My Real Life Nightmare

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I froze as the terrors lay within the note. Written on it was “You’re Next” along with a picture of a disfigured face of a girl, stained with blood. It had been happening for the past month, first starting with pictures of me, and then rising to photos of the girls he had killed. I had gone to the police, but they didn’t pay attention. They concluded that it was just a stupid prank. I had stopped going to them after the fourth note. I knew that he wanted to kill me. And no one was doing anything about it. Then after a while, my parents and friends’ forgot about it. But to me, it appeared like each image and every note was embossed on my mind. I repress those thoughts out of my head, as I get ready to babysit five-month old son, Michael, every Friday. But when I got there he was already asleep, so I sat down on the sofa and turned the TV on. After a while, my phone vibrated in my hand and it was a text from Christian, my boyfriend. >Hey baby. Miss you. Wanna hang? *Can’t Babysitting. >Ok.  How about a pic? Suddenly, the baby started to cry upstairs, so I quickly snapped a picture and sent it to him. By the time, I had gotten upstairs, Henry had stopped crying, and had fallen asleep again so I let him be and went back downstairs. Only to find that I had three new messages and 3 missed calls from Christian. I called him as fast as I could, puzzled. “Elena! Thank God you’re alright! Who the hell is that guy?! Is this supposed to be some joke? Because it really isn’t funny.” I was still confused. “What guy are you talking about? I’m here alone. There is no guy.” “In your picture. You didn’t see?” “What?” I put Christian on hold, and then went to my pictures. Scanning the recent picture I had just taken earlier made me ... ... middle of paper ... ... suddenly, his head whipped around to the corner of the room. “But daddy!” he said, in a childish tone. He flinched. “Okay, daddy I won’t,” Christian grabbed me forcefully, and carried me onto the bed. Pulling out ropes from the floor, he tied both of my hands to the metal railing of the bed. ** I don’t know how long I lay there, when Christian return. “Get up,” he growled, unshackling my wrists and tossing me roughly over his shoulder. I winced as my bruised ribs were hit again. “Time for your next test.” “Remember the time you told me you hated needles?” he asked me, coming over to where I lay, and resting the bin on my stomach. “You made me come to the doctor’s office with you, to hold your hand, because you were afraid.” I stayed quiet and watched as he pulled out a large syringe from the bin. “To be afraid is to be weak, and we can’t have that.”

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