My Life Flashed In Front Of Me

Sienna

What the hell. What the actual hell is going on?

I was lying flat on the cold bathroom floor, heart crashing against my ribcage like it wanted to rip through my skin. My palms burned as I pushed the bathroom door shut, quietly, cautiously—like even the sound of breath could give me away. My mind was sprinting faster than my feet ever could.

I’m not dying here.

Not in this place. Not like this. Not after being stupid enough to go look for one night stand again. 

Thirty minutes ago, I was pacing the room like a caged animal, staring at the same four walls I'd already memorized twice over. Trying to plot my escape out of here,  That’s when I noticed it—another door. Not the bathroom. Different. Smaller. Tucked somewhere in the walk in closet like it didn’t want to be found or wasn't meant to be found

Curiosity did what curiosity always does.

It dragged me by the throat.

I moved—just a step. Just one.

CRACK.

A gunshot. A real one. The wall beside me splintered open, the bullet carving through it like it was paper. I screamed before instinct slapped a hand over my own mouth. More shots tore through the air—bang, bang, bang—until I couldn’t hear my thoughts anymore, only the shrill ring of adrenaline in my ears.

I didn’t think. I ran into this secret storage.

The door flung open and I threw myself into the room, slamming it shut behind me, not even bothering to see what was inside.

Then everything stopped.

The bullets. The shouting. Even the world outside.

Silence.

I was breathing so hard I couldn’t tell if I was alive or halfway to passing out. But then—then I saw it.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Bags of it. Lined up in black medical sacks, tubes snaking out of them like something from a twisted horror film. It was blood. Real blood. I’ve seen enough crime documentaries, crime scenes,  I’ve walked past enough hospital rooms... I know blood when I see it.

What the fuck is going on in this house?

Are they harvesting people? Torturing them? Killing them and storing their blood like some underground lab?

Before I could spiral deeper, I heard them. Footsteps—heavy, fast, frantic. Several people headed this way.

Panic shot through me like lightning.

I scanned the room and did the only thing I could think of—I grabbed two blood bags, yanked the tubes free, and started splashing. I started splashing all the way to the living room to the window,  Sloshed red liquid across the floor like I was painting a crime scene. Just like the movies. Messy, chaotic. Convincing.

Then I bolted, but I couldn’t make it to the door in time. They were here.

My only shot was the bathroom. I slipped in and shut the door gently, sinking to the floor, chest rising and falling in violent waves. I tucked myself into the space between the toilet and the wall, barely breathing, the stench of blood thick on my skin.

“She’s dead,” a woman said outside. Cold. Flat. Like she was talking about trash.

“She must’ve run out before bleeding out. Look at the trail. That's a lot of blood.” Another voice—male, sharp, analytical.

“Too much work looking for her,” the woman replied, like I was an animal that didn’t matter either way.

My throat tightened. My fists clenched.

I had to move. I had to—

Gunshots.

Again.

But this time it wasn’t targeted. It was war.

Loud, explosive, a battle erupting right outside the bathroom door. I pressed my face into the floor, biting back the scream that clawed its way up my throat. I stayed still. Still as a corpse.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Or maybe time just doesn’t work the same when you're waiting to die.

Eventually—silence.

Again.

No footsteps. No voices. No more shots. Just the distant hum of something broken and waiting.

I opened the door inch by inch, heart caught in my mouth. The blood I spilled was drying in streaks across the floor. My own prints were gone—washed in red. I tiptoed around it, careful not to leave new ones.

The hallway was empty.

The house—eerily quiet.

Like a storm had passed and taken everyone with it.

I moved slowly, ears twitching at every creak, every shift in the wind. The door to the living room stood wide open. So did the front door. No guards. No shadows.

Nothing.

It was now or never.

I didn’t think. I ran.

Barefoot, breathless, I flew past the broken furniture, past blood-stained walls, through the yard I’d only seen in glimpses from a window. The field stretched out like salvation and I sprinted across it, the gate now visible—so close I could almost taste it.

No one chased me. No one yelled.

I kept running, no one was visible in front of me, i needed to make it out of here

And out of nowhere… I was snatched.

One second, I was running. The next, something lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing—like I wasn’t even real.

A scream ripped out of me before I even had the chance to understand what was happening. I screamed with everything in me. From my gut. From my soul. The kind of scream meant to wake the dead.

Then—hands.

Rough, strong, hand—slapped over my mouth so fast I barely tasted air. I bit down hard. Hard enough to draw blood. Metallic and sharp against my tongue.

But the hand didn’t move.

Not even a flinch.

"Firecracker,” a voice said, so calm it made the chaos in my head freeze mid-spin. “I'd really like to keep use of that hand… if you're done trying to hit a nerve.”

That voice.

That voice.

 familiar. And somehow, against all reason, it made every wild part of me still.

My heartbeat slowed, even as the blood roared in my ears. My body stopped shaking. My soul, the part of me screaming to survive, just… merged with him. Like we were magnets snapping into place. Like the war in my chest didn’t matter anymore.

Even if it was him.

Even if it was the one man who’d dragged me into this living nightmare—the one who started it all.

Still, I didn’t fight. I couldn’t.

Relief.

My breath broke into hiccups, and tears spilled from the corners of my eyes like they’d been waiting for permission. My body sagged against him, muscles gone weak, bones too hollow to keep standing.

“I could’ve died,” I whispered.