I'm shivering now, goosebumps rising on my arms. I know that it isn't because of the balmy October day, though. I open the door as slowly as possible, trying to keep the rusty hinges from creaking as I push it inch by inch. The hinges, of course, refuse to cooperate and instead produce a creak so loud they can probably hear it in space. I really need to get around to oiling them. I swear my laziness will be the death of me.

Hoping the intruder didn't hear, I step inside and wince at the loud noise of my heeled boots on the hardwood floor. I slowly slip my shoes off and set them by the entryway sofa, hoping to quiet my footsteps. I grab one of the many baseball bats from the closet, one of the improvements my Dad made to the house to keep me safe before he disappeared. My toes feel frozen and the inside of my mouth resembles the Sahara. With all the energy I can muster, I keep my steps quiet—one, two, one, two—I count in my mind. The stairwell seems colder, or maybe it's just because of fear. I don't dare to turn the lamp on, so the only light comes from a window at the top. One, two, one, two—

The wood beneath the carpet groans and I freeze. Maybe the intruder didn't hear? I listen intently but my strained ears don't pick up even a flutter of noise.

The intruder didn't hear. The intruder doesn't know where I am. I repeat my chant of reassurance all the way up the stairs, abandoning my footstep count. At the top, I step on the landing, breathing a too loud sigh of relief. You aren't safe yet, Kyla, I remind myself.

Hefting the sparkly pink baseball bat over my shoulder, I raise my voice and address the silent house. My voice echoes through the rooms. I wait a moment for an answer but none comes. Not even a rustle. I guess it's to be expected though. Intruders don't typically make a habit of being noisy. The whole breaking in unnoticed thing isn't helped by noise. It doesn't matter how loud the intruder is in this case though. I know someone's here. I didn't leave the door unlocked. I make my way down the hallway, peering into each room looking for something out of place. Everything's clear. I peek into my office and freeze. There's a figure standing by my desk. I raise my bat, arms shaking, and race toward the figure. The motion activated lights turn on as I run and I stop halfway. I laugh softly when I realize it's just the coat rack. I exit the room and go towards my bedroom. I'm pretty sure if the intruder is still here, they'll be there. I finally reach my bedroom, and walk inside. I glance out the window to see if the intruder is outside, when all of a sudden there is a flurry of movement.

I whip around to see a tall guy who's probably old enough to be my dad, maybe even a few years older. He must have been hiding behind the door. Crud. I'm getting robbed. Why else would he need to hide? Opening my mouth to scream, I'm stopped by his hands placed over my mouth, which appear out of nowhere. Crud. I drop the baseball bat in surprise. Shoot, there go my only defenses. I can't scream, I have no clue how to hit him hard enough without injuring myself. What am I going to do now?

"Hello, Kyla." My eyes widen. He knows my name. My breaths come faster behind his hands, but I feel like I'm not getting any oxygen. "Please do not scream. I am not going to hurt you but do not scream. I will explain why I am here if I can trust you. Can I?" he asks, his voice quiet, and not at all what I would expect for a robber. Then again, I don't expect robbers to have an English accent, either.

I nod my head slowly, not taking my eyes off of him. The creep is asking me to trust him? I'm not the one who broke into a stranger's house. Trust is a privilege, and he hasn't done one thing to earn it. "Splendid. I am going to take my hands off of your mouth now. Do you promise not to scream?"

Another nod. Don't upset the robber, Kyla. Don't be an idiot. You don't want to die, do you?

Slowly and carefully he removes his hands. I furiously rub my mouth to get the weird feeling to disappear. His hands better have been clean. Throwing all caution to the wind, I decide to scream. Better killed in my own house than dead wherever he decides to take me.

I open my mouth but before any sound can escape, he's covered it with a strip of duct tape. When did he even rip it off the roll? It doesn't matter now, because I'm already completely screwed. He tapes my hands behind my back next.

"I must not have made myself clear," he says coldly. "I wanted you not to scream." He cocks his head, studying me. "Maybe you didn't know, but I hate people who can't follow orders.

He wipes his hands on the crisp fabric of his expensive looking black jeans. Odd for him to be robbing me. Those pants look like they cost more than my entire wardrobe, and he's treating them like a napkin. I don't even think they sell any expensive clothing in this town. I wonder why he would have broken in to steal my cruddy stuff.

