So, here's finally the third version of the prologue.
I'm really sorry it's taken so long - I've been letting myself get distracted by other stuff ...
Next update will take a while. School's kicking me around the place, and I have tons of stuff to do for that, so I don't have a lot of time to continue writing. But I'll try to do it as soon as possible!
I hope this version is an improvement to the other one. If yes, I'm happy. If not, let me know what I can change.
Again, please look for any grammar/spelling mistakes or weird sentence structure
Reviews/Criticisms/Comments are much appreciated!
Hugs and kisses,
MySunshine
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You kept me alive - Prologue [Third Edited Version]
It was the end of a long day of practice – of going through her performance for the next competition, perfecting all the jumps and spins and spirals on ice – and Alizée Carson was looking forward to an relaxing evening with her boyfriend Peter.
Just as she packed her ice skates into her training bag, her phone buzzed loudly in her pocket, telling her she'd just received a message.
Ali, remember, you're supposed to come over tonight ; ) If you do forget, I'm gonna be crushed and will probably screw up at the hockey game tomorrow. Don't want that to happen, right? So see you later. Love you, P.
Smiling, she texted him back that no, this time she wouldn't forget and was just about to head out.
“See you tomorrow, guys,” she called and exited the ice rink.
The night was warm for a night in early winter, and she decided to take the route through the park, although it was known to be a dangerous place, especially at this time of the day. But she enjoyed walking through the park and it was a shortcut to Peter's.
There were only a few weak street lamps lightening up the dark, and the slight breeze made the shadows of the trees dance around as if they were alive. As far as she could tell, she was the only one there.
Straightening the strap of her training bag over her shoulder, she hummed the melody of the song she had chosen for her performance. Even after years of ice skating, she still thought it odd that hours of practice could make her feel so much at ease. Especially now that she'd won various important competitions in figure skating and the press had taken interest in her, she found peace just by gliding on the ice.
However, that didn't mean her feet were okay after she'd practiced her moves on ice for six hours with barely any breaks. Spotting a bench nearby, she made a beeline for it, sat down and took off her sneakers to massage them.
A sound somewhere close to her caused her to freeze, but there was nothing. Shrugging, she continued massaging, and wondered what Peter was up to.
He had been acting strange for a while. Well, not strange exactly, but very suspicious. Sometimes, she caught him looking at her in a weird way, but he always denied that when she mentioned it. Other times, she had the feeling he and Nora, her best friend, had conspired against her, because they were always on the phone with each other, their voices low and hushed, or sitting closely together, whispering into each other's ears and stopping immediately when she entered the room.
That made her extremely curious, but Peter was good at keeping secrets and wouldn't tell her. Was it something for their three-year-anniversary, maybe? It was only a few weeks away, but they had agreed to stick to a romantic dinner, so she thought it unlikely.
He and Nora weren't having an affair behind her back, then, were they?
She mentally shook her head, calling herself an idiot. Her family and friends always told her how obvious Peter's love for her was, and it was apparent to her, as well. There was no way …
Attempting to get that disturbing thought out of her head, she decided to go through her routine again as best as she could here.
Humming the tune, she closed her eyes and twisted and turned, minus the glides on the ice in between. She was almost done when her phone rang.
It was Peter.
“Ali, where are you?” The worry was apparent in his voice. “I thought you were coming over right after practice. You're almost an hour late.”
Surprised, she took a look at her watch – it was indeed nearly nine o'clock. “I'm sorry, Peter, I totally forgot the time. I was practicing a little more in the park, but I'll be-”
“At the park? Ali, it's nine, it's dark and I'm pretty sure no one else is around. What are you thinking? You know it's dangerous there, especially at night.”
“Alright,” she sighed. “I'll be on my way now.”
“No, stay,” Peter told her. “I'll just come pick you up. Do not move an inch, and do not talk to anybody until I'm there, okay?”
She sighed again. “Okay, Peter.”
“Good. See you then. Love you.” He hung up.
Knowing him, he would probably be here in half the time it would usually take – approximately twenty minutes.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw someone walk in her direction, but she put it off as someone who had also decided to take a walk. About to pick up her bag, she stopped again when she heard a male voice.
“What's a pretty girl like you doing here at this time?”
Her eyes scanned her environment, but there was only that person she had vaguely seen just a minute ago. He continued walking towards her now, but she chose to ignore him and meet Peter.
She took her bag in her hand and turned around, only to find him suddenly stand there, barely a feet away, looming like a tower over her. He was dressed exclusively in black, his dark hair falling almost into his eyes, the shadow of the night concealing most of his face.
“You shouldn't be out so late. Something might happen to you,” he continued, and she noticed the almost ironic undertone in his voice. An amused glint appeared in his eyes. “Don't you have someone worrying about you?”
