• The room was spinning slightly in a smear of wonderful colors. The soft pineapple yellow of the living room walls was blending with the mint green of the kitchen. Or maybe the kitchen was the one with the pineapple walls? I didn't consider myself impaired. Just a little tipsy. I vaguely watched as the party dissipated, while I reached up to rub my aching temples. Where did my friends go? Oh well. I walked to the door where some people gathered, looking way more intoxicated than I was. The truth is: I didn't even know them, merely recognized them.

    I stumbled as I made my way to the sidewalk. My face was just about to become good friends with the lush green lawn, when my good friend, Lance, caught me by the waist.

    "Woah, there. Maybe I should walk you home tonight."

    I looked up at him with a slightly tipped smile on my face. "No. Don't worry about me. I'm fine, just clumsy as usual."

    "I'd like to believe that but I'm not really sure that it’s true."

    "Seriously, it's fine. I'm just walking like four blocks. I'll be okay."

    "Alright." He sounded a bit skeptical. "But don't say I didn't offer."

    He released my waist, and I suddenly felt alone. Stepping a few paces back, I watched as he began walking to the left, opposite the direction I needed to go. At least I wasn't inconveniencing him now.

    I sighed, looking up at the sky. It had to be, at the earliest, one o'clock. The moon was out but it was only a sliver, not putting off much light. In between the street lamps, I tried to focus on my feet but it was so dark that I couldn't see them and as a result, almost tripped again. I tried again when I came upon a light, but even under them, it wasn't much better. I picked up my pace a little, the cool air of the night refreshing my brain, that brain trying to fight it’s way through the alcohol induced fog. I scanned the area around me. Black ally ways, no cars driving by in the immediate vicinity, and any life within a half-mile radius was asleep. A cold wind blew, ruffling the short, flowing skirt that I had been forced to wear by my party-girl friends.

    I was only two blocks from my small tract house and I had kicked my pace up to an almost jog. I passed the ally way used for garbage trucks and I dared to steal a glance, noticing a grey, beat-up pickup truck. I think it was a Chevy, but I couldn't be sure. I was stuck in a half-comatose state. My brain was working but my body wasn't listening to it. I watched in terror as a man a little under six feet, got out of the truck and started for me. The scream I had, stuck in my throat and all I could think of was, "Run!"

    Thankfully my body realized that it was in eminent danger, and I started sprinting down the street, my heart hammering in my ears and my feet like an erratic beating of a drum. Neither could compare to the sound of footsteps behind me. Closing in on me. I was terrified; there is no other word to describe it. My movements were in slow motion; if it had been a movie, I would have tripped, eight seconds on the ground at least. My wrist was grabbed and I was spun so fast that the world was a blur. A hand went over my mouth as I tried to open it. Biting it wasn't an option. I was kicking my legs and crying like crazy. My tears were cold against my skin, like ice.

    Another man came out of the ally with a tan blindfold and a ripped piece of cloth, for a gag I would guess. I hadn't even realized that there might have been an accomplice along with the first man. I didn't have a chance now. He was wearing black cargo pants and a tight, black, muscle shirt that looked as if it had been painted on his skin. He had straight brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He walked up behind me, leisurely as ever, and hit the back of my neck, knocking me unconscious.

    The last thing I thought was, "I really should have let Lance walk me back," while feeling ridiculously sober.