History of the Trap: New Introductory Chapter Part

Special new introductory chapter part for History of the Trap

Prologue

Morgan Brings Razzbutt to the Jailhouse

-1-

The Trap, Year Eight

She bled.

Her wrists were turning red, chafing and straining at the plastic ties that bound her to the leg of the heavy table. At first she just wanted to give in, let this lunatic end her life.  Let her pay for all that she had done, all the mistakes that had led to so much tragedy.  She wouldn't mind the bliss of death, or at least so she thought. 

She changed her mind. The time she was captured led her to rethink the path to oblivion.  She suspected he didn't want to kill her, but instead make her his captive, and the thought of that was unbearable.  And as much as she had messed up, she needed to get away and warn the others that the one they thought was dead and gone was actually still alive.  And that he would be coming for them.

The blood made the ties more slippery on her wrists.  If she could keep focusing, she felt like she could get free.

She had been hiding in the tunnels for more than a month.  She had dug her way past the tunnel collapse, and had spent days traversing their endless maze.  Every time she thought she would starve, she ran across a small trove of canned foods and bottled water.  Then she found this room with a table and cot, and even a bookshelf filled with strange books she had never heard of before.

Her reverie was broken by the approach of lantern light, coming from a corridor leading into the east end of the room.  He was coming back.  She anxiously flexed her wrists, hoping their slick wetness would free her.

"Oh, Morgan, Morgan, Morgan," he said in a sing-songy voice, as he came into the room.  "Pretty, pretty little Morgan?  How does thee fare, my pretty little Morgan?"

"How am I doing?" Morgan replied. "Tired of that growling you call singing, you sick puppy.  Come here a little closer, and let me kick you in place that will help raise you up an octave."

He laughed, chortling madly.  "Oh, Morgan!  You are such a card!  And did I call you, pretty?  Oh, I'm just trying to make you feel good, sweetcakes!  Look at you with your stringy, greasy hair!  And without makeup, your dirty face is a mess!  Your tattered clothes are hardly the fashion statement you used to make, now is it, my former beauty queen?"

"You're right," said Morgan.  "Can't argue with that.  I'm a genuine mess.  But the sad thing is, even with all this, I still look ten times better than you do."

He bent down and stared directly at her, inches from her face.  He had no fear.  Anything she tried with her hands still tied, would receive quick and vicious retribution from him.

"What to do with you?" he mused.  "Am I interested enough to keep you as my girlfriend?"  She scoffed at that, and spit into his face.  He slapped her, hard enough to turn her head almost one-eighty.  She turned back and looked at him coldly.

"Nahh, I don't think so.  I like a little fire, but you have way too much ice as well.  Maybe we should go back together, and I can tell everyone all those things I overheard you confess to."

Before she knew he was watching her, she had made the mistake of talking out loud, communicating with God, trying to work out her feelings of guilt.  A little crazy?  Perhaps, but she had been alone for weeks, and she needed to talk to somebody, even if it was an invisible deity.

"Go ahead," she said, doing her best to focus his attention on her face as she tried to free herself from the ties.  "No one would believe you, anyways."  It didn't matter.  Lance already knew most of it.  That had already caused enough pain.  What would the rest matter?

"But you forgot," he gleefully answered. "I have it all recorded, here on my trusty tape recorder.  Yes, I have a tape recorder, remember?  You'd be surprised what you could find down here if you stay here long enough."

Morgan stared at him, contempt and hatred dripping from her.  "Yeah, there are a lot of rotten things down here, too.  After all, I did find you, didn't I?  How much more rotten could things get?"

"Rotten?" he almost roared, his foul breath bringing tears to her eyes, and she scrunched her nose in a futile attempt at protecting her self from its noxious fumes.  "You know what's not rotten?  You are!" He sniffed her, as if he were a mountain lion about ready to devour its prey.  "You're fresh!  So fresh!  Well, besides the distinct body odor from no bath in forever.  That aside, I must say, you smell delicious.  It really has been a long time since I've had fresh meat."

He pulled out a sharp knife that was sheathed to a belt on his pants.  She didn't know if he was trying to scare, or if he meant to have her for dinner.  He sat on her legs, eliminating the possibility she could strike back.  "I know what you're thinking.  It's a shame your hands aren't free.  You can't stop me from doing whatever I want."

She looked at him with a cocky grin.  "No, sorry.  That's not what I was thinking."  He cocked his own head, surprised at this girl's defiance and sarcasm even in the face of her potential demise.  "I was thinking about how glad I am that my hands are free."

His eyes widened as her hands came around and smacked him on both sides of his face.  This startled him enough to loosen his grip on her legs.  She kneed him herd in just the right place.  He got up, clutching himself, roaring in pain, dropping the knife.  She could hear it clanking to the ground.

She punched him hard, right under his jaw.  He stumbled and knocked his head on the table as he fell.  He was out cold.

She grabbed the knife and stared down at him. She could end it.  End the risk that he would tell. End the threat he may pose to those that were left.  All she had to do was plunge the knife into him.  No one would ever know.

She kneeled down, holding the knife in both hands, poised over his torso, right over his heart.  Blood dripped from her wrist, fell down onto her face. 

The knife began its quick descent.....