Cold. Cold metal under my cheek. My wrists burn where the ropes dig in. My chest tight, lungs fighting for air.
"Where… where am I?" My own voice sounds strange, foreign, swallowed by the darkness. Focus, Fiona. Focus.
The van screeches around a sharp corner. The sudden jolt makes me slam my face harder against the floor. Don't panic. Just survive.
Grace's muffled whimpers reach my ears.
"It's okay… breathe…" I whisper, though my own voice trembles. How do you comfort someone when you feel broken inside?
One of them steps closer. Leather and cheap cologne hits my senses. My stomach churns. The rope bites into my skin, reminding me of every time I've been restrained, controlled, powerless. I survived worse. I can survive this.
The kidnappers bark orders. "One stays… one goes."
My mind spins. Of course, they'll choose Grace. The biological daughter. Pregnant with John's child. And me? I'm nothing. Invisible. Always invisible.
Memories hit me like a punch. I was six. Abandoned. The orphanage. Cold floors. The smell of disinfectant. The echoing sobs of children like me.
"I am strong. I survived then, I can survive now." But the fear lingers, clawing at my chest.
I see flashes of Liam's eyes—cold, sharp, always measuring me. The punishments, the nights of silent tears, the humiliations. Then John—gentle, soft, the only warmth in that house. The only smile that reached me.
"Stop thinking. Focus. Survive." My whispered self-command feels weak, but I cling to it.
Grace shivers beside me. "Fiona… do you think they'll take me?"
I swallow the lump in my throat. Yes. Of course. And I'll be left behind.
"It's okay… just breathe. It will be okay," I mutter, though my words feel empty.
The phone rings. William Father. My stomach twists. My real family, the ones who abandoned me—finally paying attention. But too late. Always too late.
The kidnappers argue in low voices. "She's the one," one says. My name cuts through the air. I am being chosen, dragged, removed, again. Nothing ever changes.
I press my forehead harder against the floor. Remember how you survived the Smith family. Remember how you survived every cold stare, every slap, every cruel word. You survived before, you will survive now.
Flashbacks surge.
The birth of my baby brother. My parents' cold eyes. "It's her fault we were poor," I hear their imagined voices accusing me.
My grandfather, the only warmth in my life, kissing my forehead, whispering, "You're my sunshine."
The orphanage, the friendships, Robin sharing his sandwich with me, laughing with him for the first time, feeling a spark of hope.
Smith family adoption: Liam's piercing gaze, John's gentle smile, the chores, punishments, the nights I hid in silence.
"I am stronger than they think. I am more than what they left me to be." The words are both mantra and shield.
Grace shivers. "Fiona… it's cold…"
I reach for her, but the ropes cut. My hands ache. I can't even touch her properly. But I can hold her in my voice.
"It's okay… just hold on. I'm here, even if I can't touch you. We'll survive this."
The kidnappers speak again. Boss. Orders. Threats. The uncertainty is worse than the ropes, worse than the cuts. What do they want? Where will they take me?
And then, a flicker of thought—Liam. Could he even know I'm here? Could he care? No. Don't hope. Don't. But the thought lingers, unwanted and dangerous.
I shift slightly, testing my bonds. Pain, yes, but tiny progress. I will not give up. I've been broken before, abandoned before. I will survive.
The van hums, carrying us away. The unknown stretches endlessly ahead. Fear, pain, and cold press on every side, but deep inside, I clutch the smallest spark of hope.
"I will not be nothing. Not again."
And sleep begins to pull me under, but even in unconsciousness, my mind repeats it: I will survive. I will endure. I will rise again. My past is ashes, but my future… my future is mine.
I still remember the day I first entered the orphanage.
Cold cement floors, long rows of cots, the smell of disinfectant mixed with old blankets. Children of all ages whispered and cried. I felt their eyes, curious, suspicious, cautious. This is my world now.
Robin. A boy no older than me. Dark hair, bright eyes. He smiled at me, offered half of his sandwich.
"Here… eat. Don't worry, you'll be okay."
I accepted it silently, awe-struck. For the first time in years, someone treated me like I mattered.
Other children had stories, just like me. Broken homes, cruel parents, or simply abandoned. Yet, here, they learned kindness in small ways—sharing, protecting, whispering secrets in corners.
I could survive here. I could make this place my own.
But even as I learned to smile, shadows of my past haunted me. Liam's first glare. John's cautious encouragement. My parents' bitter, envious eyes. Would I ever escape these ghosts?
And then came the Smith family.
Easter day, bright sunlight streaming through the orphanage windows. I was nine. They came, all smiles, polished shoes, perfect manners. I remember Liam first—tall, striking, twelve years older, eyes icy as winter. My stomach twisted. Fear. Unease. He is danger.
John. Five years older than me, gentle, kind. His smile reached me in a way Liam's never would. I want to trust him. I shouldn't, but I do.
Adoption didn't mean love. It meant chores. Endless, punishing chores. Floors, shoes, laundry. Liam punished me when I made the smallest mistake. John watched silently, sometimes offering a kind word, a fleeting glance.
I learned quickly: survival meant hiding my feelings, pretending I was nothing, yet always observing.
"One day, I'll be free. One day, they won't control me."
Now, trapped in the back of a van, the memories swirl around me. Fear of the present, ghosts of the past, faint hope for the future.
I glance at Grace, shivering beside me. She trusts me. I must be stronger than the fear. Stronger than Liam. Stronger than the kidnappers. Stronger than the life that has tried to break me.
"I will survive. I will endure. I will rise again."
And in that vow, tiny and fragile, I feel a spark—my first real hope in a long, long time.