FULL SUMMARY:

What happens when you are the only one who can provide the missing link to a mystery unsolved? What happens when you made a promise to yourself, a promise to those already gone, that if by some miraculous twist of fate you survived, you would tell their story?

Well, Jayden Mae Bristed should be hopelessly engrossed by the disturbing images that should be haunting her mind. She should be lying awake at night, troubled by the faraway voices and unbearably vivid images, the distant screams and cries for help. She should be able to make her promise right and tell them what happened, so he doesn’t go free, so she can live with herself once again, not wishing she had lost her life along with theirs.

The problem?

She can't remember a thing.

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C H A P T E R O n e :

Grains Of Sand

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T h e infinate darkness swam tauntingly in front of her flashing, wounded eyes, obscuring her vision, impairing her most vital senses, leaving her with nothing but the terrifyingly forceful sensation of helplessness, of despondency, of overwhelming hopelessness.

In a rush of blind fear and a silent sob of despair, she inadvertently seals her fate.

She cannot speak and she cannot see, but she can taste the bitter taste of misery, of anger, of frenzied desperation slowly smothering her soul as her salty tears slide in what seems like endless torrents down her dully illuminated face, landing on her bottom lip so she can taste the salty bitterness.

Her liquid pain. Pounding down from the sky, falling incessantly from her panic-stricken, enraged, sparkling emerald eyes that will never again be the same.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

The rain is splashing onto her dirty and ripped clothes. She frantically forces her harassed legs to keep running, wills her frenzied mind to stay entirely conscious, knowing that there is a very thin, almost nonexistent line between life and death that she is currently tottering over the edge of, almost taking the irreversible plunge, though it is the last thing she wants.

The cold rain pounds down on her throbbing head in thick, continuous torrents. It runs down her now matted, knotted, grimy hair. Soaks her tattered, soiled sweatshirt through, which is half falling off her small, insignificant form as she makes her way through the woods. She doesn’t notice her attire, or rather, lack of it. Her jeans had been intentionally ripped and frayed at the knees the day she had bought them. She likes them that way. But now the multitude of tears can hardly be considered such for how shredded and threadbare the fabric itself has become. It has become more of a slashed, gruesome Halloween costume from a gory R-rated horror movie, decorated with rain and mud and filth.

She can imagine a horror-struck audience, sitting on the edge of their seats, girls tightly gripping their boyfriend’s sore hands, watching her escape with held breath and wide eyes. She can imagine them eating candy and wondering if things like this actually happen in the real world.

In her world, they do.

But is it even her world anymore? It could just as likely be hell. A cruel fantasy, a….

Suddenly she catches her unbalanced leg on something sharp, and fiercely wrenches it away, risking a fleeting glance behind her back to ensure that she is still in the lead of the chase.

It is always from behind that they catch you.

The rain is creating a lulling, a rhythmic, a would-be comforting pattern if she weren't bolting madly through the woods for her life. If she were in any situation but this one, she would, for sure, fully appreciate the muggy mist rising from the hot ground while the cool water pelts it. Appreciate the unmatchable beauty and power of nature.

She would appreciate the night. She has always loved the night, like the rain; the danger, the trepidation, the unknown, it seems to beckon to her, like an old friend...

Not anymore.

She knows she is going to struggle until the last, minuscule bit of waning strength finally fades out of her struggling, sore body and the fighting light in her eyes gradually ebbs away, but she is recklessly assuring herself that it will not come to that. She needs to live. She needs to get away.

If only to salvage their dignity, to tell their tragic stories, to let everyone know what happened, she will live to tell the tale.

They will not be nameless faces in the obituary section of the daily newspaper. They will not be seen as just another sad sob story, people whom hardly anyone knew while they were alive, yet who, in death, everyone knows their names. Knowing that they were killed, but not knowing how or why or who was inhumane and sick enough to do it.

They will not be six feet under, lifeless, breathless, with no one to visit their graves with a bouquet of flowers, recent stories they would have loved to hear, and tearful eyes.

Once she escapes, everyone will know exactly what happened, precisely who did it, and their disgustingly unrealistic motive.

She will continue on through her pain.

There is no other alternative.

They will never be forgotten.

She also wants her revenge, and as she pushes herself forward to her breaking point, she is realizing with a jolt what a vengeful, ruthless person she has become within her own troubled mind, since the past torturing hours. The hours that dragged themselves out to an unbelievable extent.

But what scares her the most is the fact that she simply does not care. She doesn’t care that his life is of no value to her anymore. She does not care that she wants him dead. And she doesn’t care for her own life as much as she cares for the priceless, precious, important ones that have already been lost.

She wants to retaliate; even the score.

But the only way that she can do that right now is to keep breathing, keep her ruined heart beating strong, and later is the time for everything else. Later she can voice the unspeakable horrors she bore witness to. Later she can be the one smiling mercilessly at the thing which she refuses to recognize as a human, as a man.

