Follow The Rules

Talented and smart

It's in the complete silence that the panic re-grips his heart, and squeezed every time he thought about his situation. He was completely defenceless, tied to a pole. He tried tilting his head to his shoulder to shift the blindfold off his eyes. If he only had his eye sight, then he could relax slightly. But now, having no idea of where he is or where anyone else is, the dangers that might be around him, petrified him. He grunted in frustration as the blindfold stayed firmly in place and decided to give up.

He shifted against his cuffs and the pole. It was definitely metal and relatively thick for a pole. He could lean against it quite comfortably. The ground felt like floorboards and there was no wind. He was kind of cold, but most likely inside. That was good. It meant at least he wouldn't freeze to death any time soon. But it also meant that he was less likely to be found. Where was he?

He strained his ears and tried to quiet his breathing, as he struggled to listen to his surroundings.

Nothing.

He could hear George and B shuffling around somewhere on the other side of the door and occasionally the soft murmuring of voices, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't understand what they were saying. That would help him a lot.

They hadn't admitted that this had to do with his father when he had asked, but they hadn't denied it either. It was probably a case that he lost or most likely won, because his father very rarely lost a case. He was extremely good at his job, however that had come with a price. Not only did it make him a target for situations such as this, but he had to sacrifice spending time with his family for the job. Oliver barely spent any time with his father and his father had come from quite a poor background, and built himself up to join the rich through a lot of hard work. Therefore, anything Oliver did was never quite good enough. He excelled at school even though he wasn't necessarily very smart, he was on both the football and the baseball team, all to seek the approval of his father who didn't have enough time to even notice the hard work. Oliver sat wondering whether something as big as this would be able to pry his father away from his work. However it was his mother he had heard on the phone. Perhaps she was the one dealing with it all. She was always very smart with the family's money. She'd know if he was worth the price his kidnappers were asking for.

How much were they asking for? He had said that as soon as his parents gave them the money they needed he could go. How much was that exactly? What did they need it for? Oliver sighed and practically banged his head against the pole he was tied to in frustration. He hated having so many unanswered questions and he had absolutely no power to figure them out.

It was simple questions as well that got to him.

What time was it? How long had he been there? How long had he been knocked out? How was he knocked out? He remembered walking home from school on Friday, but everything that happened between then and waking up in the room without any knowledge of where he was, was a blur. Was it even still Friday? OR had he been knocked out through the whole night?

He must have been picked up on the way home and hit on the head or something. Even though there was no physical pain from any injury, his head had felt kind of groggy when he first woke up.

How long were they going to keep him there? If he missed school on Monday without a good reason, people would question it. He never had time off school unless he was gravely ill, which he also managed to avoid quite well. Surely his Mother would pay the money as soon as possible and they would let him go. She had her proof that he was alive so all she would have to do was send the money.

It felt like hours until everything in the... house? Apartment? Whatever... went still silent. They must've gone out or gone to sleep. Hopefully sleep, that would give him a rough approximation that it was Friday night. But at what time they go to sleep, he could have no idea. It was more frustrating than anything he had ever experienced. He never knew how horrible it could be to be immobilized until he felt a single hair tickling his temple and not having the ability to remove it. Or when his shoulders began to seize up from their uncomfortable position and not being able to adjust how his arms sat. He'd never underestimate the use of his arms ever again.

A combination of fear, frustration and discomfort forced tears to fall uncontrollably. He didn't cry exactly, it was just the inability to hold in his emotions any more. How could this happen to him? His chest and face were already in pain from the blows and his arms and neck were killing from the awkward position. What else were they going to do to him while he was here?

Oliver was surprised when he began to feel himself doze off, considering his uncomfortable position. He concluded that considering that it was the end of the school week and that he had been through more in the last... hour? Five hours? f*****g hell... than he had his whole life, so all in all it really wasn't that surprising. Eventually he was able to turn off his brains, and relax enough to drift off into an uncomfortable sleep.

His sleep came in short bursts, continually waking up from discomfort and lack of orientation. He must've woken up six times during the night. Or at least he thought it was the night. Each time the place was still quiet and he presumed that that meant that it was still night time.

