My name is Emily Young. I am sixteen years old. In one hour I will be dead.
When I was young I assumed I would one day be old. Maybe I am old; after all I’ve lived more in the last year than most people do in a life time. I feel old. Old, tired and desperate to sleep. I won’t have to wait for sleep much longer. Sixty minutes left to live and I’m determined to be awake for every one of them. I’ve now been awake for just over 51 hours, another fifty nine minutes won’t hurt.
I was going to direct films. That was always the ultimate dream for me; my vision, idea, inspiration coming to life. I’d have a whole team of people behind me to boss around and, with them, I would create new worlds to inspire all different people. I would work until I’d saved enough money and gained enough reputation to move to America where I would direct several low budget films before making it big. Let me tell you: Hollywood is missing out.
55 minutes to go.
The room I am in is surprisingly nice. It’s clean, at least, and is very slightly off white in colour. There is a bed which I am sat on and a desk with a chair in the opposite corner. Both are white. The room is fairly small, about four medium paces width ways and a little larger in length, but the colour (or lack of) and sparseness gives the impression of a lot of space. It’s been my home for the last two days and there really isn’t much to look at apart from a questionable brown stain on one corner of the ceiling and a white cat flap at the bottom of the locked door, just large enough to occasionally pass through a bottle of water, a slice of bread and a container to do my ‘business’ in. The lack of interesting items to look at in the room leaves me plenty of room for unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts about him…
49 minutes to go.
I’m still not sure how I feel about him now. A part of me doesn’t even blame him, I can even see it from his perspective. Almost. I love him. I think I always will, although that doesn’t exactly mean a lot since my always has been considerably shortened to about 48 minutes. I hate him, too. I hate him for what he’s already done to me, but I hate him more for what he’s going to do to me today. I hate him for using me, for lying to me and for manipulating me. Mostly, though, I just hate myself for letting him use me, lie to me and manipulate me. I hate myself because I still love him, even now.
43 minutes to go.
Less than three quarters of an hour left. The minutes are really racing. I’m not ready to die. Not yet.
40 minutes to go.
I really am very tired… Death doesn’t seem half as scary when you’re this exhausted…
38 minutes to go.
Maybe if I just close my eyes. Just for a moment…
5 minutes to go.
I wake with a start at the sound of a lock turning. I can’t believe I let so many precious seconds be wasted on sleep; after all, soon I’ll have all of eternity to doze. I wait for the door to creak open slowly like in a horror movie. It doesn’t. It opens swiftly and silently like any normal door would. Very un-dramatic for the last door I’ll ever walk through.
4 minutes to go.
I take my time looking up at the person who opened the door. I already know it’s not him though. I can see the persons shoes and they’re big, dirty, black boots. The kind of boots someone would wear if they were dressing up as an exaggerated biker. If he were there I’d probably be looking at a pair of converse shoes. Or maybe not even a pair, probably one purple the other lime green. I finally look at the owner of the boots and he’s definitely not dressed up. Spikes, skulls and leather cover every inch of skin, but more imposing than this is the gleefulness in his piggy eyes.
3 minutes to go.
I wonder what he sees in my eyes. Terror? Hopelessness? Sadness? Maybe even anticipation at seeing him again? I don’t know any more.
“Ya ain’t gunna do anyfin stoopid now is you’s” He demands,
“No.” I reply, because I’m not. He then walks outside and I follow. It’s dusk outside and I’m freezing in the plain T shirt and jeans I arrived in. It’s a shame, I really wanted to feel the sun on my skin one last time. The nameless biker man points at a large red cross spray painted on the concrete floor, and I stand on it and wait.
2 minutes to go.
I can see him now. He’s walking towards me from a building opposite the one I just came from. His dark hair is blowing in the wind and I can see Goosebumps all up his arms. He, too, is wearing only jeans and a T shirt. It’s the Angry Birds shirt- I was with him when he bought that. I look at his feet and, sure enough he’s wearing converse shoes. Both are red (he didn’t feel like mixing and matching today). I want to feel something, anything, but I’m just numb. Finally he stops, just a few paces away from me. I draw my eyes upwards, taking in his familiar slim legs, his skinny but faintly muscled torso, his long arms, his angular jaw line, his ghostly pale skin and, saving best till last, his ocean eyes. Today they are stormy blue. I want this to be the last thing I ever see. My last memory.
1 minute to go.
Slowly he raises the gun in his right hand and points it directly at my heart.
How did I get here?
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