My grey eyes flashed open as the cold, bony hands lifted me out of my bed. My dry throat attempted to scream, but a raspy, near silent whisper squeaked out instead. My heart was pounding at the same pace of a hummingbird's wings. My mind was becoming overrun with panicked thoughts, rather than an idea of how to escape before I was taken. Unfortunately, I couldn't process my thoughts quick enough, and soon found myself being dragged down the stairs of my home, my parents oblivious to the horror unfolding. I was thrown into a trunk of an old rusty beige Pontiac, my wrists and ankles bound with rope, my cold lips decorated with metallic silver duct tape. My thoughts became clearer, as I tried to focus on one thing at a time. All I feared was that I would either be raped or murdered, and neither sounded pleasant. In fact, I was more worried for my parents then myself. How would they react to the fact their daughter was missing? That some creep could possibly be assaulting me, molesting me, or killing me. That wouldn't sit easy with them.

I had no hope of possibly escaping. I had just moved to Dublin, all the way from Alberta less then a month ago. This wasn't exactly the best welcome present. There was a hollow voice that was stuck in my head, dreary and cold, repeating over and over.

You're going to die.

It had been about an hour of laying there, imagining what Heaven was like, because I knew in my heart I'd be there soon. There was no way this guy wouldn't kill me. He looked the part, with a tall, scrawny figure, thinning chocolate brown hair, highlighted with the hints of grey, tired eyes that could still freeze your soul, their icy blue color giving me shivers. He pulled me out, grabbing my short black hair and tugging to do so. My limp body slammed to the ground. I lay there, paralyzed by fear, not even caring I was here. I needed to accept the fact that I'd never see home again. I'd die, probably a slow and painful death here, and I needed to accept that. I wasn't going to be able to outsmart him. This was my fate. He pulled me into the house, and I went willingly. I wasn't going to fight. I couldn't. I'd lose. I've already lost.

As I was pulled a rather extensive flight of stairs, I noticed a shy, pale face with a mournful expression painted across it, like he already knew I was dead. His cerulean eyes locked into mine, and he bit his lip. This had obviously happened to him before. But who exactly was he? Was he a prisoner? Was he related to the kidnapper? No, he couldn't be. What person in their right mind would show their kid the girl they kidnapped? He watched as I was dragged the rest of the way up, eventually disappearing behind a corner. I found myself wishing to know more about him. He seemed like someone interesting. There was a story behind the scared face. I was sat in a cold, uncomfortable metal chair, with ropes binding my ankles to the chair legs, and my arms pulled behind me. He pulled the duct tape off my lips, taking a piece of the thin skin on my chapped lips with it. I winced in pain, running my tongue over the tender skin. He walked behind me, and I closed my eyes. This had to be it. He bent over me, his breath hitting my neck. He pulled out a pocket knife, and opened it next to my face, the blade tip nearly flicking my eye. I gulped, and tried to relax. You'll be gone soon, he'll slit your throat, and you'll be dead.

"The name's Derek." He whispered, gently swiping the knife on my neck, not hard enough unfortunately to break skin. "Derek Meritt." He surprised me by pulling the knife away from my neck and slicing my arm. I inhaled deeply trying to relax, attempting to ignore my split skin, as he slit the gnarly ropes holding my arms and ankles, making sure to be as rough as possible, fitting in a few good gashes to them. He left the room, and I examined my damage. My arm was bleeding like hell, and the smaller gashes on my wrists and ankles were bleeding pretty bad. I thanked God I wore a hoodie to bed that night, as I tore it off my cold body and soaked up the blood coming from my arm.

Once my arm was under control, I began to explore the prison cell that I'd be calling home for the rest of my life. The yellowing mattress smelt of greasy hair and sweat. Yum. There was a scratchy beige wool blanket that actually looked decent, and a banged up white side table with a single crooked drawer. Out of boredom, I pulled the loose drawer open, prepared to see nothing, but was greeted by a poorly bound leather notebook, a piece of lined paper, its words contained by several folds, and a nearly empty pen. Because I'm bad with respecting people's privacy, I opened the book and began to explore. I was taken aback with the talent of the writer, the composer rather. The books had been filled with music notes, all coming together to create what I estimated was about 37 songs. Each song could be envisioned. The emotion of the writer really showed. The songs were filled with meaning and love. Each song fit a certain mood, reminding me of The Beatles. You could not stop smiling one song, and the next you could be crying your heart out. I proceeded to read, until I was stopped by a photograph. I examined it carefully, my brain in shock. It was undoubtedly a photo of my kidnapper, with a woman, and a young boy, scarily resembling the terrified one I had seen earlier. The photographed one seemed happier and healthier. I didn't really want to believe that they were the same person. It hurt to think someone was hurt so badly, they went from being healthy to broken. I laid down on the indecent mattress, still scanning the photo, when I noticed words shining through the translucent photograph. I turned it over, curious as to what it would reveal, whether it would help me or not. I saw messy scrawl spell out a few simple words, that could reveal so many different things. Mom, Dad and I-2009. So the kidnapper, the sickly boy, and this woman were a family. To be fair, it did make sense. The resemblance of them all was definitely not a coincidence. I set the book down gently, fearing it would fall apart, and unwrapped the note carefully.

Don't be scared. Just come out back tomorrow when you hear a knock, and look for a guy in a black jacket xx

The first thing I noticed was how the penmanship resembled the photograph's caption, and the lyrics in the notebook. I began to piece the information together, trying to make sense of it all. The writer wrote the book, the note, and the photo caption. But who was the writer? There was something I was missing. I jotted the info on my hand with the cheap pen, and a name on the pen caught my eye. Damian. The writer was Damian. The evidence was there. I picked up the photo, desperately searching for the answers. I reread the caption. Mom, Dad, and I, 2009. "For God sakes, Emily. For being an honors student, sometimes I worried myself. The writer was Damian, the boy I had seen earlier.

As innocent as the note appeared, I couldn't help but be scared. I knew in my head he'd hurt me. Nobody could have that cruel of a father, and be a total sweetheart. As scary as it would be, accepting my fate and stepping outside into the brisk autumn air, waiting to be killed, it was better then whatever he had in store if I didn't show up. I decided to go. If I died, it'd be the quickest way out of here, and if I didn't, I'd either be hurt, or be under the protection of Damian. I wasn't safe here. I had to listen to what they said, or I'd be even more screwed than I already was. There comes a time, where you just have to trust yourself, and this was definitely my time. I was just hoping that my time wasn't going to be cut short.