A woman in her early forties, who can be quite wise.
A man in his sixties.
The story begins in a remote cottage.
Someone is kidnapped.
It's a story about hatred.
Your character takes control of the situation
The last sun beams lightened the hallway as Flora grabbed her car keys. She had a long way home ahead - the previous time Flora came to her remote sanctuary it took her about two hours by car. She didn't expect to be this overloaded with job, so setting out this late meant that she wouldn't see her daughter tonight. Little Keira had her own schedule, thus her grandma would sing her to sleep strictly at 10 p.m. Pity, but at least they'd definitely have breakfast together.
Flora commonly visited her cottage when she needed space and concentration for her work. Street rumpus wasn't very helpful for writing. Driving away she glanced at her small wooden house in the rear view mirror. She loved that place and for some reason didn't want to go. As if the feeling of security was leaving her as she was moving.
A long drive seemed like a flash but brought Flora immense fatigue which she perceived waking up in the middle of the night. What she felt was thirst,thereby she tried to fetch a glass of water from the regular place on her bed table but she couldn't find it. Awareness stroke her mind with this little detail - it's not her house.
'Feeling thirsty?' a deep masculine voice sounded from the darkness.
'What do you want from me?'
'There's some undone business between us'
She knew who he was and realised this time she was a victim of his. He had his reasons to give the most cruel revenge he could.
Dead silence stroke Flora's head- he's not in the room anymore. She touched the wall and it was wet as if it was underground. That bastard wouldn't do anything but trapping her in the basement. A slight smirk appeared on her face. His actions were quite predictable, so counteraction seemed to be a piece of cake.
Flora already lost track of time when she finally heard heavy steps upstairs. She tried to hold her breath as he was approaching the door. The door went squeaking, pressing her against the wall. Flora saw his head cautiously peeking out from the corridor. She plucked up her courage and slammed the door smashing his head with it. He rolled down the wall bleeding and looking like he passed out. Fleeing out the room, counting every step, she thought only about one thing: escape before the dawn to have breakfast with Keira.
Eleven steps were behind in a split second when she reached the door of freedom. Flora respired with relief and pulled the handle. The door was immovable. Of course, he wasn't that stupid to leave it open. The keys. They must be in his pocket.
The stream of thoughts was cut with subtle creak of the step number one.
Done by Юлия Деревянко, Сергей Силков.
A man in his sixties.
The story begins in a remote cottage.
Someone is kidnapped.
It's a story about hatred.
Your character takes control of the situation
The last sun beams lightened the hallway as Flora grabbed her car keys. She had a long way home ahead - the previous time Flora came to her remote sanctuary it took her about two hours by car. She didn't expect to be this overloaded with job, so setting out this late meant that she wouldn't see her daughter tonight. Little Keira had her own schedule, thus her grandma would sing her to sleep strictly at 10 p.m. Pity, but at least they'd definitely have breakfast together.
Flora commonly visited her cottage when she needed space and concentration for her work. Street rumpus wasn't very helpful for writing. Driving away she glanced at her small wooden house in the rear view mirror. She loved that place and for some reason didn't want to go. As if the feeling of security was leaving her as she was moving.
A long drive seemed like a flash but brought Flora immense fatigue which she perceived waking up in the middle of the night. What she felt was thirst,thereby she tried to fetch a glass of water from the regular place on her bed table but she couldn't find it. Awareness stroke her mind with this little detail - it's not her house.
'Feeling thirsty?' a deep masculine voice sounded from the darkness.
'What do you want from me?'
'There's some undone business between us'
She knew who he was and realised this time she was a victim of his. He had his reasons to give the most cruel revenge he could.
Dead silence stroke Flora's head- he's not in the room anymore. She touched the wall and it was wet as if it was underground. That bastard wouldn't do anything but trapping her in the basement. A slight smirk appeared on her face. His actions were quite predictable, so counteraction seemed to be a piece of cake.
Flora already lost track of time when she finally heard heavy steps upstairs. She tried to hold her breath as he was approaching the door. The door went squeaking, pressing her against the wall. Flora saw his head cautiously peeking out from the corridor. She plucked up her courage and slammed the door smashing his head with it. He rolled down the wall bleeding and looking like he passed out. Fleeing out the room, counting every step, she thought only about one thing: escape before the dawn to have breakfast with Keira.
Eleven steps were behind in a split second when she reached the door of freedom. Flora respired with relief and pulled the handle. The door was immovable. Of course, he wasn't that stupid to leave it open. The keys. They must be in his pocket.
The stream of thoughts was cut with subtle creak of the step number one.
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