Taken [Inactive]

Alison threw up on the trash can, her stomach emptying of the small amount of food she had consumed over the last day. The action of throwing up only intensified her crying and she pushed the trash can away from herself, curling up again. A small cry left her throat as he screamed and hit the door. His mental state put her even more at risk.


She was losing control, and losing it quickly. Perhaps she had lost it the moment he locked her in this room, but it had taken her a few days to realise the reality of what was before her. She was going to die here, in this white room, with a stale turkey sandwich, a broken Monopoly board, and hair knotted together so much that it could turn to dreadlocks.


"Please get it over with..." she begged, loud enough that he would hear her. "Please just... end this... I can't... I can't do it..."
 
"No, Alison, no." Isaac responded.


He had all the sympathy in the world for her now. Her father only cared about the numbers around her, and she'd been taken by a street kid. Nothing more than a would be junkie.


"Just, I don't know what to tell you, kid." He pulled his hands over his face, scratching at the stubble that formed on his chin. There were only a few options left.


He could let her go, and probably go to prison. Or, he could kill her and run, but would mostly likely end up caught, and then go to prison. If he got the ransom? It almost wasn't a choice. There was no way now. How he thought this was a good idea all those weeks ago, he hadn't a clue. All he knew now was that it was a mistake. His whole life was just one big mistake, from the moment he was born, up until when he would die.
 
Alison turned and looked at the closed door, inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly as she tried to calm herself. She leaned her head back against the wall, still facing the closed door. "He's a businessman." she said eventually, her voice still hoarse. "He knows what he wants, and he goes for it, and if he doesn't get his way, he continues fighting until he gets it."


She looked down at the ground, "I'm just another asset to him, you know. Just another asset for him to control and possess and my cost has just become too high for him to try and get me back. There's no real point now, is there? You can't win. I can't win."


Her voice was cut off as another round of sobs shook through her body, and she curled up tighter into a ball, the grief she felt at the beginning of the week returning sharply.
 
"I know." Isaac sighed. He threw the phone across the floor in front of him, tired of seeing the thing anyways. "He harassed me for years, hoping I'd hook him up with some dealer I was supposed to know. I used to be his asset, now I have nothing."


He wrung his hands and shook his head, fidgeting uselessly. Seeing no point in holding back now, he confessed. "My name is Isaac." He choked on his words, this would damn him, but at least she would have her justice. "Isaac McKellen. Five, almost six years ago your dad offered me a job. I was ecstatic you know? I'd been on the streets for two years, and he just up and offered me a job. I couldn't believe it."


Isaac laughed nervously, continuing to wring his hands as he spoke. "He used to be what I wanted to believe in, that people, people were kind. You know? But, nah, he's an ass, just like the rest of them. Placing monetary values on his kid. He stole eighty percent of my paycheck. Every damn week. But it was a job."


He rested his head against the door and again he laughed, unsure how to let his emotions out. "I ruined my own damn life. Just like this."
 
Alison laughed dryly as he told her his name. "I'd named you Blake in my mind." she told him quietly. "I needed you to have a name so that you weren't a monster to me. A name helps, you know? But Isaac is better than Blake." she sniffled and wiped her eyes slowly. She sounded weary then, the nights of very little sleep hitting her hard.


"Isaac, people are kind." she said meekly. "Not all of them, but people can be kind. They just don't know how to be kind sometimes. They get scared that if they take a risk and do something kind that they'll end up hurt, so they retreat into comfort. My father is too comfortable as he is, and sees no reason to be kind."


She coughed, pulling the trash can back towards herself and throwing up again, her throat raw from so much crying. "I'm sorry people haven't been kind to you."
 
"You don't have to apologize to me." Isaac said wearily. He, too, was tired. They'd both been at this game of captor and captive that he'd forgotten what a real night's rest was like.


"If people were kind, I would've grown up a better man." Referring to his long history of foster parents, something she wouldn't have known about. "It's my fault though. I'm such an ass. Goddamn."


Again, he rubbed his face and groaned. It was his fault, no matter how he thought about it. He went upstairs, grabbing anything he could, and stumbled back down. If he was going to jail, if he was going to die in some sort of police hold up, he wanted to at least do the girl one kindness. Still, he didn't want her to run, if she did he knew he was dead. At least if gave her up, he'd have time to run, that much was for certain.


He opened the door and threw in a mess of pillows and blankets, as well as all the rest of the packaged food he had. There was water, juice, even a jug of milk. Then, finally, he disappeared out the door and came out with two cans of paint.