When he woke up for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, he had the immediate distinct feeling that he wasn't alone. His suspicions were quickly confirmed when B spoke.

"Sleep well?" The voice sounded as though there was plenty of distance between them, and he was grateful because if it sounded close, he's sure he would have wet himself or something. Oliver went to give a smart alec reply, but remembered that his mouth was still gagged. He let out an annoyed huff instead, knowing that B knew he wouldn't be able to reply to the question. The low chuckle from the man confirmed that B understood the meaning of the dramatic release of air, and Oliver heard him shuffle around the room, until he felt him crouch right next to him. Instinctively, Oliver recoiled away from the man, but that didn't seem to faze B at all.

"Right. Sorry about that." Oliver jumped when a hand touched his cheek and a moment later the tape was ripped off his face. "Can't have you making any more noise than necessary, can we?"

"You fired a god damn gun in here." Oliver countered, his voice coming out a little croaky from lack of use and water. "I don't think unnecessary noise is your main priority."

"Wow, talented and smart." B mocked and Oliver wasn't sure how to take that comment.

"What do you mean?" Was all he could think to ask as he shifted against the pole, attempting to move the handcuffs to a different part of his wrist to stop the pain.

"It means what I said." He says simply and even though B couldn't see his eyes, he must have registered the confusion Oliver was displaying. He heard B sigh and what sounded like the turning of page in a book before B spoke again. "You're talented kid. I mean, I don't know much about art, but I'll give you that much." Art. He's looking through the sketchbook that Oliver carried around with him constantly, however, no one, not even his closest friends had ever seen what was inside. Now this stranger who was holding him for ransom probably has a deeper insight into his life than anyone else.

"You went through my school bag." He said dejectedly and B scoffed.

"You're handcuffed to a pillar and blindfolded. I don't think the contents of your school bag are your main priority." Oliver had to give him credit for using his own words against him, however much it annoyed him. "But seriously, I didn't know you took art. I thought you were just one of those smart, jock, douche bags."

How much did these people know about him? Had they been stalking or something to know that he played sports, or that he did well in class? Oliver made a vow that if he got out of there alive, he was going to be a lot more perceptive to his surroundings.

"I don't take art." He said simply, trying not to think about how creepy it was that he knew what classes he took. "And I'm not a douche bag." He threw in as an afterthought. And he really wasn't. Yeah sure, he was popular and a jock, but he did well at school, teachers loved him, he prided himself on being nice to everyone and he had never bullied anyone. Ever. He'd even stepped in to stop some random kid being tormented by someone on the basketball team, at risk of his own reputation. A douche bag? Never.

"Why not?" B asked, and strangely, he seemed genuinely interested. "You're good."

Oliver let out a long sigh, considering whether or not to actually tell this stranger about his life. What harm could it do? When his let go, he's sure he'll never see or hear from these guys again.

"What's art good for? Art won't bring in money and that's all that matters in life, right? There's no career in art." Oliver said tiredly, repeating the words that his father had said to him when Oliver had suggested taking it as an elective. It was probably the longest conversation he and his father had ever had. However it wasn't really a conversation. It was a lecture. His father had gone on and on about how hard he had worked to get the family money, and he'd be damned if he let his only son blow it all on a pathetic career such as art. Although to save anymore lectures or arguments, Oliver had shrugged off his idea as though it were nothing, the conversation had really got to him. Art was something he really enjoyed, and although no one had ever seen his sketches, he knew that he had some sort of talent when it came to drawing and that maybe if he took some classes in it he'd actually be good.

"There is if you're good." He almost forgot B was even sitting there he had become so depressed in his thoughts that he was caught off guard by the comment.

"What?"

"You're good, kid." He explained and Oliver heard him flicking through the pages of his sketchbook. "And you obviously enjoy it." That was true. When he was pissed off, or upset about something, he would often turn to his pencil and pad and draw whatever he felt. Whatever was in his head. Once it was out on the page he felt better.

"Yeah, well," Oliver said, getting a little annoyed at B's persistence while fighting the flattery he felt when B commented on his talent. He leaned his head back against the pole so that he was looking somewhat at the roof. "Apparently whether I enjoy it or not is irrelevant."

