Kidnap, torture, kill, repeat. That's how this serial killer rolls. So, what does it take for one boy to escape his horrifying captivity?
It takes guts!
Best friends, Kevin and Josh, are trying to juggle college classes while finding a way to launch...
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Kevin's POV:
17 minutes ago - 7:53 PM:
A loud thud followed douchebag's fall in the bathroom.
Dammit! Why do they always fall on their backs? Now I can't reach his gun. Whatever. Now's my chance to fight.
I got extra nervous when the battle actually began. He was grimacing in pain with his eyes shut closed. I quickly stepped closer, holding the broken towel bar up. I tried poking one of the human body's weakest points, the eyes, but he opened his eyes and swiftly got a hold of my weapon, right before it hit its target.
Oh, crap.
That simple melee attack left me panting, tired, and scared as hell. At first, I thought about just giving up. I'm too weak to fight anyway, but then I remembered his latest threats:
"Never try to pull a fast one on me, ever again, or else."
"I like you. Just as long as you don't cross me."
"I'm gonna TEAR YOU APART in ways you can't even imagine."
"Remember, I don't like to be fooled."
"I'm gonna give you one last chance to lower that stick down."
It was too late for me to back out now. He wouldn't forgive me this time.
I tried to get the bar back, but I couldn't even budge it because of his strong grip, or my weak grip. It was like I had the strength of a preschooler then, but even preschoolers can do one damage right.
"Is that it," he said, teasing.
Yeah, that's right. Keep underestimating me. We'll see who laughs last.
I let go of the bar and tried to kick his balls, but as soon as I slightly lifted my foot from the ground, I almost fell. I leaned backward on the sink, feeling defeated. I was weaker than I thought. I couldn't even balance myself. My shaky, nervous breaths, my sweaty, distressed face, and my weak grips, were all amusing to him.
I hate him. I fucking hate him so much.
He tried getting up, while laughing, "This show ended before it-"
That was when I balanced myself on my healthy leg, lifted my wounded leg, and landed it as hard as I can on his crotch, aggressively grunting. I held on to the sink so I wouldn't fall. I smiled with revenge in my eyes, in spite of the after-attack pain in my wounded leg, because I finally heard his groan of grave pain and saw him curling up on the floor.
"You're still talking," I said, breathlessly. It made me feel superior for a brief moment.
I limped forward to pick up my improvised weapon from the ground next to him. He was still rolling from side to side in pain.
