The Named


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4. Running

                Footsteps and the thrum of cracking whips reverberated down the hall.  I knew they would be here all too soon.  I knew what they would say when they came through that door.  I knew what they had planned.  I knew they would be surprised by what I was going to do.

                A few short moments later my door was slammed open.  I saw his leering face and his lips mouthing insults at me but the blood pounding in my ears drowned him out.   My mind was focused on the plan I had to complete.  He went through his usual routine of dragging me across the floor and lifting me by my wrists to lock them in the dangling chains.  Fighting against his grip, I managed to keep my hands balled into fists while he strained to keep my hands in the iron manacles while he shut them.

                “Little shit, do as you’re told or these may be the last breaths you take,” he growled as he finished securing my arms into place.  Then, just as I had hoped, he turned his back on me to set up a small table for his vile tools.

                With a quick flick of my wrists I was free of my fetters and crouched barefoot on the stone floor.  I had to leave before he noticed and raised the alarm.  Quickly, I slipped from the room and ran down the hall.

                It was the end of the torture hour so most of the guards were either on a lunch break or slacking off.  Now, most of the prisoners would be hanging from the ceilings of their cells, blood from their backs making pools on their floors.

                I ran as quietly as I could on my bare feet down the deserted hallway, searching desperately for a place to hide and hopefully escape out of.  The demon in my cell would notice my absence soon enough. 

As if on cue, I heard shouts and alarms started going off above my head.  Panicked now, I grabbed on to the nearest ladder and hauled myself up.  I had to reach the surface, so it only made sense to go up.

                A door with strange markings on it came up on my right.  I thought nothing of it until I heard footsteps marching towards me on the catwalk.  Darting inside the door I tried to close it as silently as possible.  Hardly breathing, I listened to the men run past. 

Looking around the room, I suddenly recognized it from the time I and another young captive tried to escape when I was only 4 or 5.  We had been instantly captured and brought to this room, where a man with a face like the rock wall of my cell had sat behind that table he called a desk.  Long suppressed memories came flooding back to me at the sight of that desk.

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