This is a series of short stories that is constantly being updated.
Basically, I see something on Pinterest and I get inspiration. My first drafts are always in the comments of the pin but I edit them and post them here!
It doesn't matter what order...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
[photo not mine, taken from Pinterest: @Lifelightthepoet]
WARNINGS: Swearing
Tied Hands
It is dark in here.
I can feel the rope around our wrists.
I can feel the skin of Orlando's hand on mine. His back pressed to my shoulders. I tilt my head back in between his shoulder blades and take a breath.
"It's okay, Gena, baby, it's going to be okay," He whispers through the dark.
How did we end up here?
Tears threaten to fall, stinging my eyes. "It's not, baby, it's not. They're going to kill us," I shakily say.
"I won't let them," he says, stronger than he really is.
'They' are his family. 'They' are people we left years ago when I was 17 and Orlando was 18. We left them because they are dangerous: dealing drugs and selling guns. We left them to protect ourselves. To start fresh. We have a new life. We've got married. We're starting a family.
As I think that, I feel the familiar wave of sickness wash over me. I groan and I feel Orlando tense. He knows.
"Gena, we're going to get out of here, for us, for baby-" He's stopped by a door opening.
Lights blind me and I see his 'dad' enter the room. I go still at the sight of him: older now, greying.
He walks further into the room, stepping around me so he can see his son. I can't see what is happening, only hear.
"Orlando..." he begins, pleasantly as if talking on the sidewalk. "So long, son, since you last saw me. Not so long since I last saw you." I feel my husband straighten his back, squaring up to his face his dad. "Yes, I have been following you," he continues.
"What are you going to do?" Orlando asks, hiding how much he is shaking.
I hear his dad take a step closer to him. "I'll start with your wife," he spits.
Me. He'll start with me.
"YOU WON'T TOUCH GENA," Orlando shouts. I see my father-in-law move to my side. He moves his leather jacket to reveal a gun. "DON'T TOUCH HER." Orlando's voice echoes through the room.
I begin to panic. We have no one who will save us like in the movies. We only have ourselves.
His dad takes the gun from its pouch, takes the safety off and fires it. I jump and Orlando is shouting again.
![[photo not mine, taken from Pinterest: @Lifelightthepoet]](https://img.wattpad.com/b251a152bc5865945a8b7c575382e196fa0deab9/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f637a756c4a3450654749755159673d3d2d313135343431323233342e313662373838653262623062663733623631353437333637303937322e6a7067?s=fit&w=720&h=720)
