Beautifully Broken

As we climb the four stairs to the porch, my vision tunnels on the front door.

Why the fuck aren’t I running in the opposite direction?

Why am I just letting him pull me along?

I should be fighting, kicking, and screaming, not freaking walking to the house where my torturers are.

My mind races from absolute panic to the void filled with the emptiness I found during my darkest hours.

I see the man lift his arm, but nothing can prepare me for the loud bang as he kicks the door in, leaving the wood squeaking at the hinges.

And then it all happens faster than my mind can process.

Flashes and loud bangs.

Shouts and blood.

Men lunge at us, and my rescuer lets go of my hand, moving fast and with precision as he takes out one man after another. As if he’s done this a million times.

All I can do is stand rooted, my eyes wide with shock and my heart racing like a wild horse trapped in a burning barn.

The world slows down around me, yet everything races inside of me.

Every shot he takes hits a target, and then red blossoms, exactly like I’ve seen in the movies. Only this isn’t a movie. These are real bodies dropping to the ground, real blood, real screams of terror, and for a change, I’m not the one screaming.

“Stay there,” my rescuer growls.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice because I can’t make my body move as I watch him shove open a heavy-looking door to my right.

“Fuck!” someone yells, and then there are more shots.

Any sane person would run from this nightmare, but I stand frozen as I watch them die.

I imagined many ways for them all to die, but not this, not such easy deaths.

I wish they were burning, just like the container outside.

My rescuer comes back into the living room, his features grim and his eyes constantly searching for a target.

He looks like a predator. Wild and powerful.

Then his eyes settle on me, and just a look from him makes my heart leap to my throat.

Suddenly he trains the barrel of his gun on me, and before I can take another breath, he pulls the trigger.

I can’t make myself duck for cover, and I don’t even flinch as I feel a slight burn on my cheek. Then something heavy drops behind me.

I exhale a quivering breath as terror makes my blood race hot through my veins. Pins and needles spread over my skin, making my wounds ache terribly.

“Good girl,” my rescuer murmurs. He closes the distance between us and takes hold of my hand again in a tight grip.

When he pulls me toward the front door, I do my best not to look at the bodies. But my eyes are drawn to them, drinking in the gruesome scene with a crazy sense of relief.

We’re almost to the door when my eyes land on the camera where it’s lying on a coffee table. Tugging against the hold my rescuer has on me, I get his attention.

“The camera,” I manage to whisper.

His gaze falls on the camera and memory cards, then he says, “We need a bag. Touch nothing but the bag.”

We find a paper bag in the kitchen, and as we rush back to the living room, my foot slams into something hard, and I almost trip. My eyes dart down, and I see blood.

Shit, there’s so much.

Then recognition sinks hard to the pit of my stomach. Steven. I instantly recoil back as revulsion surges through me.

“We need to get out of here,” my rescuer snaps at me. He nudges me forward, and with shaking hands, I help him shove the camera and memory cards into the bag.

He grabs my hand again and pulls me out the front door. The moment I step outside, something snaps deep inside my soul and yanking my hand from his, I rush forward as if I’ve finally been set free.

Once I’m off the porch, I run as fast as my numb legs and aching body can move. But I don’t get far before my legs give way beneath me, and I crumble to the ground.

I hear the gravel crunch behind me as a sob tears from my chest.

“Cara.” My head snaps up at the sound of my name. It’s the way he says it as if he actually cares. It sounds comforting. “It’s time to go. You’re safe now.”

When he crouches next to me, I get my first good look at him. His dark brown hair is short and neat, shaved at the sides. His face is grim and hard, with a beard that only makes him look grisly and dark. He looks like he’s made of stone.

Then I see his eyes, gray and ferocious.

I quickly drop my gaze from his, unable to make eye contact because I’m scared he’ll see everything, just like the walls I was trapped between saw everything.