"I've wronged you. Please don't run, I want to know I at least have some time to get away, but. I can still do you this." He opened a can of deep red paint and started by tossing it at the far wall. It splattered in a mess of red, dripping down the walls as paint did.


"No more white room. It's gone now." He sighed, and sat on the floor.
 
Alison looked up at him, her tired eyes meeting his tired eyes. She was about to speak when he walked away again and returned with the paint. She giggled as he threw the paint at it, watching it splatter the wall with its brightness. It was as refreshing as she imagined sunshine would be on her skin.


Her eyes stayed on the wall, watching the paint with a weary smile. "Thank you." she said quietly. "A marker would have kept me busy for a few days, but paint is much more effective..." she turned to look at him again, meeting his gaze. "Isaac, do you believe what my father thinks? About everything having a worth, even humans? Do you think we ever stop being worth fighting for?"
 
He pondered what he might say before answering the girl. Were they still in the horrible captor captive game? Most likely. Still, he was probably going to be killed or sent to jail anyways, so, he opened the second can of paint, a bright blue, and moved it to the ground in front of her. It gave him an extra second to think.


"We all have worth." He started. "But it's not monetary. People like me, we aren't worth fighting for."


Isaac picked up his can of red paint and walked to a new wall, dunking his hand in the bucket and throwing a handful of the liquid at it. It splattered, leaving drops of red on his clothes. He didn't care. Nothing mattered any more.


"People like you though, you've got the world in front of you. I put monetary value on you, that's wrong, you've got worth for a different reason." He said solemnly.


I've already thrown my life away. It's not worth anything now.
 
Alison stood up slowly, carrying the blue paint across to the wall Isaac stood near, dipping her hand in and leaving a hand print on the wall, smiling a little. She picked up a blob of paint and threw it at the wall, the blue and red mixing together. She looked at Isaac, shaking her head. "I think you're wrong... about you, that is. I think the people who everyone gives up on are worth fighting for. But the problem is they don't even want to fight for themselves."


"There was this kid... he tried to steal my purse this once. I bought him dinner, and we talked, and I, uh..." she laughed a little. "I asked my Dad if I could go on this huge holiday, but spent all the money on sending this kid to a boarding school. Dad still doesn't know that I slept on my friend's couch for a month. But... point is... I... I think sometimes people need to be shown that someone will fight for them."


She tossed some of the paint at Isaac, grinning as it landed on his cheek. She knew it was insane, but she needed to laugh.
 
"I tried to sell you back to your family." Isaac whipped around, the blue paint slipped down the side of his face. Torn, he cried out, "I took you off the street, confined you to this room, I said things to you that-"


He stopped and pressed his hand to his forehead, instantly coating it with a layer of bright red paint. It didn't matter. He was more perplexed by her reasoning. Isaac wasn't worth fighting for, he was a nobody. So why did she try so hard to make sure that other people, the ones who had nothing, got something? She had it all, didn't have to do anything for anyone.


"Nobody needs to fight for me." He was miserable now, the guilt had consumed him wholly. Isaac threw more paint at the wall, watching the red and blue mix together in a pool on the concrete floor.
 
Alison's amusement increased as he pressed the red paint to his forehead, throwing more paint at the wall. She looked at him curiously, putting the container of paint down to stare at him properly. "Somebody needs to fight for you, because you wont." she told him firmly. She was passionate about people being worth something, and her somewhat naive passion showed as she spoke.


"I can't hate you. Your actions made sense. I want to hate you but I can't do it. It doesn't make sense to hate you." she found a part of the wall that had no paint and leaned against it. "Isaac, you have a name. You have a heart. Some would argue that we all have a soul, but I'm not convinced that any of us have one of those. "


She looked up at him, wiping her eyes and getting some paint on her cheeks. "Look, you have a name. You have worth. Just... let me believe that about people, please."
 
Gods how he wanted to cry, but he wouldn't let the girl see that side of him. Instead, he turned towards the wall and drew long streaks of red with the paint on his hands. What had become of her? When did she decide he was worth something, it was strange to hear. He'd treated her terribly, and yet, she was going to fight for him.


"Just go." He shook his head, speaking quietly. "There's the door, you can go home now."


Isaac pressed his forehead against the wall and let the paint can fall to the floor beneath him. He couldn't handle it, she was too kind a person for him. If she turned out to betray him in the end, he wouldn't have been surprised. She was related to her father after all, the man who ruined his life.


No, you did idiot.