She was too scared to answer and she knew she couldn't run from him. With his long legs and agile built, he would catch her easily, and besides, she felt immobilized. She doubted her feet would move, even if she wanted them to.
Where is Peter, she thought frantically. He would be able to help her, fight that stranger off without difficulty. Where is Peter?
Slowly, the amusement in his eyes vanished and was replaced with a coldness that sent a shiver down her spine. He raised his hand, and the lamplight caught on the object he held in his hand, an object she hadn't seen before. A gun.
She opened her mouth to scream, even got her feet to moving away, but his free hand shot out with blinding speed, gripping her wrist, at the same time she felt a blinding pain explode in her head that plunged her into darkness.
***
Voices penetrated the fog in her head. They seemed to come from far away, and she tried to shake of the drowsiness to be able to hear, but it didn't help.
“Wake up, Ali,” a teasing male voice said. “I have a surprise for you.” She instinctively shrank away, but found her arms were tied and she couldn't move. What was happening?
The voice spoke again. “Wake up.”
No, she wanted to say, even scream, but she couldn't find her voice. It felt as if her tongue was glued to the mouth, as if the word got stuck somewhere in her throat.
What was she doing here? Why was she tied up? Everything from the time after the mysterious man in the park had knocked her unconscious to now was a blur. Only bits and pieces of unbelievable pain inside her head, in her arms, her wrists and the pit of her stomach. It was like a completed puzzle that had been destroyed again.
She managed to open her eyes, and after a few blinks, her vision cleared and she found herself on a large bed, surrounded by little fluffy pillows. A soft blanket was covering her. Confused, she took in her environment; the room was rather large – it was painted in a dark blue color, the closet and old-fashioned desk of heavy oak adding to the rather bleak atmosphere.
There was a small TV at the foot of the bed that was set on a low table, its screen and case layered with dust. A show of sorts had been paused.
She noticed bags full of fluid and little bottles, as well as a half-filled water bottle, on the nightstand to her right. Two bags were hanging on a pole that was standing next to the bed, the tubes leading to her hand.
Finally, her gaze fell on the man sitting at the edge of her bed, regarding her with an interested, vaguely satisfied smile. It was the first time she saw him in light – or at least she didn't remember seeing him before – and somehow, surprisingly, she couldn't take her eyes off him. His hair was a dark brown, slightly wavy and mussed, his eyes of a light gray color that made her think of death. He sported a mustache on his upper lip, and a faint scar run along his left cheek from his jaw to his eyebrow.
He smiled at her. “Hello, Ali.”
How do you know my name?, she thought, even felt her lips moving in sync with the words, but nothing came out. What was wrong with her?
The smile grew wider. “So you can't speak? Interesting.” He took out a small notebook and a pen and wrote something down. “Do you think it's because you haven't talked for a long time, or because of something else?”
She just stared at him, his questions confusing her.
“Something else,” he answered the question himself and scribbled again. Then he put the notebook away and focused his attention on her. “I guess I should reduce the amount of the medications,” he told her, his voice amiable, as if he were talking about the weather. “You've been slipping in and out, and even when you were conscious, you were too drugged to notice anything. But now your head's clear, right?”
Not knowing what else to do, she nodded her head.
“I have a surprise for you,” he repeated his earlier words. Picking up the remote control of the TV, he pressed a button and the screen turned blue. At the same time, the VCR came to life with a buzzing sound. “I recorded it, seeing that you wouldn't have been able to see it in your condition. I thought you might like to see the news.”
He pointed to the TV and she heard the familiar melody of the local news channel.
The man fast forwarded the first few notifications. When he pressed 'Play' again, she saw a picture of herself that must have been taken during one of her performances.
"One month has passed and there is still no news concerning the disappearance of Alizée Carson, young and famous figure skater, who was last seen on December 1st near Haysfield Park in Chicago, Illinois. Her boyfriend, hockey player Peter Mills, had found her training bag abandoned near a park bench and called the police ..."
One month? She had been gone for a whole month?
The news reporter continued. This time, it showed Peter in his hockey jersey. "Peter Mills, left winger of the Chicago Blackhawks, has just announced his return to the NHL. Mills had taken off the past month to dedicate his time to the search of Alizée Carson that, as of now, is futile."
The screen went black again.
“Interesting, isn't it?” the man asked. “I thought so. You're probably wondering what you're doing here and why I chose you. I'll tell you,” he continued without actually waiting for her answer. “You're my test subject. As a soon-to-be doctor, I should know all effects of all medications, right? I'm testing it on you, but don't worry – I did some research on all the meds I'm using to prevent overdosing you, and as further prevention, I make sure to give you only a minimum.”
