Black Rose

Teen Runaway.

Gwen didn't stay long. She said it was because she needed to look after her son, but really, she needed to get away. She didn't want to stay in the basement longer than she had to.

I washed up the plate from lunch, simply because I had nothing to do. The simple act grounded me, the soapy and warm water keeping my thoughts at bay. I scrubbed the plate twice, even though it had only been dirty with a few crumbs, then left it to drain and turned to the living room.

Everything was quiet and still. I was starting to get sick of the silence.

For the briefest moment, I considered going back to the book Blake had given me. But the thought made me shudder. I didn't want to return to those stories yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, I walked over and sat on the couch. I felt heavy as I lifted the remote, remembering the first time I had used the TV, my vain attempts at sending out a message for help.

I didn't even bother trying to open the browser again. Blake had changed the settings, so it would just spit a message at me to give it a password that I didn't know. I knew I couldn't access Netflix, either. So without another option, I navigated to the live TV app. It opened to the 24 hour news channel, still there from the last time I had watched.

I sucked in a sharp breath as the memory was dragged over me. Ophelia Alto reported missing.

That moment felt like so long ago when it was only a matter of days. I was losing track of how long it had even been. I had no way of knowing when the sun set and when it rose again. Without any windows or clocks in the basement, I was clueless as to how much time had passed, and I was starting to feel disoriented.

In the corner of the screen, a little number read 2:08 pm, which seemed right enough, but the only measure I had to prove that was the lunch Gwen had brought down. How could I know how long I had been trapped in this hell?

A man's voice snapped me out of my reverie, the news anchor catching my attention.

I didn't expect to hear my name again on the news so quickly, so it took me a moment to realise that the picture on the screen was mine and that they were talking about me. Then I did, and I froze.

"Search continues for Colorado school girl, Ophelia Alto, who was reported missing last Thursday. Michael Bailey reports."

The screen cut across to a man standing in a familiar car park, holding a microphone. My stomach twisted as I took in the police tape and officers stationed outside the target.

"It was just a few days ago that 17-year-old Ophelia Alto was last seen with her best friend, Jordan Williams. The pair were skipping class, hanging outside this target, just north of Denver. Around 1:30 pm, Jordan went inside to find a restroom. From there, things go pear-shaped. The north side of the car park is in a surveillance blind spot, making it difficult to know what truly happened. Footage has been uncovered from a shoppers' dash-cam, briefly showing Ophelia walking away from the building, before a delivery truck blocked her from view. When the truck moves, Ophelia is gone."

I expected the story to end there, but it didn't. The reporter kept talking, speaking over rolls of footage.

"Peers and teachers of Ophelia have told reporters that ever since she moved to Greenhills Christian school she has been suffering socially and academically. Ophelia's father, local conservative minister, Mitchel Alto, is adamant that his daughter was content at home and in school, but with such puzzling circumstances, it is difficult to know for certain whether Ophelia Alto's disappearance is anything to be concerned about, or whether the sixteen-year-old is just another teen runaway."

The screen crossed back to the original news anchor, who moved on to a story about a celebrity scandal, but I tuned out. I was in shock. How could they just write me off like that? How was it possible that they could just say some stuff about how I was failing that in school and come to the conclusion that I hadn't been kidnapped, that I was 'just another teen runaway.'