I've Heard Stories About You... (REPOST)

She opened her eyes slowly. It seemed surreal to her that she'd be able to open them at all. But if she were dead, who was to say that she couldn't? She stared up at an unfamiliar dark ceiling trying to make a mental note of deciding whether or not she was still in her own body. Her fingers twitched and she felt rough material below her fingertips. There was something cold and hard around one ankle and not the other. Apparently, everything from her fingertips to her ankles seemed to be there still. With a great effort, she sat up, her head throbbing in protest of any movement at all. There was a window beside her but the outside of it showed only that it was light outside. A sheet barely covered her still nearly naked body and parts of her underwear were still uncomfortably wet.

She was lying on a mattress that felt old and lumpy and surrounded by old, lumpy pillows mixed with newer-looking versions. Same for the sheets surrounding her, older mixed with newer ones. She frowned at the discovery of the makeshift manacle. That bastard. She fingered the latch on the handcuffs and then every link of the chain. She was to be his prisoner if not his victim? What sort of sense would it make to keep her? Unless...unless all of the stories about Jason Vorhees weren't completely true and he was a pervert as well as a serial killer. She shuddered at that thought. She tugged, futiley, at the chain knowing full well that it wouldn't give, but it would make enough noisey clanking to attract his attention in a more discreet way than her shouting.

At first, there was no response. No noise from any part of this...well whatever it was. She gave the chain a last jerk against the railing and she could hear slow, heavy footsteps coming finally. She hadn't taken in much of his appearance the night before and it seemed that she was staring at a complete stranger, now. He seemed taller, now, than she remembered. And, had he been wearing that pillowcase over his head, last night? She couldn't remember if she'd seen his face or not. His one brown eye glared down at her as if she'd just called him at the most inconvenient time imaginable.

'You're keeping me locked up?' She asked, raising her leg to show off the chain. He gave one small nod. 'What the hell for? Why not just kill me, Vorhees? Why keep me here?' She lowered her leg and rose to kneel up on her knees. She'd be damned if she was going to be a quiet prisoner. He simply tilted his head to one side and turned his back to her as if to leave. 'Don't you walk away, you prick! What the hell are you keeping me for?! Are you some sort of pervert that gets off on watching women struggling or something?' He still didn't answer, but only gave her a dismissive gesture with his hand as he left the room.

She scowled at his retreating figure. 'Can I, at least have my stuff? I dropped it along one of the roads, maybe you picked it up?' He still didn't reply, and this time, didn't even acknowledge that she'd spoken to him. 'Bastard,' she said and sat back on her heels. She unhooked her bra and laid it over the railing next to the bed. Fine, if he wouldn't give her her things, she'd dry out what she -did- have. Her underwear followed and she kept herself wrapped tightly, protectively, in one of the sheets. He hadn't seemed anxious at all when he saw her, which told her that he, most likely, wasn't a pervert. But she wouldn't drop it, completely, that easily.

She sat, poutily, against the wall and threw little pebbles or bits of wood across the room, listening to them tick and clink as they hit...whatever.