warnings: kidnapping, some knives and blood. this is where we get into the fictional shit.

𝚗𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢
(𝚊𝚍𝚓.) 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚎; 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜

An eight year old Lilah Angelo held her youngest sister's hand as they hurried through the airport, trailing after their parents. Anabel casually walked next to them, rolling her eyes at their connected hands. Even at seven, Anabel was as judgy as ever.

Then Eveline made the mistake of letting go of Lilah's hand. To go to their mother. Lilah paused her steps, cocking her head to the side. Had she done something wrong?

Unfortunately, the stopping had cost her. Anabel strode ahead to grab her mom's other hand, and Lilah was left in the middle of the airport, by herself.

The reason they had been there in the first place, was because last week was Anabel's birthday. And next was Lilah's ninth. But her parents had forgotten about hers—Anabel's present had been a trip to California for a week.

Lilah tried to run ahead and find her so called mother and father, not that they would notice she was gone or anything, but to board the plane. When they were nowhere to be found amidst the crowd of people either trying to exit the state or come back home, Lilah ran up to the front desk, where a woman sat, her name tag reading: Martha.

"Hello, can I help you?" Martha asked.

"Um, yes. My mom and dad just boarded a plane, I think. Could you help me get back to them please?" Lilah said.

Martha leaned down over the front desk and said in a mocking voice, "Are you lost sweetie?"

Lilah made a face. Why was she talking down to her? "Yes . . . that's what I just said."

The woman looked like she was reeling back in the urge to yell at Lilah because of her attitude. "If you wait in that room right over there," she pointed to the black-doored room behind her, "they'll come and get you. I'm sure of it."

Lilah wasn't so sure herself, but she nodded none the less and side stepped behind the desk, slowly opening the black door and walking inside. Young and naive, hadn't yet learned how to observe, how to tell whether a place was dangerous or not. But old enough to know that this place . . . was not.

It was dark. Only one light was on, in the middle of the room. Illuminating a glass chair. She tilted her head to the side, observing it.

The door shut behind her. But Lilah didn't look over her shoulder, she continued to watch the chair. On the reflection of the chair, she could make out the shadow of someone above her. Taller than her. Stronger, too. And before she could whirl around, a heavy object knocked against the side of her head, and she fell to the ground.

---

A week.

The trip would have been a week.

And for half a day, eight year old Lilah was knocked out. Tied to that glass chair, in a room with glass walls. It was so breakable—why would she be placed in a place so breakable? She could feel the ties wrapped around her wrists, around the legs of the chair. It was a dark room, but whoever it was that knocked her out could have moved her to a different location, she'd never know.

So, this was where she would die.

Lilah never thought it would be strapped to a chair, much less at eight years old, but oh well. Life wasn't that great anyways.

The metal door that stood in front of her clanged open, and two people came in. Lilah gave them a bored look.

"Can you get me out of this chair please? I have a vacation to be on," she said, her voice flat. However that sassy comment had cost her. She felt the sting on her cheek a second later. "Ouch—what'd you do that for?"

"You will learn, girl, not to have an attitude when your elders are around," a husky female voice said from her side.

Lilah craned her neck up to look at the woman. Her skin was beginning to wrinkle, but her body was built for war. "And how old are you, exactly?" Lilah asked, ignoring the small bruise already forming on her cheek.

"That is none of your concern, girl," the man on her other side said. He jerked his head at the women to continue her lecture.

"Over the course of the next three weeks, you will be trained in the art of focusing your strength, learning the basics of combat, and wielding knives."

"Seems like a lot to get done in three weeks," Lilah muttered, thinking they couldn't hear her. But they did. And it earned her a smack across the back of her head. "Would you stop doing that?"

"Get out of the chair," the woman said, ignoring her comment.

Lilah stared up at her in disbelief. "You do know that I'm strapped to the chair, therefore unable to get out, right?"

"At least she has a good vocabulary," the man said, a hint of amusement in his voice. But one glance from his partner and his face went blank again. "Get out of the chair."

Again, Lilah didn't do anything. She didn't know what to do. For ten minutes, they stared at her in silence, waiting for her to do something. A few times, she tried yanking against the ropes on her wrist, but that just created a bright red rash. Under the man and woman's stare, sweat began to form on her pale forehead—pale from starvation, dehydration. They hadn't given her any food or water.

"Find a way to get out of the chair," the woman said, every word tight.

"You have thirty seconds," the male voice said. She was being timed? Why hadn't they told her this before?

