Trapped

My first story on this wiki! It's mostly for me to work on in writer's block/or just for fun. I'll try and continue it as much as I can! I hope you enjoy it.
I wake up in a fog of nothing. The sensation of something pressed against my back is prominent, yet not the first thing I notice. The first thing is the darkness. Deep, inky blackness that surrounds me. It isn't alarming, at first, but as what seemed like reality begins to sink in, panic seeped through my veins. My first instinct is to move, but as I go to do so, I realised that if I can't see where I am, moving might be fatal. I cling to that rational part of thinking. 
A cold, faded, feeling begins to trickle from the top of my head downwards, like cool water sliding down my forehead in slow motion. My head begins to empty of coherent thought and will, leaving me blank. A chill creeps down my spine.
Whatever was pressed against my back is a hard surface, slick, like marble floor. The thought struck me suddenly that I couldn't remember anything. Who I was, my name, what food I like. Nothing. Yet I know what a marble floor feels like, what food is, the taste of a cheeseburger. Yet I can't remember who I ate that cheeseburger with and where, or why. That thought, that I have absolutely no idea who I am, hits me harder than the realisation I can't see anything. 
Am I blind?
I wouldn't know, since I don't remember. 
What I had failed to notice until now was that the nothing-fog was lifting. Suddenly sounds began to creep into my consciousness, like moths to a flame. The trundle of a metal trolley across hard floor. Rain pattering against glass. The slow, steady drip of water off something. The blackness in front of my eyes seemed greyer, cloudier. As if it was fading.
And suddenly the fog was gone.
I could see.
My head had been pressed against a window. Cool,
hard glass against my forehead. But what was against my back was not the cool
marble I felt before, rather a smooth wood panelling with ridges every 30 or so
centimetres.
“What?” I murmur to myself quietly.
My heart hammers as I lift my hand to rub the
sleep out of my bleary eyes, but I stop, my gaze falling on the colour of my
skin. The shape of my fingers. The blemishes. I have dark tawny/sepia brown
skin and neatly trimmed nails, perfectly shaped. My fingers are slim and as I
observe the rest of my arms, I see that my limbs are slender. I spot a tiny,
centimetre-long scar, pale and white against my dark skin, tracing across my
palm. I rub my finger over it, trying to force my mind to remember how it
happened. 
I panic slightly as I recognise some sort of
cool surface around my neck, not restricting my breath but tight enough to
worry me. I whimper slightly as I reach up and tug at the object, which seems
to be a long, cylindrical 
With a jolt, I realise I’m in some sort of long
caravan. Thicker than a bus, but about as long. And it doesn’t have rows of
seats like buses do. I turn my head slightly and find myself looking out the
window my head had been rested against. The caravan was moving, and I saw tangled
trees and a flat expanse of grey road. Fear lumped in my throat. Where am I?
I was sitting on something wooden, too. After a
few seconds of inspection, I figured out it was the top bunk of a bunk bed, without
the mattress. A flutter, a moth-like flutter, began in my chest. Anxiety. I was
scared. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t even know who I am, let alone where I
am. I bit my lip, cautiously peered downwards and taking in the rest of the
caravan. …there’s…other people…
From what I could see, there was five other
people than myself. A man with grey roots around his mid-thirties sat, knocked
out (presumably), in a wooden chair. He had mostly black hair and a fairly pale
complexion. He had a mole below his mouth, small and precise, like someone had
inked it on with makeup. He has a strong, defined nose and carefully plucked
eyebrows. It looked like he tended to wear makeup on a daily basis. His eyes
were closed. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt with the words, Makeup
for Men printed across it in sprawling white and denim jeans with nice
deep-looking pockets.
The second person I saw was an extremely pretty
girl who looked to be around seventeen. She had a sharp jawline but slightly
round cheeks, giving her face a softer look. Her lightly tanned pale skin was
complimented by rose gold ombre hair, starting medium brown and then ending up a
beautiful curled rose gold. Her wide green eyes were sharp and frightened, with
a certain anger in them. She was sitting in the far corner of the caravan, as
far away from the rest of us as possible, her arms wrapped around her knees and
a death glare directed at the floor. She was wearing a forest green turtleneck,
which she kept on nervously tugging at, and short white shorts on (the kind you
always see in the girls’ section at Target). She didn’t look particularly
friendly. 
My gaze caught on a guy, handsome from what I think
I’ve seen, with dark, messy black hair and stunning blue eyes. He was also
awake, sitting in a comfy-looking (but ugly) mustard-yellow armchair which was
pushed to one side of the van. His face was very pale, and he looked to have a
decent amount of muscles- lean but not built. I could tell he was very
confident of himself by the way his head was tilted, and his smirk appeared as
I caught his eyes. I had the slight feeling that most other girls would I
blushed, but I was just unsettled. Does he know me? Can he tell me who I am?
Category:Literature
Category:Fiction
Category:Original Stories
Category:Original Stories (Unfinished)