“There ya go ya hippie bitch,” the man said as he tossed<a class="postlink" href="http://orig09.deviantart.net/c7b9/f/2016/032/0/a/20160130__dreadlocks__girl__portrait_psdelux_by_psdeluxe-d9q0d3x.jpg"><span style="color: #BA55D3">Monet </span></a>into the dark and dank room. She had been wrapped in some sort of rug or blanket, but it did little to soften the impact of the concrete and dirt floor as she hit it unceremoniously.<br/><br/>Several days before, she had been sitting at a café, eating good food, sipping warm tea, and reading chapters of her college books. The man that had just dropped her into the place she was sure she was going to die had approached her, trying to flirt with her. She had politely said no thank you, and declined his offer to join her, at which point he verbally assaulted her and called her a stuck up bitch, making a scene in front of everyone. The police showed up and took her statement as well as those of witnesses after he eventually stalked off from the café. The ordeal had unnerved her, but all in all she had let it go and moved on.<br/><br/>It wasn’t until a couple of days later that she ended up within his grasp. She had come home late one night, the dorms where she stayed quiet and without much people. A clothed hand had quickly covered her mouth as she fumbled for her keys, and within seconds, before she could get so much as a sound out from her throat, she was unconscious. When she came to she was nowhere she recognized, naked, and bound. In the time she was there with him, he had done unspeakable things to her, beaten her, and bruised her. At first she tried to fight, eventually she let her mind slip away, her only means of preventing him from breaking her entirely. She was positive he was going to kill her when he was through with her, positive he’d eventually get bored and help her to leave this earth, and when he didn’t do the deed himself she was almost slightly disappointed.<br/><br/>Now, here she was, wrapped like a burrito in something soft, still naked, battered and bleeding, and slipping in and out of consciousness. As the blackness swallowed her completely from time to time, a melody played in her mind, some soft tones like that of a keyboard, a song she recognized but couldn’t quite place, nine tones in all that made up a song she knew from some distant memory that was eating away at her.<br/><br/>Eventually, after who knew how long, she woke up long enough to unwrap herself. Monet’s form ached with each and every movement. She had to roll across the floor to unwrap herself completely, but eventually she did, and wrapping the blanket around her she used it to keep at least slightly warm in the cold dampened room in which she now resided. Looking around she couldn’t see a thing. It was far too dark for that. There were no windows. The only instance of light in which she saw, was the faint green glow of an older styled key pad that seemed to come from where the door to the room was.<br/><br/>Monet sat there alone, for hours, quietly sobbing to herself, when eventually she heard a noise. It startled her, making her jump nearly five feet from her own skin.<span style="color: #BA55D3">“Who’s there?”</span>she called out, realizing now that she wasn’t in fact alone, her body moving as quickly as she could toward the only source of light to try and help her see in the darkness better. It didn’t seem to do much good though, her green eyes straining to look around for the source of the sound. Quickly she wiped away her tears, angry at herself for not having noticed she wasn't alone, already having been so weak in front of that man. She hated being weak. And she surely hated showing that weakness in front of others, never-mind the fact that she had no idea who or what may be in this room with her now and whether it was simply another danger waiting to pounce.