It's called "Found." and it's fiction.
I don’t understand the appeal of jeans. They’re so hard to run in, yet everybody wears them. I mean, there I was, running for my life, trying to escape, trying to pump my legs as fast as they could carry me, and the entire time I’m thinking “jeans are fucking stupid.” They’re heavy, constricting, and maybe if I’d worn sweats instead Levis that day, I could have gotten away. Instead, the guys caught up. They grabbed me and bound up my limbs, and forced a gag into my mouth. As they were throwing me into the back of the van, all I could think of was how stupid jeans are, and that if I lived through this, I’d never wear jeans again. Ever.
They say that a common fear is fear of the unknown. I used to think of stumbling around a pitch-black house, never knowing some beast is just inches away from my outstretched fingers. I think differently now. Fear of the unknown is not knowing where I’ll be in five minutes; it's the future that frightens me. At the time, I had no clue where the van was going or whose hand was throwing a sack over my head. Yeah, that was pretty scary. But you can fill that in easily with guesswork and assumptions, y’know? Fear of the unknown. Whatever. See, the bit that really scared the shit out of me was not knowing whether I was going to live or die. That, and if death was going to hurt a little, or a lot.
What does time look like to you? A line? A chart? Some cultures think of time as a circle- a repetition of events that has no beginning and no end. When did I start living for my parents? I do not recall a time when they did not influence my actions. I do not remember making the decision to dedicate my soul to them. My parents, and the community, had made that decision for me- before I was even born. So you see, I had no actual beginning. I did not see myself as the sole being that dwelled inside my body. I was made up of different people, all blending in to form a being named Erica. I was the daughter of my mother, the sister of my brother, the girlfriend of my boyfriend, the owner of my dog. I could not identify myself except by identifying with other people. I was totally dependent on another being for proving that I actually existed. I know, it’s pretty frickin’ sad, isn’t it? Time was not a line back then. Lines go places. They travel and cover distance and can go in any direction they damn well please. A circle is doomed to visit the same sights over and over and over for all eternity, without end. I was too stupid, then, to realize what little hope I had of ever breaking free. I was so used to repetition that the very notion of something unexpected happening was enough to scare me shitless. Every day brought the mounting feeling that sometime soon, something was going to reach out and grab me from my circle. Like snatching a child off a merry-go-round.
This is how I ended up staying home that day. The day I met my future kidnappers. I was sitting up in bed, absolutely terrified. I was scared that today was going to be exactly like yesterday, and then I was beginning to suspect that yesterday was a carbon copy of the day before. I could not remember what day of the week it was, because they were all exactly alike. I think it was Thursday, because I was thinking of wearing sandals, and I liked wearing sandals when I didn’t have gym- which was not on Thursdays. The whole thing was just plain scary. My mom tapped gently on my door, and looked in.
“Honey? Are you getting up?” I felt dazed.
“Mom, I feel really…” Hopeless. Yeah, how would that sound? “Sorry mom, I just realized my life is utterly meaningless by itself, can I stay home to meditate?” I’d be carted off to therapy with our pastor in a flash. Mom walked in and felt my forehead.
“You look kind of pale.”
“…Yeah,” I murmured weakly,
“My cramps are like, out of control.” Ok, here’s the important part. You’ve GOT to make eye contact when you lie. “Can I stay home, just for today? There’s no tests, and my chemistry presentation isn’t scheduled until next week.” And then before she could speak,
“Please, mom.” Place hands on abdomen, look like a dog about to be shot. She looked hard at me. You could see the choices being weighed. On one hand, academics. On the other, her poor baby was suffering from what felt like a porcupine rolling around inside her.
“Sure honey, let me call the school. Do you want a heating pad?”
“Thank you, mom.” She’d be gone in an hour.
By 8:30 I was laying, belly down, on my bedroom floor. The laptop was bathing me in it's welcoming glow. Oh, and I felt perfectly peachy by the way. Physically.
I should have gone to school. I should have stayed on Facebook, and that's it. I shouldn't have wandered around the Internet like a child at a closed down theme park. At night. There were things out there that a girl like me was not ready for, that my upbringing hadn't readied me for.
My name is Erica, and I was 16 years old then. I believed everyone, no matter what lies they fed me. I trusted everyone, because everybody trusted me. That's usually how people get fucked over, isn't it? In this case, fucked over meant getting kidnapped.
The plot interests me and I like the way your character thinks/ describes things.