Destroying Love

Twenty-two

I've been kidnapped three times in total. As an agent, it's kind of impressive for most people.

I wouldn't say that. Maybe it's just luck, maybe it's just the way you use your trust out there or maybe it's all about how many enemies you have. Clearly, I do have an enemy right now.

As for my situation, I would call it luck. Not a lot of people like me, so it's a surprise someone doesn't try to kidnap me more often.

Too bad for them, I guess. I mean, I'm such a good company.

My head hurts. I'm in a bad mood, and it doesn't help when I open my eyes and take in my surroundings.

The first thing I notice is how small the room is. The walls are made or concrete. The ground is cold, old, and dirty. There are no windows. At least, that's what I think until I notice, in the far corner, too high for anybody to reach, a tiny and dirty window. Unreachable.

That's where the only light comes from, I realize. It means it's still daytime. Who knows how long it's been since I'm here.

The second thing I notice is that I'm not alone in the room.

At least ten women are all around me, wearing nothing more than tank tops, ripped jeans or shorts—all dirty.

They're scared, shivering, but they don't look at me with surprise in their eyes. It's as if they're used to that.

To see a new woman being kidnapped and brought here.

I sit up, glancing around me. The third thing I notice is how they look all the same. Brown hair. Blue-gray eyes. The woman closest to me has green eyes, though.

But they all look the same.

They all look like me.

A strangled sound catches my attention. I turn my head to my left. A woman is clenching her side, her eyes filled with tears. She winces and two other women come to her side, trying to help her.

I'm on her side as well before I can understand what I'm doing.

"What happened?" I ask, taking place between the two women hovering over her.

The one to my right, with the green eyes, glances at me. Her lips tremble, probably from the cold weather in the room, but other than that, she looks fine.

"They realized she wasn't who they were looking for," she murmurs, looking at the woman who presses a hand to her side, closing her eyes. When she speaks again, I can hear the fear in her voice. "That's what will happen to all of us."

I clench my jaw. I don't have to ask to know who she's talking about. Or who they're looking for.

I focus my attention on the woman in pain. When she lifts her shirt, I hold my breath. The wound doesn't seem deep, but there is a lot of blood.

The woman to my left moves her hand to help the woman in pain. I stop her when she's about to put pressure on the wound.

"Don't," I say. I gaze at her dirty hands with dry blood, as well at the unclean fabric she's about to use for pressure. "We don't want to infect the wound."

I look at my own hands. Then without questioning myself, I tear off a part of my shirt and attempt to do something. To help a woman who's here by my fault. To save a woman who got hurt, because she looked like me.

They're all here, shivering, scared, hurt, because of me.

"You know what you're doing?" The woman with green eyes questions, but it sounds more like a statement.