Lilah's movements started to become more panicked, her heart thundering in her chest. And before she knew it, that man's watch started beeping, and a heartbeat later—the glass chair shattered. And the walls surrounding them.

---

Lilah Angelo cracked open her eyelids. They were too heavy, too stinging against the bright light. One single sconce, attached to a concrete wall. She fought the urge to let out a whimper. She wasn't at home in the bed she shared with her youngest sister, she was lying on a bed roll, on a concrete slab.

Maybe whoever it was that kidnapped her had realized that glass maybe wasn't the best option to build a wall out of.

The glass—it had shattered. Shattered into millions of pieces, some shards larger than others. Many of those had hit Lilah's body, scraping against her skin. She could still feel the warm blood seeping down her legs, face, and in particular, her back. Most likely, there were still shards of glass stuck in her lower back, that if she ever got out of this place, doctors would have a hard time getting it out.

For a day after someone had bombed the place, Lilah was knocked out cold.

Or at least that's what the other kid said. That other kid being her roommate in this concrete room. Benjamin he said his name was. Benjamin had been outside of that same airport, apparently had seen her walk inside with her sister, then woken up and been in the room next to her. Had seen her through the glass walls. But she hadn't seen him—too focused on her own problems.

Now Lilah lay staring at the gray solid ceiling, not bothering to get up and engage in a conversation with Benjamin, who was sitting up on the bed roll beside hers.

She thought about whatever reasoning these people had for kidnapping them.  Were they prisoners? Would they keep them here forever, training them in fighting skills until they were able to become warriors for their crime organization? Or would they let them go after teaching them skills? Teach them—then let them back out into the world again with those skills, see what they would do with them.

The thought made her want to throw up the lunch in her stomach. Realizing that to be able to fight her and Benjamin would have to have strength, they let them have an admirable amount of food before the first training session. Lilah had scarfed it down, then immediately thrown it back up. 

The metal door that was kept on their . . . cell, clanged open again, reminding her of that first day. Two days ago. It felt like longer. Lilah wondered whether or not her parents had realized she was gone—if Eveline had mentioned it to them. Anabel, even.

"We begin your training now," the same woman from before said, her hands folded behind her back. "Follow me and don't touch anything."

Lilah and Benjamin stood from their bed rolls, which hadn't provided any comfort, and followed the woman out of their room. And began their training.

---

The cold metal of a knife grazed Lilah's cheekbone in a whoosh of wind.

And she didn't even flinch.

For a week her and Benjamin had been practicing together. Knife throwing, focusing their strength, and learning the basics of combat. Just like the woman had said. During this time, Lilah learned that Benjamin was three years older than her, just turned eleven, and that he wished he was back home. She did, too, but for a different reason. For the comfort of her own bed.

Benjamin's reason was that he wanted a shower, and that he needed to at least repaint his chipped blue colored nails, and maybe put on a little concealer to cover up the bruises forming under his eyes.

"Sorry!" he squealed from several yards away. Lilah glared at him, wiping off the blood that dripped down her cheek. "Knife throwing really isn't my strong suit," he said.

She rolled her eyes, he had said that every day for the past week. But of course she couldn't blame him, no one should have to be forced to learn this in a week. And yet the two of them had been. For a reason she still didn't know.

Lilah winced as she bent over to pick up the fallen knife that grazed her cheek a few seconds before, the wound on her lower back still throbbing in pain. No one had come to clean up her cuts or injuries, and she scowled at the workers passing by for just that.

There were many workers in this building, one of the passerbys being the woman who worked at the front desk at the airport. What in the hell kind of operation was this?

Lilah and Benjamin switched spots, now her being the one to try and throw the knife without it hitting him. Benjamin got into place, patting down his black hair in an attempt to make it look better. Always concerned about his appearance, this one. Even if he was currently being held hostage.

Lilah took a deep breath, grabbing two knives in one hand, three in the other. Benjamin's eyes went wide as he saw them, and started to shake his head in protest. She told him to stay still and trust her.

The woman was particularly interested in teaching Lilah about the do's and don'ts of knife throwing, and had taught her well. She watched from against a pillar nearby, watched as the girl twisted the knives in her palms, and got ready to throw. The woman smirked as the fear on the boy's face grew.

And in a perfect spiral, Lilah's feet twirled and planted themselves at an angle as blade after blade flew through the air and hit the target just above Benjamin's head. And like a psychopath, Lilah grinned at him.

That's when the screaming started, the guns started firing, a sharp pain hit Lilah's collarbone, and darkness claimed her.

---

The next day was a complete blur to Lilah. She barely remembered waking up in a hospital bed, her entire body in immense pain, especially her collarbone—where as the nurse had told her, she got shot with a bullet. Cool.

