HOSTAGE «18+»

☞Prologue☜

I hate life.

I really hate life.

I storm into my room, slamming the innocent door behind me, and plump myself on my bed in anger and pure devastation.

I take in ragged breaths after ragged breaths, my pulses drumming erratically as I try to wrap my head around how the events of today went south in a heartbeat. He broke up with me. That son of a bitch broke up with me. Oh wait, he was never into me. The idea was to sleep with me and then treat me like a filthy piece of gum stuck on the sole of his shoe right after.

He never liked me and I was a fool for falling. An helpless fool. What was I thinking? I'm only fourteen for crying out loud. What could I possibly know of love? I let myself get blinded by infatuation and as a reward, I let a scumbag laugh in my face literally two days after losing my virginity to him.

How could you be so stupid, Suzan! How could you?

Angry tears find their way out and the palpitation of my heart becomes painful with each pulse. Lying on my belly, I will the tears to stop as I try to keep my anger and emotions at bay or at least with a straight face, but I don't succeed with the task, unfortunately.

I liked him. I genuinely liked that scumbag. Why didn't he like me back? Am I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Even if I did, looking me dead in the eyes and telling me how cheap of a slut I was to be fucked by him was no way to treat a girl or anyone for that matter.

Ever since I experienced my menarche at the age of twelve, my virginity became my sense of pride. But meeting with Christopher today, thinking we were officially a thing only for my pride to lay shredded at his feet showed just how stupid I was to put my trust in him in the first place.

I'm hurt. Not physically, but I would definitely choose a sore bruise over this sort of pain. My sobs become more refined, throaty cries filling the vacuum of my room. Cycles of my eyes pooling, vision blurring, tears steaming down and back again, is interrupted by a soft knock on my door.

I know who it is. My mom's not home. She's never been. And I have no dad. He's not dead, not that I know for sure if he's alive. I just... never met him. Introducing to you, the spectacular me, Suzan Nworah, the product of an unwanted teenage pregnancy and a father who easily opted for denying me and absconding. Remember when I said I hate my life? I wasn't bluffing.

"Suzan, are you alright?" Annabelle softly asks from the other side of the door.

She could've chosen to enter since the door's lock is not in place but we both know it's better I'm left alone in this instance. I want to tell her to leave me be but a huge lump forms in my throat and just lodges there like a leach.

Not long, I hear faint steps moving away from the door and I breathe a sigh of relief. Thanks to the intrusion, I am a bit distracted from my gnawing thoughts so I wipe my wet face with little effort and sit up on the bed with my knees snuggled up to my chest.

It's twilight already and a redish light seeps into the room, the only intruder bold enough to keep me company. I stay in that lifeless position till darkness blankets the room with the moon being the only source of light, my tears now gone as well as my angry pants.

My desk stands right next to my bed and on it lays piles and piles of novels that didn't fit into my already stacked up book shelf which harbours more novels. I've been a typical book worm in the world of fiction since I could remember. What outstanding author's work have I not read? You name it.

Half of a yellow sun, Things fall apart, Hidden stars, Gifted hands, If tomorrow comes, Kane and Abel, Washington wives, Uptight, Onward virgin soldiers, She stoops to conquer, and lots of other books you can't even begin to imagine.

I've been a shy and antisocial kid growing up but I'm not totally withdrawn to myself as I have a number of friends besides Annabelle, my sister. Oh, and Anna and I are not genetically related. She's more or less a foster sibling, not to mention I've known her for just a year and half. She's a darling quite right but I've been sure to keep my distance. I just deem her a strange one. She's biracial and I guess her appearance does contribute to my biased prejudice but I can't shake the feeling.

I shake my head as if to clear away the thoughts while I grab my phone. Seconds later, I'm logging into Wattpad, an ebook community which I fell in love with ever since I stumbled upon it some months ago. Since then, I've easily opted to read books from the app rather than buy more random books from the bookshop.

Being in a world that revolves around fiction, adventures, thrills, romcom and other intriguing words a bookworm like me jumps at in excitement has always been my ordeal and I easily got addicted to it. A healthy addiction I mean.

I feel calmer than before but I still have the urge to vent out my anger onto something. So I finally find the courage to tap on the 'Create story' button and I quietly fill in the necessary details of this book idea that suddenly came to me out of nowhere. I do not budge from my ensconced position as my eyes fixates on the phone screen in total concentration.

Writing my own book after reading a gazillion of others was an idea that never really occured to me. But at this point, my mind is made up. This is my own way of stepping into the creative world. Some might say I came about it through my first love and just personal experience but that'll be hardly true. I have a number of authors I look up to who started out as pretty young teenagers and I do not deem age as a limitation either.

I would admit, this thing with Christopher... and Annabelle... and my mom and mostly me, is my biggest push to create my own art piece.

Hostage. That's it. Hostage.

A love hate story with a lot of dark turns and twists.

My first book, hostage would save me from reality as well as others like me. We all need some fictitious world to escape to, not necessarily through fictional characters only. Some get lost in painting, drawing, listening to music, singing, and anything that lessens the harsh breath of reality fanning our necks.

Although, this book would contain something worse, worse things happening to one person, just to make me feel a lot better. Just like horror movies. Horror movies make us grateful we don't have psychotic serial killers on the hunt for us.

Yes, hostage. Hostage would be my own escape from my reality, and others like or less like me from their's.

Chapter one...