsession

Celina

Hangovers were only bearable because I woke up knowing that I'd consented to the god-awful feeling in exchange for a night of getting completely shit faced.

This hangover, however, was not something I'd consented to.

Perhaps it was the withdrawal from whatever they'd drugged me with, but a bolt of movement causes the walls around me to shake. Walls that seem far too close for my liking, in a space that's far too dark for me to be sure.

Things continue to rattle, a hum similar to that of rubber skidding on asphalt filters through the walls.

I try to move my limbs only to realize my hands are tied, so are my ankles in the same way a roasted pig is, only instead of an apple shoved into my mouth, it's a dirty rag.

A muffled voice drifts into my ears, the sound staticky yet clear enough for me to recognize that it's coming from a radio. It's not long before the broadcaster's voice reiterates the exact radio station, and when I recognize it, I know we're not only driving, but we're in the city.

These assholes put me in a trunk.

And as if my day can't get any worse, I wiggle my toes, only feeling the tight leather of the Louboutin on my left foot, my right missing.

I'd spent an entire week breaking in those pumps, and they'd finally gotten comfortable.

God, this shit sucked.

With a newfound sense of annoyance, I spit the rag out of my mouth, reach my tied hands up into my hair, and grab my barrette.

Not only was it made of gold with my initials carved in diamonds, but beneath the metallic clasp lay a space for a small Swiss knife.

It takes me a mere moment to maneuver my hands, pop open the blade, and cut through the rope before I do the same to the rope tying my ankles.

I hadn't even landed in New York, and this low-life shit was already dragging me down into it.

A wave of homesickness hits me right in the stomach. I missed Oxford.

There I wasn't dealing with wannabe criminals stooping so low as to drug me into submission. I was dealing with self-obsessed, back-stabbing narcissists.

They were all slimy and manipulative, my type of crazy.

These men were amateurs at best, and I'm proven right when I lift the bottom mat of the trunk, reach into the spare tire compartment, and pat my hand around the various tools, stopping when my hand comes in contact with a thick metal bar.

There's a reason my papá taught me about cars, and it had everything to do with learning how I could find weapons if I were ever trapped in one. The car jack is the most obvious one of them all.

Like I said, amateurs.

It's not long before the car comes to a halt, and then the familiar sound of footfall is heard.

I press my ear to the frame.

One, two, three.

Three men are approaching me, and if I remember correctly, two are identical blonds, and the other is a fat, nostrilled inept Shrek. All of which were easily double my size, but I had the element of surprise to my advantage.

"Ty uveren, chto ona pravil'naya?" A voice filters through the metal frame of the trunk, and it's times like this where I regret not knowing every language known to man. (Russian| You sure she's the right one?)

"On budet imet' nashi golovy, yesli ona ne." This voice is of another male, his voice fading into the back of my mind as the trunk is cranked over, and a sliver of light streams in, illuminating the space.

(Russian| he'll have our heads if she isn't)

My eyes burn as I push past the sting and adjust to the sight of three male crotches before me.

It's almost as pleasant as the utter confusion I hear in one of their voices. "ty che, blyad-" (Russian|What the fuck-)

I kick my foot out. The one still occupied by my high heel, and drive it into the first crotch I see.

It's one of the twins that goes down first, doubling over with a surprised choke. The millisecond of surprise on the other two gives me enough time to swing the crowbar in my hand blindly.

This time it's inept Shrek that goes down, clutching his crotch as he falls to the floor with a loud cry.

I'm left with one man who lunges for me. But I'm faster as I roll out of the trunk, kick off my heel, and turn towards the last man standing.

Not for long.

"If you're going to kidnap someone," I lurch forward and jam the crowbar into the place behind his knee until his large weight goes crashing onto the floor. The gravel is hot beneath my bare feet as I walk up to the man who's now forced on his knees before me. "At least have the decency to know your victim."

He sneers up at me, "Fuck yo-"

His skull doesn't crack when I hit him upside the head; he merely topples onto the ground, and when I bend down, hold my fingers against his neck, and feel the dull throb of his pulse, I frown at the crowbar in my hand.

That didn't kill him.

Disappointment washes down the adrenaline.

The years I'd spent away from this life were years I'd spent away from training, sharpening my skills, and strengthening my body.

Was I losing my touch?

Anxiety begins to take its deadly course as the knowledge of what this means settles. I'm vulnerable.

I wasn't at my best anymore.

Not when they'd been able to kidnap me in the first place, not when I couldn't do something as simple as kill a man with a crowbar and a good swing.

I've lost my touch. I'm... weaker -physically, that is. My mind is far too sharp to ever deviate from its course. But the fact of the matter is clear: I need to get the fuck out of here.

I wasn't someone who ever ran from a fight, but I also wasn't a complete dumbass who didn't know when to put their pride aside to survive.

And right now, if I wanted to survive, I needed to run.

I assess my surroundings before I make any move.

I'm on a driveway, a long one, on a property that spans acres of land, if not more. And if that's not a clear enough indication that I'm nowhere near the city, all that can be heard is the faint trickling of water. Everything else is still.

I spot a large fountain in the centre of the roundabout and take off towards it. I alllow myself to slump against the old stone once I slip into a crevice I know I won't be seen in as I look to the long path leading up to what I can imagine is a gate.

The intricate stone of the driveway is littered with overgrown grass, weeds, and plants, all growing through its crevices. Mature trees line the perimeter on either side of the long, lonely road, and the only hint of the gate I'm rewarded with is through the trees.

I begin to mentally calculate my chances of making it down the path successfully, and when I realize they're slim, I look for another way out.

I peek around the cement fountain littered in moss and overgrown vines to the monstrosity of a house, looming darkly against the summer sky.

The beast of a place is completely dark, with no signs of upkeep recent enough to be considered in this decade. It's all dead, aside from the ivy trickling up the exterior, swallowing the brick beneath.

The longer I look at it, the larger the structure becomes, surpassing the term mansion.

It was far too grand, its age far too ancient, and the wealth buried beneath the poison ivy far, far too imposing.

It was a fucking castle.

One that'd work as a perfect prison, and one that'd bore me to tears if I'd been locked away in it.

I realize my only chance at getting the fuck out of here is the long way down to the gate.

It's not long before I take off in a sprint, down the driveway that stretches agonizingly long. Seconds drift into minutes of sprinting at full speed before I've reached a point where I'm able to get a closer look at plotting my escape.

But the soft kiss I've briefly shared with freedom slaps me right across the face because if there's one thing that's been maintained, it's the fifteen-foot wrought iron gate.

Lined in what appears to be bulletproof steel and armed with not one, two, three, but four security cameras, all turned and pointed down at little old me.

A frustrated noise escapes from beneath my breath.

I was going to milk this excuse into never returning to New York for the rest of my life. That is, if I ever get out of this fucking place.

In a moment of extreme anger, I allow myself a moment to frankly lose my shit.

And by lose my shit, I mean jack the crow bar in my hand up at the first camera I see. It smashes into tiny little pieces while the crowbar drops back to the floor.

I pick it up and do the same to two more cameras before it gets trapped between the bars, stopping me from breaking the last one.