Gunshots

Mila

I didn’t know how long I’d been in this basement, but I felt like it had been forever. I was getting weaker and weaker, and I was getting worried about the cut on my cheek. If it stayed untreated for much longer, it was going to create a scar, and I didn’t want to walk around with a reminder of what had happened to me on my face for the rest of my life.

If I even made it out of here. It wouldn’t matter if there was a scar on my face if I was dead.

No. I wouldn’t think like that. I had to stay positive that I would get out of here, that I would be able to look back on this, years from now and say, “I escaped.”

I hadn’t eaten since I’d arrived. They’d brought me food once, but it hadn’t exactly been edible. After a while, when I hadn’t eaten it, they’d taken it away. And that had been it.

My stomach rumbled as if to agree with what I was thinking.

I was still on the floor, shivering from the cold and uncomfortable. Every now and then I got up and walked in small circles, stretching