He gave me sixty seconds to hide. It took me thirty. Curled up in the corner of the closet, I try to keep my breathing as even as I can, and the shaking to a minimum – the less noise I make, the better, though I should know better, I’ll never win; I never do. It’s been ninety-two days and nobody has come. I belong to him now. I hear his boots on the wooden floor, each step getting louder as he gets closer. I squeeze my eyes closed, holding my breath. A chill creeps up my spine. My hair hangs limply as tears race one another down my face. He’s seven steps away now. Five. Three. One. The footsteps stopped and the door creaks open, “My dear Mary, I’ve found you.”
My name is not Mary. It’s Elizabeth.
Write with Alice 