He reminded himself it wasn't Mr. Charles, but himself.


"Leave, Alison." Isaac choked on the words. "Tell them where I am, send them to my door, I don't care. Get out. Just go."


I don't deserve such kind thoughts.
 
Alison hesitated, leaning down to cover her hands in paint once more. She wrote on the wall with her paint covered hands - the simple word 'hope' and then stepped away from the wall, wiping her hands on her jeans and sighing quietly. She felt as though she had done something wrong to make him tell her to leave, as though she had hurt him. She felt wounded that he wanted her gone.


He kidnapped you, Ali. You're his prisoner and he's freeing you. Go, damn you!





She walked to the door, looking at Isaac. She spotted her bag sitting on the other side of the room just outside the door, and picked it up, digging out her purse and pulling out her father's credit card. It was for use in emergencies. She put it on the ground, scribbling a note on a post-it note she had in her bag, 'use it sparingly, but it should get you through some tough spots.' She left the note with the credit card and left.


The girl didn't go home. She found her way to the river at the edge of the city and sat down beside it, curling up tightly and falling asleep there, under the last sunlight of the day. When she woke up, she was in the hospital, surrounded by flowers from all of her father's associates.
 
Although the credit card was of no use to him, he kept it anyways. Isaac had showered and put on a new pair of jeans, the old ones covered in red and blue paint. The white room was no more, replaced by a flurry of new colors. He'd had an attack of despair, threw the cans wherever his arms happened to be swinging, until he couldn't stand to be there any more.


Clean now, he shrugged a sweatshirt on his shoulders and stuck his gun in his pocket. For a while, he could at least walk around the city, no one knew what he'd done. Not yet he wanted to believe. He couldn't admit what he'd done. The words wouldn't come. Even if he wanted to point the finger at Mr. Charles, hiring him for the purpose of drugs, no one would believe him. If they did, it would only destroy Alison's future, she'd have no money, nothing to support herself with.


So for now, he left the house, left the memories of the past few days and walked into the city. He didn't need his car. Not where he planned to go.
 
Alison didn't speak to the kind nurses. She didn't speak to the police who came to ask her questions. She didn't speak at all, except to say 'please' and 'thank you'. It was too hard to form words and she didn't want to say anything about Isaac. The police kept probing, but she knew she was more stubborn than they were.


The hospital was located right in the middle of the city. A friend from college came to visit, and convinced the nurses that she would be okay if she was outside. Alison was grateful. The white walls of the hospital didn't help her mind to stay calm, and the night outside was clear. A few stars glimmered and she smiled, resting her head against her friend's shoulder.


She was sitting in a wheelchair, in spite of the complete lack of injuries on her. Her friend didn't try to make her speak, simply sitting with her. Alison noticed a figure in the distance, walking through the street with a strange determination.


"Isaac..." she said quietly, then again louder, "Isaac!"
 
Isaac was close to a busy intersection, with another road just below. It was a major highway during the day, not so busy at night but still rather full of cars. He was walking along the street when he heard a familiar voice.


No, f*cking way.





He turned his head to see Alison next to someone he'd never met before, just another person. His feet took over and he booked it down the street, not wanting to see her face. She was too innocent to be involved in, yet again, how he would screw up his life.


Just pretend you didn't hear. Just go, go.
 
Alison wanted to chase him. She wanted to talk to him, to make sure he would be okay, but she knew that she couldn't. It would just make the doctors more worried about her. She had to stay put. "Isaac!" she repeated, her voice louder, breaking a little with emotion. "Please!" she begged, then buried her head in her friend's shoulder.


Her friend, a guy from her college study group, held her closer to him, not asking why she was so desperate to talk to this man. He was worried for her, his arms wrapping around her and his head resting on top of hers.


"Isaac!" she shouted one more time, her voice echoing.
 
Isaac stopped and screamed over the bridge, cars moved swiftly beneath him, unaware of his problems and fears. He wished she wasn't there. What he planned to do wasn't something he wanted her, of all people, to see.


She was a good girl. Kind to those undeserving of help. She'd admitted she went so far as to take money from her father to help a kid through school. What kind of person did that? Alison Charles. The daughter of a corrupt man, she was the image of purity and good interest. She'd convinced Isaac, made him absolutely sure, that what he'd done was wrong. Nothing he could do would make kidnapping her right. Treating her like an abused dog, locking her in his basement.


Nothing will ever fix what I did to you.





He gripped the chain link fence in front of him, the only thing keeping him from the ledge just behind it. The only thing in his way now. If that didn't work, the gun was still tucked in his pocket.