"I didn't think that I'd have to use the duct tape." He frowns. "I really hate that stuff. Nothing screams kidnapping like a roll of duct tape." He shakes his head sadly. "Not much I can do to be discreet now."

All I can do is glare, but my heart is thumping a million miles per hour, trying to beat its way out of my chest. He isn't robbing me, but at the moment I'd rather be robbed. Anything's better than the alternative.

Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision of the man. I can hear him digging in my dresser. The reality of the situation hits me, knocking the wind out of me. I'm getting kidnapped.

I try to hold them in, but the tears come out like an uproar. The beads of water started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. I jerk my wrists apart harshly and try to scream, but the gag stops it. The muffled sobs hurt my chest. I'm going to die. The pain is fresh, horrible. It rips into my soul with the strength to erase all my rational thought. All I can do is silently cry. And I do.Follow

The man suddenly whirls around, hearing something. I must have sniffed. "Stop crying," he says menacingly. Each syllable is cold and clipped. I take one last jerky breath, but I force the tears to stop rolling down my face. Instead they sting my eyes.

He pulls some plastic out of his pocket and secures it around my wrists. Zip ties. "Ah. Zip ties." He looks pleased with himself. "Much better than duct tape. Anyone can escape from that shiny stuff. It doesn't hold a candle to zip ties."

He grabs my bound hands and hauls me to my feet, roughly. The action hurts my wrist, and I wish I could rub the pain away. "Here's how this is going to work. I am going to ask you some yes or no questions. You will shake your head for no, or you will nod your head for yes. If you don't—" He reaches one hand into his coat pocket and retrieves a handgun. "You will find yourself rather up close and personal with Mr. Glock." He puts the gun back in his pocket. "Is that clear?"

I slowly nod my head.

"Good." He smiles. "It's much easier this way. For you and me. Do you think you can walk down the stairs like that?"

I appraise the situation. My hands are tied, but my feet have no restraints. It'll be hard to balance, but I should be able to make it down the stairs. I nod.

"Perfect. I didn't want to have to carry you." He looks me up and down. "You'd be too heavy to carry comfortably, and I don't want to have to do too much work." Out comes the gun again, and I notice how comfortably he holds it. "We're going out the backdoor. You can go first."

I don't move, unsure if I'm supposed to move yet. He gestures towards the stairs. "I though I already said this, and I hate repeating myself. You. Go. First."

I stumble forward and down the stairs. Every creak of the wood brings me farther away from safety, and closer to my doom.

I reach the bottom of the stairs only seconds before him. "Stay," he commands. Going over to the door he grabs my boots. "Sit on the stairs."

I comply and he puts my boots on, even tucking my long socks down under the top of them. I would have admired how thoughtful he was if he wasn't a dirty criminal.

He straightens, then pulls me up by my wrists again, the zipties rubbing against the skin. "Outside."

I drag my feet towards the back door. My steps slow when I spot the white van parked on the cement. I really should have a gate on my backyard. He probably just drove the car right in. He moves ahead of me and slides open the back door.

"Get in." My heart sinks, and I freeze. He rolls his eyes. "This is why I despise nabbing teenagers. All of them are so frozen with fear they aren't even able to get in the van." He picks my rigid body up and sits me in the van. The cold metal chills me through my leggings. He grabs more zipties out of his pocket and secures my legs. Then he attaches my zip tied hands to a metal ring on the wall. I wonder how many others have been tied to that same ring.

"Hope you aren't afraid of the dark," he says, covering my head with a sack. I hear the door slide closed. My eyes scan the woven fabric for a hole, but find none. I guess this isn't a story. I'm not going to miraculously find that he didn't secure the cuffs enough, or that there's a hole in the fabric just big enough for me to see.

It's reality. So all I'm going to get is a pair of chafed wrists, a bag that smells like sweat, and the magical experience of being held at gunpoint.

Reality sucks.

A door opens and shuts, shaking the van along with it and jolting my wrists. The vehicle rumbles into action. We start to drive.

God how old is this stupid bag? It smells gross: like sweat and something else that's damp and slightly sweet. It's vaguely chemical. Wait, aren't there chemicals that knock you out? I curse. The bag's probably drugged. I know I hit the nail on the head when I feel myself dragged into unconsciousness.