Moving on..

RYAN

The plan was simple.

Get out of the car as fast as possible and keep running—don’t look back, don’t hesitate, don’t stop until you find them. The most important part? Don’t say a word. Don’t mention anything about being taken, don’t describe their faces, don’t even let it slip that I knew. If I did…

They’d die.

The warning echoed in my head like a mantra as I crouched in the backseat, waiting for the right moment. The car slowed as we approached the neighborhood I recognized. Home was close. My heart thudded like a drum against my ribs, adrenaline coursing through me like wildfire.

The man in the driver’s seat said nothing, his eyes fixed on the road. Ms. Margaret sat beside him, her silence more terrifying than any words she could’ve spoken.

The car stopped.

This was it.

The instant the lock clicked, I flung the door open and bolted.

My legs carried me faster than I thought possible, the cold night air biting at my face. The sharp sound of my shoes hitting the pavement echoed behind me, but I didn’t dare look back. Fear propelled me forward—fear of what would happen if I stopped, fear of the faces I’d barely glimpsed, fear of the threats I knew they’d keep.

I ran until a faint silhouettes emerged in the distance—two figures illuminated by the pale glow of their car's headlights. My parents.

I recognized them instantly. My mom's petite frame, wrapped in her favorite long coat despite the freezing air. My dad, tall and broad-shouldered, standing like a shield beside her. Their faces weren’t clear yet, but I didn’t need to see them to feel their fear. It radiated in waves, choking the air between us.

I bit back the lump rising in my throat. The tears that had burned my eyes for hours finally spilled over, streaking my cheeks as I moved closer.

"Ryan," my mom's voice broke the silence—a desperate whisper carried on the wind. Her hands clutched at her chest as she took a small step forward, restrained only by my dad’s firm grip on her arm.

When I reached the point where the light from the car hit my face, I saw her expression. My mother’s face crumpled, her knees buckling beneath her. "Oh my God," she sobbed, reaching out as if afraid I might disappear.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. My legs moved on their own, and I ran—tripping, stumbling, barely staying upright—until I crashed into her arms.

She wrapped me in a grip so tight I thought she might crush me, her sobs muffled against my hair. Her fingers tangled in the back of my shirt as if she were afraid to let go, afraid I’d vanish into the dark again.

"You’re okay. You’re okay," she kept whispering, her words frantic and broken. "My baby... Oh, Ryan."

Behind her, my dad stood frozen for a moment, his face a mask of emotions—anger, relief, guilt. He quickly closed the gap, his arms encircling us both. His hand rested on the back of my head, the other on my mom’s shoulder.

"You’re safe now," he said. "They’ll never touch you again. I promise."

The words should have comforted me, but they didn’t. I wanted to believe him, to feel safe in their arms, but all I could think about was Margaret still standing somewhere behind me.

The moment we entered the car, the world outside became a blur. My dad’s hands fumbled with the keys before the engine roared to life. As we sped off, momtwisted in her seat, pulling me closer to her. Her hands roamed my face, my hair, my arms—like she needed to reassure herself I was whole.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her fingers traced the angry red welts on my wrists. “Oh, God, Ryan… what did they do to you?”

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt raw, and the words were stuck somewhere deep inside me, tangled with the fear I hadn’t yet shaken.

“Let me see,” she insisted, trying to pull my hands forward to inspect them, but I flinched. I wasn’t ready to be touched, not even by her.

“Give him space, Lisa,” my dad said firmly, his eyes darting between me and the road ahead. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, and the muscle in his jaw twitched with suppressed fury. “Let him breathe.”

She let go reluctantly, her hands hovering in the air as though she wasn’t sure what to do with them. Tears streamed silently down her face, and I hated the guilt that twisted in my chest.

The car was too quiet, the silence filled with the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from my mom. My dad’s tension was palpable, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds as if expecting someone to follow us.

“Ryan,” he said after a long pause, his voice steady but low. “Did they say anything? Did you… see their faces?”

I shook my head. My hands clenched into fists in my lap, the rope burns aching with every movement. “No,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. “They kept… they kept masks on. Always.”

My mom let out a soft cry, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Bastards,” my dad muttered, his voice filled with venom. “They’ll pay for this. Every single one of them. We’ll call the police the moment we get home. They’ll track these animals down, and they’ll pay for what they’ve done to you.”

My chest tightened, panic flaring like an ember catching fire. My hands, already trembling, clenched into fists, and I felt the raw sting of the rope burn. The words replayed in my head—They said they’d be watching.

“No!” The word burst out of me before I could stop it, my voice sharp and desperate. Both of them turned toward me, startled.

“Ryan?” my mom said softly, her face crumpling with concern.

“We can’t,” I stammered, my breath hitching. “We can’t call the cops.”

“What?” My dad’s voice hardened, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. “Ryan, these people—”

“They’ll know!” I interrupted, my voice rising. “They said they’d be watching. What if they think I told you? What if they come after you? Or Mom?”

The car filled with a tense silence, my mother’s hand flying to her mouth. She turned fully toward me, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Oh, Ryan…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “They threatened us?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. My throat felt like it was closing up, my heart pounding so hard it echoed in my ears. “They didn’t have to say it outright,” I said, the words tumbling out, jagged and uneven. “They made it clear. If I step out of line, they’ll know. And they won’t hesitate.”

“Son…” My dad’s voice softened slightly. “They’re just trying to scare you. That’s what people like them do. They want you afraid so you won’t fight back.”

“But what if they’re not bluffing?” I shot back, my voice breaking. “What if—what if they think I told you too much? What if they think we called the cops, and they…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence, the horrifying possibilities twisting in my mind. My mom reached for my hand again, but I pulled away, hugging myself tightly as I stared out the window.

“They already took me once,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I can’t let them take you too.”

My dad exhaled sharply, his frustration clear, but he didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice measured. “Okay, Ryan. We’ll hold off on the police for now.”

My mom shot him a worried glance, but he raised a hand, silencing her before she could argue.

“But,” he continued, his tone firm, “that doesn’t mean we’re not doing anything. I’ll hire private security. Around the clock. No one will get near you, Ryan. You hear me?”

I nodded weakly, my shoulders sagging with relief, but the fear still clung to me like a second skin.

Suddenly, I felt a suffocating void that stretched in all directions. I felt weightless, unmoored, like I was drifting in a place I didn’t belong.

I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t real. Not my past, not this.

The memories of the night I was taken replayed again, unrelenting. The stench of sweat and fear, the ropes cutting into my wrists, the shadows of those men towering over me.

Why am I here again?

Then a voice echoed faintly, steady and resolute, but this time it wasn’t in the car. It was above me, muffled but insistent, like someone trying to reach me through a thick wall.

“Ryan… please.”

The sound was so soft I almost doubted I’d heard it. Yet something about it pierced through the fog, familiar and warm.

“Ryan, you have to fight. You can’t leave me.”

The words grew stronger, carrying a weight that wrapped around my heart and pulled. I strained to focus, to hold onto the voice.

Violet?

It couldn’t be her. She wasn’t there that night. She had nothing to do with the darkness swallowing me. And yet, her voice—pleading, trembling—cut through the chaos.

“Ryan, I need you.”

The void shifted, the suffocating grip loosening as her voice grew louder. I could feel her now.

I glanced around to see my father’s hands gripping the wheel, my mother turning to me with tears in her eyes.

No…

A chill swept through me as realization dawned. My mother shouldn’t be here. She died years ago.

“This isn’t real,” I murmured, my voice swallowed by the void. “None of this is real.”

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Just come back to me, please.”

The voice cried again and my chest tightened, and the memories of the past began to fade, replaced by the ache of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel: hope.