Test subject? If she were able to, she would have attacked him. He was abusing and drugging her to see her reaction to it? A hysterical laugh bubbled up, and she barely managed to swallow it back. He might write hysteria down as a side effect, she thought to herself, the hysteria giving way to bitterness.
“You're just perfect for it – young, healthy, athletic. I checked your background,” he added, obviously satisfied with the 'progress'. His next words seemed to be more for himself, not for her to hear, “I wonder whether you'll still be able to do figure skating after this.”
She tried to cling to that – if he wondered whether she would still be able to do figure skating, he must be thinking of letting her go sooner or later.
The ring of the doorbell sounded deafening in the otherwise silent room.
The man got up and watched her for a while. “I'm going to go downstairs and see who that is. I don't have to lock the door, do I? I don't mind that, but I'd rather not. If you promise me to be a good girl and keep silent, I'll leave the door open and let you clear your head. I think it'd be better if I let the drugs wear off – as I said, I don't want to overdose you.” He waited for a moment. “So, do you promise?”
Instead of answering, she strained against the ropes around her wrists, trying to tell him without words to loosen them, but they chafed on her skin, causing waves of fiery pain to explode from her wrist and spread all over her body. She bit back a scream.
He sounded almost apologetic when he said, “I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I promise, though, that I'll take care of your wounds there when I'm back.”
He was already gone when she noticed he hadn't waited for her answer and left the door open anyways. She strained her ears to hear – she could make out two male voices, but couldn't really distinguish them from each other as they sounded too alike, and she couldn't understand what they were saying.
She heard the sound of footsteps – as far as she could tell, both men were coming upstairs. Panic took over. Did he mean to show her off? Show the 'progress' of his study?
“You could have told me” - this time, she recognized the voice of the soon-to-be-doctor -, “and I would have brought the script over to you.”
The other voice seemed to be vaguely familiar and, compared to the doctor's, had a more comforting, soothing tone to it. She couldn't really explain it, except that while she thought of pain and agony when she heard the doctor's voice, this one made her think of safety and sanctuary.
The footsteps and voices faded away, so she assumed they were moving away from her. Should she do something? Scream for help or at least make a sound for the 'guest' to know she was there? This was the first time she was awake and had an opportunity to get help.
But what if that didn't work? What if the other guy already knew about her, strangely enough approved of this, and didn't care? That doctor-guy had told her he would pump her full of drugs if she tried anything. But wasn't it worth a try?
She looked around herself to find something that would make some noise and that she was able to reach. Her gaze locked on the little bottles on the nightstand and the pole with the fluid bags, but she wouldn't be able to upset them – she could barely move her hands. That only left the bed and herself, because she still couldn't find her voice.
She arched her back and writhed around as best as she could, but disappointingly, the bed didn't creak at all. For a moment, she lay there, staring up at the ceiling and even contemplating to give up and just let that doctor-guy do with her what he wanted to. But then she saw Peter's face before her – remembered how he'd always smiled at her and then the bleak and desperate look on his face in the news. She wanted to try, at least once, for him.
She threw her head back to examine the ropes and was shocked to see that the skin on her wrist was chafed to the point it was bleeding from several wounds. Her body – especially her neck – protested soon against this position and there was already a crick in her neck, as well.
The two men were coming back – she could hear them talking again. In an desperate attempt to attract the attention of the doctor's friend, she tugged hardly at the ropes and the same fiery pain from earlier shot out. A moan escaped her lips.
Silence. Then, “What was that?”
“What do you mean?” the doctor asked, but it was apparent he knew what she was up to.
“Didn't you hear that? It was something like a moan.”
“What?” he said with a laugh, but she could detect traces of anger beneath the friendly tone. “You must be overtired, buddy. Go home and get a good rest.”
She wanted to scream in frustration when they went downstairs. However, the frustration was soon replaced with fear when she heard the ominous sound of footsteps coming back up.
He stood at the door, the glint in his eyes resembling the one he'd had in the park. “What did I tell you?” There was no trace of friendliness left – only coldness. “You made him suspicious, and we can't have that.”
He moved to her nightstand, picked up one of the bottles and an injection and filled the latter with discomfortingly much liquid. As he made an attempt to inject it into her bloodstream, she tried to move away, but of course, that was impossible. He gripped her arm, straightened it and pushed the needle deep into the bend of her arm.
Almost immediately, she could feel something like a heavy blanket settling over her. Her eyes drooped, then closed.
Just before blackness completely swallowed her, she heard his voice: “Sleep well, Ali.”
Also, I wouldn't have guessed at all that English wasn't your first language; this was brilliantly written, so I really admire your advance knowledge of a second language 
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