December 24th
7:54 P.M.
The soft clink of a lock nudged her awake.
For a second, Rose thought she was a child again. Locked in that hole in the ground that was supposed to build character.
Build character?
Yeah, right.
All it built was major distrust in every person in existence, a whole lot of trauma, and a deep-seated rebellion that no number of beatings could ever dislodge.
Somewhat fearfully, she cracked open her eyes to be met with only darkness, when she’d been so sure she was going to find the tightly packed dirt walls of the old well surrounding her on all sides, and the sticky, muddy bottom rank with urine and feces.
Both words she’d known despite being six years old the first time she’d been put in there to, quote, “build character”. Poo and pee weren't acceptable words in her family. Too babyish, and God forbid anyone be allowed to be a child when they were quite literally a child.
Today, however, there was no mud, no stench. If anything, the room she was in actually smelled too clean. Like it had very recently been bleached from top to bottom.
Why would someone bleach a room from top to bottom?
There was no additional fragrance mixed with the bleach, so she wasn't in a bathroom someone had recently cleaned. Not that she could think up a logical reason why she would be in a bathroom.
Not that she could think up a logical reason why she should be anywhere that wasn't her bed.
Gasping, Rose jerked up.
The man.
Standing beside her bed.
She’d been kidnapped.
It was a clear indication that she was messed up inside because her first reaction wasn't terror, it was anger. After how long she’d spent fighting to get away from her family’s clutches and forge her own path in life, she sure as hell was not going to let anyone mess with that.
If the Bedroom Man thought he’d captured himself a wilting little flower, then he was about to find out he was sorely mistaken. She was a rose, and she came with thorns. Thorns she wouldn't hesitate to use any way she could to make him sorry he’d ever chosen her house to break into.
Fear did hum in the background, though, particularly as she looked down her body to check if she was still wearing clothing.
Thank goodness she was.
Despite the room she was in being one step away from pitch black, Rose could feel the soft flannelette material brushing against her skin as she moved. Her favorite pair of bright pink unicorn pajamas was still in place. So she likely hadn't been raped.
Relief made her lightheaded for a moment, or maybe it was whatever drugs she’d been injected with against her will.
Definitely the drugs, she decided as she placed her palms on the ground, knowing she needed to check out her surroundings to gather as much intel as she could if she wanted a chance at surviving whatever fresh hell Mr. Bedroom Man had conjured up for her.
Damn. She was so tired of people wanting to hurt her.
Why couldn’t she just be left alone to live out her life in the way she chose?
And why the hell did bad stuff always happen to her at Christmastime? It was no wonder she despised the holiday. Joy and peace? Nah, pain and suffering, that was her experience with Christmas. It was why she refused to celebrate the overly commercialized holiday. She’d even been known to issue the famous Charles Dickens quote when someone wished her a merry Christmas.
Bah humbug.
Beneath her palms was something hard and rough. Concrete. As her eyes adjusted slightly to the oppressive dark, she couldjust make out four walls and a door in the wall furthest from where she’d been put.
It must have been the door locking that roused her from unconsciousness.
