True Intentions by Lisa Kuehne

us. I can smell the mixture of beer and sweat radiating from his clothes the closer he gets to the Jeep.
    "Ah, yeah, sure . . . you can use my cell," I offer reluctantly. I lean over toward my right side to pull out the cell from the front pocket of my green backpack. It's lying on the passenger seat.
    As I reach for the backpack, there's an instant, yet agonizing, sharp pain at the back of my head. Before I have the chance to scream out, my world goes black . . . .

    * * * * *

    My head throbs as I drift back and forth into a semi-conscious state. I hear noises, although they sound incredibly muffled. I make out the sound of an engine. The floor rattles beneath me and causes my body to vibrate. I try to pull my hand around to touch the area of pain coming from the back of my skull, only to realize both hands are tightly bound behind my back with some type of rope. As I lie on my side, the rough, old, crusty carpet rubs against my left cheek, causing my sensitive skin to burn. My vision is cloudy, as if a fog surrounds me. I'm unable to focus on any objects more than a few feet away. I gulp past the lump in my dry throat. I am in some type of large van— or a RV!
    Panic overwhelms me, and I fight the pain in my head to open my eyes as wide as they will possibly go. As I consider my options, my breathing becomes more rapid.
    Fear of my fate sets in.
    I'm going to die . . . .
    Okay, let me recollect my thoughts.
    I remember the man asking me for my phone before I blacked out, but after that—nothing.
    Disabling tears fill my eyes. I try not to picture in vivid detail what I believe his intentions must be. I can only assume I'm being taken somewhere secluded. I start thinking about my mother finding out about my death and blaming herself for bringing me out to California to begin with.
    I imagine her all alone, first losing Aiden and Dad, and now me. I wish I could tell her goodbye. Different thoughts race in my mind, competing for dominance: I can't do this to her . . . . She needs me . . . . I have to get out of here . . . .
    I attempt to adjust my body to sit up, but with the bumpy rocking of the RV and feeling dizzy, I lie back down. My hands are so tightly bound, there's no way I can squeeze them through the ropes.
    Is escaping hopeless ?
    I gently move my feet, assuming they're also tied, but I pleasantly discover I'm able to move them without resistance. I wiggle and scoot until I find something hard to lean on to balance myself. The orange-colored carpet is worn and hard, resembling cement. My heart pounds from terror. I steady myself against an old, rusting, dining table post screwed to the floorboard. Mice droppings cover the floor. My head still pounds, and the rapid beating of my heart accelerates the pounding.
    Heavy music blares from the front speakers. I look in the direction of the music and see a rigged-up shower curtain hanging between the seats of the motor home and the living space. Undoubtedly, someone has to be driving this thing on the other side of that curtain.
    The rattling of the floorboard reassures me the RV is still moving, but it's traveling at a slower speed than before. I may not have much time left before he reaches his destination. I need to find a way to get my hands free or escape will be impossible.
    While scoping out the outdated interior, something silver catches me eye.

    Drawers and cupboards sit to my far left. The drawers' handles caught my attention.
    Could there be scissors or a knife in there?
    Are there any drawers closer to me?
    The more the RV bounces, the harder my head pounds from the pain.
    I must not think about the pain now, not yet .
    I need to focus all my thoughts, all my wits, on staying alive. There's a wet spot about the size of a small paper plate, of wet blood on the carpeting where I lay. More blood streaks lead to my current location, most likely caused from my wiggling over to the bolted table.
    I try to think, but can't concentrate. A gush of nausea hits my