B was silent for a moment, and Oliver shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what B was thinking or even looking at. He had a suspicion that it was him B was staring at, but not knowing was so maddening. The sound of the door creaking open seemed to jump B out of whatever it was he was doing, because he heard him shift to his feet and cough awkwardly as someone – most likely George – entered the room.

"You hungry?" B said from a lot further away now. He was surprised that they even bothered to feed him. At least he was sure he wouldn't starve to death in their care.

"Sure." Oliver sighed, food was the last thing on his mind, but it gave him something to do rather than have awkward, personal conversations with his kidnappers.

"Fine." B said gruffly, a lot less warmly than he had spoken to him when they were alone. "Go for it." And B left the room.

"I hope you're hungry, beautiful." Georges voice sent shivers down his spine for no reason other than he instinctively hated this guy. Of course he hated both of them for doing this in the first place, but he had a bad feeling about George. He patted his knee as he sat down next to him, leaving his hand there a moment too long for Oliver's liking, and the unnecessary touching definitely contributed to the hatred.

"Don't call me beautiful." Oliver snapped, shifting his legs a little to the left to get that little bit further away from the man. George chuckled as he adjusted the collar of his school shirt, which, no matter how much Oliver tried to pull away from him, did little to stop the contact.

"But you are beautiful, precious." Then he felt warm breath on the shell of his ear, but no matter what he did he couldn't escape it. "Especially tied up like you are and completely at my mercy." The whisper caused Oliver to shudder and George must've seen because he pulled back, chuckling again before he heard the sound of a cutlery and a plate. "Open up that pretty mouth of yours. I've made eggs."

"I'm not hungry." Oliver said and it wasn't a lie. Not only was he not all that hungry in the first place, but Georges words had made him feel physically sick and he thought that if he ate anything it was sure to bounce straight back up. He was met with a viscous slap across the face, swing his head to the side.

"I've made you breakfast and you're going to eat it." Georges voice was low and soft, but held so much malice that Oliver almost obliged right then and there for fear of his life.

"f**k you." He tried to say with confidence but whether or not it came out with that intention he'll never know. A punch to the gut caused him to cough and heave and he tried to double over but the pole and his hands held him in place, so instead he tried to curl his knees into his chest. Suddenly George was sitting on his legs, pushing them back down to the floor. The man was a lot bigger and heavier than he had imagined and he let out a cry of pain as George let his entire body weight land on his legs. Another punch to the stomach stopped the cry mid way through as he gasped for air until a hand was around his throat and pushing him up against the pole. It wasn't tight enough to completely block off his air ways, but enough that Oliver found it somewhat difficult to breathe.

"Just you wait, boy." George whispered, his breath hot against his face and he heard the smirk he must be wearing on his face in his voice. He felt the other Georges other hand trail down his chest, moving lower and lower and until it came to rest just above his belt and he realised what George was implying. He tried to squirm away from the man but he was being held completely in place by Georges body weight and large hands.

"Oi." This was B and although the sudden reappearance of the man startled Oliver into stillness, it seemed to have no effect on George, who remained where he was, not pulling away like he had expected him to. "What the f**k do you think you're doing?" B's voice was harsh, and full of disbelief. Did he really not know what his partner was capable of? Oliver had had a bad feeling about the man the moment he heard him, how could B not know?

"Just teaching our boy a few facts of life." George said casually as though he weren't strangling and almost molesting a sixteen year old kidnap victim.

"Get off him, George." It was obviously an order, but even then, George hesitated for a moment, his fingers almost twitching to squeeze Oliver's neck a little tighter and move his other hand just that little bit lower, but eventually the man crawled off. Oliver didn't move a muscle, too shocked and freaked out to contemplate what had almost happened.

"Apparently, little rich-boy's not hungry." George spat down from above him before he stomped off and from the sound of it, out the door. Only then, did Oliver allow himself to breathe again.

He felt the presence of B still at the door and again, he hated not knowing what he was looking at or thinking. It felt like forever that the two of them stayed unmoving in the room until finally Oliver thought he heard B mutter something before he too left the room and closed the door after him.

Oliver sat disbelieving for a moment, taking in what he thought he heard B say before he left. He didn't believe the words could have truly come from his kidnapper.

He could have sworn he heard him say he was sorry...