He will be behind bars for the rest of his life.

Maybe dead himself. He would deserve it.

The monster.

To do their lives justice, as much as she can manage, she herself needs to continue on this twisted path, unrelenting and determined and steadfast.

So she does.

...Splash, splash, splash...

The rain is in with the rythmic pounding of her feet.

Will it cover her tracks?

Thunder claps deafeningly overhead; seconds later lightening strikes, clapping too close for comfort. She loves the thunder. She loves everything about storms, save for the lightening. Never the lightening.

She nearly stumbles clumsily out of the darkness, out of the terrifying unknown, bleeding but not yet broken, and she feels the invigorating sensation of being so close to freedom, so close to her hard earned escape… Tantalizing her, taunting her, freeing her…

And in that split second of joyfulness; that is when he catches her.

He was probably right behind her the entire time, she realizes sharply, waiting until she thought safety had opened its warm, welcoming arms, reaching out to wrap her inside them securely.

She stumbles to the ground, her tattered, mud-soaked jeans no longer protecting her exposed legs, her hands burning hotly as she catches herself, knowing that this is her downfall. She will not live to tell the stories. She will not make it out. She will leave the world right here, unwillingly, with no one to hold her as she dies. No one to gently, lovingly kiss her forehead and tell her that it is okay.

She isn’t as afraid of death as she is exceedingly petrified of facing it alone.

Never again will she taste the blissful happiness of waking up to a new day, the bright sunlight streaming into her window, kissing her sleeping face. Nor will she laugh and run around freely with the wind whipping her long hair behind her, feeling the green grass underfoot; the freedom of purely being alive. Never again will she feel the chill of the winter, or smell the fall season as she relives her childhood and plays in the multicolored leaves innocently. Never again will she feel the cruel sting of her heart being broken into million of tiny pieces, over and over again. Stepped on. Mutilated beyond recognition. Never again will she scream in rage, or shake angrily in defeat. Never again will she cry.

Never again will she live.I don’t want to die, I don’t want do die… She thinks ruefully, a single hot tear sliding down her furiously contorted face to mix with the countless others. So much I wanted to do…so many dreams that will be unfulfilled…

This is the end of the road.

He knows he has her.

Her chances of getting away have just slipped through her fingers like tiny grains of sand.

Grains of sand, simply slipping away through her ever grasping fingers.

But they both also know that she is not going to give in without a fight. She will kick and scream and taunt him until he is so enraged he can’t take it anymore. That is the one thing he cannot take from her; he insolence, her attitude, her dignity. Her fiery temper which not even he can seem to control.

He will not strip her of her soul.

He will never see her fear.

"I hope you go straight to hell, where you belong," She hisses furiously at him, looking unafriad, her bright green eyes flashing with all the unchecked, unrestrained, unbridled malice and contempt that she obviously holds for him. "I hope you go there and burn forever. I hope you choke on your own blood."

She is usually sweet, laughable, witty, and annoyingly intellectual, but she is perfectly capable of descriptive, remarkably morbid metaphors when the moment calls for them.

The rain pours down on her; God is crying with her. She knows she is being selfish, but she is glad he is crying. At least someone cares that so many lives have been lost in this unreal night. The water falling from the sky is blending in perfectly with her silent crying, which should, by all standards, be hysterical. But it isn't. Her tears are burning and hot and the rain is cool and fresh. She loves the rain. She loves to extend her arms out towards heaven, look up at the sky with her pretty face upturned; eyes closed, mouth grinning, and smile like a child, reveling in the cleansing feeling it supplies her with.

Ironic that she should die in the rain.

He smirks.

She cannot believe how utterly worthless of a person he is, and yet how he considers everyone else below him. So utterly underneath him that he cannot fathom the idea that they deserve their lives much, much more than he himself. He doesn't think that they deserve him at all. His twisted, altered, unrealistic perception of what he calls reality is sickening beyond all belief. His black eyes see nothing but what he wants to see, what he has made for himself in his own little world, where he draws unsuspecting people into his ever-gripping clutches.

They never come out. He never lets them leave.

He never lets them live.I doubt they were the only ones he killed, She thinks viciously, fighting back the urge to try and stand up and strangle him with her bare hands. He would laugh at her attempt. I doubt he's ever had a single ounce of regret for anything he's done.

"Maybe you’ll find your soul there, you cold-blooded bastard," She pronounces insolently. Then, as an equally nasty afterthought, she adds, "Although that would require you to have had one in the first place, and I think anyone can shoot that thought to hell before it even crosses their mind."

He doesn't say anything.

She cannot just sit there and wait. It is too nerve-wracking, it is strangling her slowly from the inside out. He might not even have to kill her if the tension, so thick you might cut it with a knife, does his job first.