Nothing will ever make my worth valuable again.





Isaac pulled himself up so that his feet rested on a thick concrete slab, just at the base of the fence, his hands reached up to the top.


Nothing.
 
Alison struggled to see what Isaac was doing, her eyes straining to make out his figure as she sat enveloped in her friend's arms. She had a feeling though, and she couldn't escape it. She reached into her friend's pocket and called 911 quickly, telling the operator that there was a suicide attempt on the bridge near the hospital.


Police and ambulance sirens roared to life quickly, and she watched as they moved towards the faint figure of Isaac. She let her friend take her back inside, returning her to the care of the doctors and nurses, who calmed her with sedatives so that she was forced into a strangely peaceful sleep.


A policeman stood at the bottom of the bridge, while another approached Isaac from behind. "Sir, I need you to step down from there." he told Isaac quietly.
 
"What's the point." Isaac yelled at the man below him. He was behind the fence, perched on the edge of the concrete just above the bridge. He kept the gun hidden, not wanting to be shot, then have to fall. If he survived that it would be worse.


When the man behind him was too close, he leaned precariously over the edge as best he could before dangerously teetering forward. The police man stepped back in response. It was the reaction Isaac was looking for.


"It's all messed up, I've got nothing left." He screamed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes now.
 
"There's always something." the police man behind him told him gently. "There's always something left." he was calm, his eyes watching Isaac's body carefully for signs that he was about to jump. The response team below were doing their best to prepare for him to jump, a large mat inflating rapidly and the ambulance prepared.


"Come back over to this side and we can talk. We can talk about what that something is, and we can work out what to do next." the officer was insistent. "We can talk this out. I know you don't want to, but death is a much worse thing than talking, don't you think?"
 
"You don't understand." Isaac shook his head. He stood up from his crouched position and started to pace to the other side of the highway.


Like moths, effortlessly drawn to a flame, men below dragged the mat as he walked. If he weren't about to jump, he would've found it comical. The way they had to haul the inflatable mat below him, just to save one worthless man's life. He didn't want to deal with life, not his.


"Why talk?" Isaac asked. "Death is death, you're done. Then, then I'll be more useful to the world." He held his head in his hands, shaking terribly. "It'll be better like that." Again, he sat down on the edge of the concrete.


Cars had been blocked off, a crowd formed around the area. So many people were involved now, and delaying his suicide would only make it worse. Here he was, causing problems again.


"There's nothing left." He wailed into the night. Furious, upset, angry, confused, so many emotions ran through his body in a mess. He was a mess.
 
"I don't understand, you're right. But you can help me understand." the officer took a careful step forward. "There's always something left. I assure you. There's something. It might be the smallest piece of hope, but it's something. Climb back to this side. Let's deal with this another way."


Alison hadn't told anyone about Isaac. She refused to speak. She was still coming up with a story that would ensure that no one else was implied - something about young rebellion gone awry. The police, the media, none of them know anything about what had happened.


"Come down. Please." the officer repeated. "Let's deal with this head on, escaping doesn't solve anything. It just makes it worse for those you leave behind."
 
"Who's left?" Isaac retorted. "You think I've got a family waiting for me? Nope, foster kid. Any siblings. Uh-uh."


He was angry now. All Isaac was doing was ridding the world of one less worthless human, him. From his pocket he pulled his gun which triggered an instant response from the policemen.


"Drop the gun, we're just trying to help you." One of them yelled, his own weapon aimed at Isaac now.


Isaac pulled it up to his temple, tears streamed down his face, unable to think any other way. Why were people trying so hard now? It was because he finally made a scene, that's why. The only time it matters is when someone is about to die, but by then, their resolution is shot. Just like Isaac, they had nothing at that point. There were no words which would coax him into feeling safe.


"Please son, you don't have to do this." The same man pleaded with Isaac.


I don't know what else to do.
 
"Please." the officer repeated, concern etched into his voice. "Step back from the ledge, put the gun down. Please. There are children down there, watching you. You need to show them that you can step away from this ledge. You need to show them that even when you're pushed to breaking point, you can recover."


He was beginning to worry that this time, he wouldn't be able to talk this man back from the edge. He hated seeing someone jump. It haunted him for months afterwards, replying every second, and every word. He hated when someone felt like they couldn't be saved.


"Please. Give me the gun, and step back. Trust me. I know there's someone who cares about you. Even if it's just one, I know you can think of them."
 
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