I was nineteen, at a club partying with my friends, and my phone started buzzing and flashing with a phone call. It was my roommate/best friend, Renée. I answer my and I heard her familiar voice on the other end. "Hey Chloe, come home. I have a surprise." I was confused, and reply: "Renée, you know I hate secrets. Please tell me?"
"Alright. I looked up some recipes online, and... Surprise, I made cookies!"
She was right about two things; work has been stressful lately, and the fact that Renée, of all people, made cookies was a surprise. "Ok, I'll be home soon. I'm going to take the bus."
"Be safe. Down town at night can be pretty scary."
"I'll be ok. Bye." She hung up the phone. I check the bus schedule online, but I just missed the bus by five minutes. "Shit." I mutter under my breath. "I guess I'll just walk then." I say to no one in particular. Walking three and a half kilometres in four inch heels was going to be hell, but then I remembered that there are starving kids in Africa, without four inch heels. I decided to suck it up, because they probably don't have shoes at all. Trying to push the thought of dying children from my mind, I realized that I was being followed. About forty feet behind me, a dark ominous figure quickens it's pace, and I did just the same. A night of fun and leisure replaced by a desperate run for my life. Fear replaces panic, and I try to sprint, but my unfortunate choice of footwear slows me greatly. I fumble with my phone, trying to dial my room mate's number, but drop my phone in the mad dash to safety. I spot a small coffee shop up ahead, but much to my dismay, it seems to be closed with no lights on and no apparent sign of life at all. My follower is in better shape than expected, and in seconds he catches up and pins me to the hard concrete, knocking the wind out of me. His breath smelling strongly of alcohol, he says though grit teeth and a smile on his face: "Ain't you lookin fine tonight, darlin? Where ya been?" He looks in his late twenties or early thirties. Trying to collect myself, I managed to work up a mouth of spit and say "That's none of your business, jackass!" As I spit all the saliva on to his red face, I realize that I am going to die. He takes a gag and stuffs it in my mouth, and when that unpleasant job is done, he takes two zip ties and attaches my hands together. My attacker throws me in to the back of a black van that seems to come out of nowhere and yells to the driver to step on it. After a few seconds of screaming, I give up hope and stop struggling with my hands. The vehicle stops, and even though the windows are extremely tinted, I manage to make out a figure that looks relatively like a house, or a building. I felt dizzy as a large pair of hands reached and pulled me out of the van effortlessly, as if I weighed as much as a rag doll. He says something inaudible in a gruff voice, then brings me inside. The place reeks of mildew, and the dizziness that I felt earlier is incomparable to the vertigo I feel now. The gag that was restraining me is removed, but my hands circulation continues to be cut off. I scream louder than I ever have, but he covers my mouth with a grimy hand. My kidnapper looked triumphant, as he selects a knife from an extensive collection. Out of all the knifes he could of picked, he picks a switchblade, probably to inflict the most pain before I actually die. He promptly cuts the skin on my face. I imagine the long lines that will mark my face permanently. I scream in agony and despair, then putting the blade down, he selects a long dagger, which he quickly plunges straight into my heart. The damp room is fading, and the last thing I think of is the cookies made with thought and care, a gift from my best friend that I will never get to eat. And that's the story of how I died. The first time.