He watches interestedly, maliciously, with devilish, glinting eyes, as she finds a last waning bit of adrenaline in her system. She attempts fervently to pick herself up off the grimy ground, splattered with mud and, she notices, with sick bile rising up in her throat, blood. The rain is still unrelenting. If only it wasn't so slippery...But she is much too weak; without energy, without power.

This is the moment where my veiw changes, she thinks. I hate the nighttime, and I loathe the rain.

she thinks. .

To think she used to stand outside of her doorway and laugh musically in the rain, smiling whimsically, encouraging whoever was with her to come out and play with her.

Her friends never saw the childish happiness in playing in the rain. At least not with as much palpable, obvious enthusiasm as she herself.

And neither will she, ever again.

If there is anything she cannot stand to be, it is outright powerless and vulnerable. Weak, defenseless, partially immobilized. But those are the things that she is, and she cannot take it anymore without fighting back to the best of her ability.

But, once again, her attempts to regain her rebelliousness and defiance are ineffective. Useless.

She is useless.

She hates it, the feeling of loathing only coming second to her hatred for him.

He is well aware that she cannot do it. Moreover, she knows it as well. So she simply sits back on her elbows and lifts her chin in blatant indignation. Challenging him. If he comes near her she will kick him. Knock him unconcious. She would scream like never before, but no one is near enough to hear the last plea for help. She might not be able to pick herself up off the ground, but her revulsion for him will undoubtedly give her at least a bit more strength. "If you’re going to kill me, might as well get it over with, you know," She hisses at his infuriatingly silent form. "Unless you’re a coward. But of course, I already know that."

Waiting. That is what she is doing. It is killing her.

He leans down towards her and she grimaces in obvious disgust, scrambling backwards in an undignified crab crawl and kicking him in the stomach as hard as she can manage. He grunts in pain, staring at her, coming closer still. She doesn't give in, instead opting to use her last sentences on this earth, her last spoken words, her diminishing drive and vigor, to put him in his place as much as possible, which, given her way, would be underneath her feet.

He would be begging her mercy.

She somehow manages, (though it is almost a clumsy slip that does it; that and sheer luck combined) to punch him right in the face as he comes doggedly nearer, not anticipating her resilience. He underestimated her. His mistake.

She hears a crack. Maybe his nose is broken.

The sound is sickening. She tries to convince herself that he deserves it.

"How does it feel?" She asks him spitefully. Somehow she finds the energy to stumble maladroitly to her knees, feeling a wave of dizziness suddenly assault her. "Tell me, how does it feel?" She articulates loudly, enraged, feeling powerful again, knowing it will deteriorate just as soon as it came. She is shooting daggers with her eyes, hoping her glare will make him drop dead upon impact, however unrealistic that may seem. "Maybe you’ll have some sort of a tiny, miniscule idea of everything you put them through, you heartless, dim-witted idiot! Maybe you can see that Karma has every right to come right around and bite you in your deformed, kicked ass!"

She gets one good, last kick in while persistently pushing herself backwards, retreating but fighting still. One last screaming insult emphasized by a solid punch, but luck can only last you so long.

He lunges at her and grabs her chin before she has the chance to move, yanking it up so that she has no choice but to look into his dark, unforgiving, black eyes. She stares into them with no real sense of alarm, blocking out her real overwhelming fear, blaring out the full extent of her obvious, unrepressed loathing.

"I’ve always been the best at staring contests, you know," She declares snappily, admonishing him in her typical lecturing voice, but with much more malevolence than usual. "Intimidation doesn’t work on me, even your dull mind should be able to process that."

The thing doesn't rise to the bait.

"I should kill you right now," He says darkly, lowly, gripping her face so hard she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain. She feels an involuntary shiver of fear run quickly down her spine and slowly then back up it again.

"But I won’t."

"Then get your filthy hands off me."

He leans closer, simply to scare her, intimidate her. Impulsively, she spits right on his face, and feels a stinging sensation as he backhands her in the face, hard. This is her punishment but she doesn't care. Her eyes are watering, but she doesn't cry out, doesn't want to let him know he hurt her as much as he did.

He grabs her face once again.

"Your getting lucky, little girl. I'm feelings generous today." He whispers this mockingly in her ear, and she tries ineffectually to squirm away, slipping in the muddy grass, twigs and whatnot digging into her tender body. "I'll let you live. Unlike the rest of them." Dirty bastard thinks he's fucking God, choosing who lives and who dies. She tries retaliating but he just jerks her head up further, until she worries her neck might snap."Better to let you suffer. Don't forget: I'll always be watching."

And before she has any chance to fully comprehend the implication of his sick, twisted words, he grins maniacally. She feels an instantaneous sharp pain in the back of her already throbbing head.

Without so much as a warning, the ground comes rushing up to meet her.