I, II, III, IIII. Seven hundred and thirty-three days. Seven hundred and thirty-three days trapped in a cell, in a cave, isolated from everyone. Years of being held captive. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of not being able to talk to anyone. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of not having a proper meal. Seven hundred and thirty-tree days of counting the days until I am released from this prison. I keep track of the days by engraving tallies in the stone where I’m being held. I keep track by the small opening at the top of the room. It’s not big enough to be a window but it’s enough to see the sunlight and have a semblance of fresh air. Water is brought to me once a week in a bucket. I found out only after I had drunk it all that it was one week exactly to get a new bucket of water. The food is once a day but enough for 3 portions if rationed correctly; this too was only after I finished everything that I realized it was the case. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of rationing food and water. I don’t know how much longer of this I can take. It’s torture not knowing when I’ll be free. I don’t even know who’s behind my captivity, who is holding me. All I know is that I’m not the first one to be held here. I know this because there were marks and drawings on the floors and walls when I got here. Sometimes my captive will take me outside, where he lets me bath under a waterfall of sorts. He keeps me chained to a tree when he takes me there. He trusts that I won’t try to escape; he's right, I won’t try anything, I have no need to escape. I deserve this treatment. What I’ve done is much too horrible to ever be let free. The conditions of my captivity might be horrible, but I manage. I get fed every day and I have enough water to keep me going. I have regular bathing periods and they can last up to a whole day; he goes hunting when I bathe, sometimes he catches something quickly, other times he doesn’t get anything. But that doesn’t affect the meals I get. He usually goes hunting when there’s still some of the last hunt’s meat left. I might be a prisoner, but I’m taken care of well enough to be sustained. Seven hundred and thirty-five days. Yesterday’s bath day was refreshing. I keep counting the days, even though I’m not entirely sure when I’ll be released from this prison. It helps keep me sane to keep track of the days. Sometimes, I’ll ask him for the date, just to keep things interesting, even though he never answers, I still ask. Other times, I’ll even ask how long I’ll be held captive for, just to keep things interesting for him, and me, mostly me though, since he doesn’t answer. Seven hundred and ninety-two days. It’s bath day. I spend most of my time in the water. It feels cool on my skin. He comes back right before dark. When he brings me back to my makeshift cell, I notice my tallies are gone. All of them, vanished, no longer engraved into the walls. What happened to them? How did the stone get so smooth after my endless scraping of the walls? I turn around to ask him what had happened but notice he’s vanished, just like my tallies. I notice the door is left ajar. This would never happen. He’s way too meticulous to forget to close and lock the door. Is this possibly the end of my sentence? Is my captivity finished? I don’t even know where I am, much less how to get out of here. I should wait it out. I was doing fine here, food every day, and a good supply of water. So I’ll start again: I, II, III.
About the Creator
Tifany Walker
Just a girl trying to live out her dream of being an author.
Keep reading
More stories from Tifany Walker and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Fashionably Late
As you arrive to the party, all dressed in your fancy attire, you take a moment to breath before heading up the pathway to the front door. You take one last look at your watch before opening the door; perfect, fashionably late, as intended. You take one last deep breath before walking in. The first person you see is the host, Kyle, he seems to be looking through you with a concerned gaze. He walks to close the door that you are still holding open, and you notice something different, eerie. You move out of his way just in time, or else he would have run into you for sure. He walks back to one of his guests, a man you’ve only met once or twice before. You find it odd that he didn’t greet you but think nothing of it as you’ve known him since you were children. You decide to make your way to the kitchen to find a snack and something to drink. In the kitchen two other childhood friends are gossiping about Kyle’s love life, or lack thereof. You say hello, but they ignore you; it’s odd but you assume they’re just a little mad because you’re always late to these events. You head to the fridge to grab a beer and the girls become speechless. You ask them what’s wrong, but they keep ignoring you and stare in your direction. You give up trying to speak to them, so you head for the main room, but before you do so you grab an appetizer from the table. One of girls lets out a yelp, startling you, causing you to drop the food. You decide not to bother getting another one and go see Kyle. As you approach him, he’s facing away from you, so you tap his shoulder to announce yourself. He doesn’t turn around, so you speak his name. He continues to ignore you. You start getting annoyed at this because even though you’ve always been late everyone accepts you for it. They’ve never gone this far to make you feel bad about it. You tell everyone in the main room to eat dirt and head into the library. In the library you head for the secret stash of booze that’s hidden behind a wall of fake book covers. You take a glass and pour yourself a drink. You then proceed to look over the actual books, judging the titles and the covers. You tell yourself that your friends are just trying to bother you and you shouldn’t let them. You spot a book that your mother used to read to you when you were younger; before she passed away. You pick it up to gloss over, you’re reminded of the good times you’ve had before you became a late comer to these parties. Your mother is the reason you started arriving “fashionably” late. She was always late, but the one day she was early, that’s the day she died. She was crossing the street, excited to be home early for once, but a reckless driver hit her, not even noticing he did it. You were across the street waiting for her to reach you, but she never did. Ever since then you’ve viewed being on time as dangerous, something you would never do. You shed a tear, and at that moment Kyle comes through the door asking if anyone is in here. You drop the book, and he just sighs and mumbles to himself that the people at these parties have no respect for his property. He starts talking about you now, stating how even if you’re always late, you’re never this late, and it’s getting weird. You stare at him dumbfounded. Okay, this has gone too far. You go to put your hand on his shoulder, but it passes through him. Shocked, you try again and still, it goes through his body. You try again, and again, and again to no avail. With each try you grow more and more confused. What is happening to you? Why is this happening? As Kyle is about to leave, his phone rings. He’s speechless. He walks out of the library, with you on his heels. He turns off the background music and as the other guests murmur annoyed phrases, he clears his throat and struggles to tell everyone that you are dead. You died on the way to the party; got hit by a car. You stare at him as he breaks down crying, then you look at the other guests who are going through an array of emotions as they try to process the news. You are dead. A ghost.
By Tifany Walker2 years ago in Fiction
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor4 days ago in Fiction
The Insane Biology Of The Sand Worm
Frank Herbert introduced giant sandworms to the list of creatures, unlocking a new fear. Could these beings really exist? Looking at paleontology books, we found that giant insects once dominated the Earth. The largest worm ever recorded was aquatic and measured 1 foot. Currently, the largest worm on Earth is the giant Gippsland earthworm in Australia, measuring up to 10 ft. But on the planet Arrakis, sandworms reach 1300 ft in length, playing a vital role in the ecosystem. While it sounds plausible in theory, scientists say such worms couldn't survive on Earth due to gravity and physics. This makes them larger than even the biggest dinosaurs. Bringing sandworms to Earth would have many challenges, so let's hope they stay on distant planets
By Kenedy Njuki3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.