She had no idea where Benjamin went, if he even made it out of that building alive. She hoped he did. But yet—no memories after the shouting and bullets flying.

What she did remember, though, was her parents coming in to the hospital room. They had actual come.

And apparently it was all for show, while the various doctors and nurses were still in the room, when they made a fuss. "Oh my poor baby!" her mother had exclaimed. Her dad said furiously, "Where are the people who did this to my baby girl?"

And when they all left to give them privacy, they were immediately on their phones, calling people with anger in their tones. Maybe that was where Lilah would get her acting skills in the future. For how good their performance had been that day.

The next fifteen minutes after that hospital room door closed, neither of her parents paid any attention to where Lilah was. And it stayed that way for the next ten years of her life. She forgot that she had spent her ninth birthday held hostage.

She stopped talking to most people, lost her sass and any personality traits for the rest of her school life, never read another book out loud to her youngest sister, flinched when anyone touched her the way that woman and man had when trying to get her into the perfect position for combat. Trying to make her a warrior when she wasn't built to be one.

And when the nurses made her parents leave that hospital room for Lilah to have a rest, not giving her one second glance over their shoulders, Lilah took fifteen minutes for herself to cry,  and that was it.

⋆·˚ ༘ *🗡* ༘˚·⋆

Lilah awoke gasping for air. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

Bolting upright in whatever bed she laid in, Lilah opened her too heavy eyelids, panting and trying to calm her racing heartbeat. Her eyes, although they were dry and her vision was strained and blurry, darted around the room, trying to make sure if the walls were just walls, or if they were made of glass—ready to shatter all around her.

And when she felt someone holding her hand, their fingers interlaced with hers, wrapped around her waist, her first thought was: 'Holy fuck there's a person with their arms around me.'

It was Tom. And a heartbeat after she'd awoken, so had he, his eyes filled with worry as he watched her sit up and . . . and tears. Tears were in his already red eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

He did. He embraced her in a tight hug. He'd never been the one to initiate their hugs, except for that first one. His familiar ocean, citrus and sandalwood smell hit her—and she began trembling.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he murmured onto her shoulder. She wasn't hugging him back, but he didn't care. He held her tighter. "Lilah you were shaking—you're entire body was covered in sweat, and then you started screaming- and I-I didn't know what to do."

Tears, his tears, started to flow out onto the t-shirt she was wearing. Not hers.

As Tom pulled back from the hug, Lilah wiped his tears away with the pads of her thumbs, told him she was alright. Her voice was incredibly hoarse, a sign that she needed water. Tom immediately got up to get her a glass, and she told him she'd take a shower because of how bad she smelled.

Lilah got to her feet and almost instantly her legs gave out, and she fell to the ground. She sighed and stood back up, willing strength into her limbs.

Twenty-eight hours she'd been passed out. 

Twenty-eight hours of pure torture. Re-living her memories. Not a nightmare—a memory.

As she walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her, Lilah couldn't help but lift Tom's shirt up off her shoulders and inspect her body. It shone with sweat, but still, on her collarbone she could see the scar.

Usually it was covered by her undergarments, but without them, the small but deep scar came into view. She winced at the sheer depth of it. Lilah slowly turned around and looked at her bare back in the mirror, and saw the line that crossed the lower area. From shards of glass, most of the scars faded over the years. There were several along her legs, ones that nobody noticed, ones that she hid.

Lilah sighed and leaned over to turn on the shower. She caught a glimpse of Tom's shirt on the tiled floors.

She had lied to him. There was no babysitter when her parents left her at the airport when she was eight years old, she wasn't stuck there for four hours—or she might have been, but was moved to second location. Kidnapped. And she still didn't know why to this day.

Her nightmares had never been that vivid, never blurred the lines between reality and dreams like that one did. But again, it was a memory—not nightmare.

For a moment, as she tugged the rest of her clothes off and climbed into the hot shower, Lilah thought about what had happened to Benjamin.

But the second the hot water hit her face, Lilah's knees collapsed again, and she fell to the ground in the shower, tears blurring her vision. She leaned her head back against the cold wall, and let out a whimper, one tear escaping her eye and rolling down her cheek. 

She pulled her knees to her naked chest and wrapped her arms around them, the hot water still running down her body. The tears poured out of Lilah's eyes, releasing all the emotion that had built up in the years since the glass walls shattered around her.

Her weeping wasn't acting, her crying wasn't joyous—it was honest. Honest and emotion filled tears poured out of her, and didn't stop.