I don't need eyes at the back of my head to know the cold metal pushing against the back of her head is a gun
Cold sweat ran dripped down my face through the bag. Her frozen limbs refused to corporate
"Move!" Rough, impatient hands shove me into the back of the van as I stumble and nearly fall.
The doors slam shut. The air is slick with humid fear.
I try, unsuccessfully to drown out my pounding heart. But it's not the suffocating bag over my head–or the zip ties digging into the flesh around my ankles and hands that brings the growing terror that I've been taken.
It is the fearful whimpers in the van.
Other victims.
Like me.
The van starts and I stumble, colliding headfirst into someone who whimpers before pulling away.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" my words come out in a trembling apology, my breaths coming out in slow effort. Sweat and tears dripped non-stop from her hood. It was getting harder to breathe.
Small, slender hands find my leg, I gasp at the intrusion.
