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Eyes as Dark as Night

by Sam H Arnold 3 months ago in fiction

Meg awaits in a dark cell with a madman

Eyes as Dark as Night
Photo by Marco Chilese on Unsplash

Meg came to, in the pitch black. She couldn't remember where she was. Then, feeling around, she felt the cold, damp concrete floor under her fingers. That was when she first realised that she was naked.

She shivered as the cold and damp from the floor seeped into her bones. She started to shake; a mixture of cold and fear put her body into spasm. She sat up; the pain in her back was unbearable as the feeling started to return. Hugging herself, she tried to calm her breathing, to stop this uncontrollable shaking.

She ran her fingers through her hair. Her fingers caught in the sticky mess at the base of her skull. As her fingers touched her head, a shock of electricity went through her brain, almost making her pass out. A rainbow of colour danced across her vision. The pain eased as she massaged her eyes and took a deep breath. Again she tried to feel her head, feeling the wound that was open and seeping.

By Alyson McPhee on Unsplash

At her house cooking dinner for her husband, that was the last thing she remembered. Then the front door burst in, pain in her head and the darkness descending.

The rattling from the opposite wall brought her back to reality. She only realised it was a door when she heard the key turn. She saw the silhouette in the door and turned away.

Meg saw a slight movement and heard the breathing coming towards her. As her eyes began to focus, Meg crawled away from the figure. Feeling the skin graze her knees. She tried to move whilst covering herself against this intruder. She finally found the wall, and she leaned against it, never taking her eyes of the black silhouette in the doorway. Despite the cold, a bead of sweat ran down her face.

Moving towards her, the figure bent down and stared into her eyes. Meg looked back into a well of hatred. The eyes were as dark as night. She recoiled from the touch on her cheek. The fingers were as cold as the heart they belonged to. The maniac grabbed her jaw and squeezed, forcing Meg to look into those eyes again. As the pressure increased, she was sure her jaw was going to snap. Then she heard a chuckle of madness.

"You are going to pay, you bitch," he said.

Meg was then slapped hard across her face. Forcing her already damaged head against the wall. Once again, Meg saw the black edges of unconsciousness creeping into her vision. Her ears rang. She took deep breaths, determined not to pass out. She forced the black edges back. She had to stay conscious it was the only way to gain an advantage.

Meg watched as the figure placed a bucket and blanket in the corner of the room. She then had a bottle of water thrown at her, and the door was once more locked, taking with it the light.

By hao wang on Unsplash

Meg wrapped the blanket around herself. Careful not to touch the back of her head, which was still pounding. The blanket smelled old and musty, but at least it kept some of the cold from the concrete away.

With the blanket wrapped around her, Meg stood slowly, always keeping hold of the wall. She tested her legs to see if they would hold her. Finally, after a couple of minutes, the room stopped spinning. It was funny how the room still spun, even when you couldn't see anything. Meg shuffled in the opposite direction of the door. She was sure she had seen a window in this direction.

Feeling along the wall she touched something smooth. Wrapping her hand around what felt like fabric, she pulled as hard as she could. Inch by inch, the material came away, exposing a window, and light crept into her tomb. The light was like acid, burning through her retinas, making her head throb again, but something about it started to calm her. Meg began to bathe in the light like she was on a sunbed in Hawaii.

She started to cry when she saw that the window had bars across it. Still, she tried to open it. Once she had torn three of her nails trying to escape, she knew it was futile. She felt the breeze come in from a small hole in the frame and shivered. Then, with the help of the light, she looked around her prison—a small room, no more than a couple of metres each way. The only object in there was the bucket.

By Eduardo Vázquez on Unsplash

For the next couple of days, Meg's life took on a strange routine. The wound in her head even started to heal. Although it still pulsed pain through her body whenever she touched it. Meg would cover the window when she heard the key turn. The light was her little secret. Once a day, the door would open, he replaced the bucket and water. A slice of stale bread was the only food she was ever given. The figure would ask her if she had anything to tell him; when she ignored him, he walked away. One week on, and Meg didn't even feel the hunger pains anymore.

After three weeks, Meg realised that she would never be released; she was to die in this tiny room. With what little energy she had left, she knew her only chance of survival was to rescue herself. She needed to escape this place and make her way back to her old life.

But how, she didn't know where she was. How could she possibly escape? Surely people were looking for her by now; Tom, her husband, must have called the authorities. If I don't do something soon, then I will die here. Then everything would be for nothing; everything she had worked so hard for would be pointless. The hours at work build a secure income, for which to be left to die in a black hole, God knows where.

She took a couple of deep breaths. She was brilliant; she could work this out. Meg formulated a plan over the hours of darkness. She remembered blinking every time she tore the fabric off the window. If it happened to her, then surely her attacker would have a similar response. Bath him in light and escape around him. It was the best she could come up with, but would it work?

Her mind wandered to the food she would eat when she got out; anything was better than a slice of stale bread. She doubted she would ever eat bread again. For the first time since her imprisonment started, Meg went to sleep with a smile on her face. She had a plan, albite a poor one, but a plan anyway.

By Casey Horner on Unsplash

The next time Meg woke, she hoped it was the morning. It was getting increasingly complex to keep track of time. The window helped. Meg reasoned that as the sun wasn't entirely in the sky, it was sometime in the morning. Meg spent time staring at the colours of the buildings around her. She constantly marvelled at the mix of colour, like a person experiencing colour television for the first time.

He usually comes in the afternoon—nothing to do but wait now.

Meg started to drift off as she heard the noise outside the door. Wrapping the now filthy blanket around herself, she sprang to the window. Holding the fabric, she waited for the door to open. He walked in with his usual swagger. Meg ripped the cloth away, watching with satisfaction as the monster gripped his head as the light engulfed him.

Meg rang as fast as she could around him and out of the door.

"Where are you going Meg, there is nowhere to run? All the doors are locked, and you are in a different country, without a passport."

The voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned and fixed him with her stare.

"You can't keep me like this," she shouted.

"Keep you, like you are keeping those children; tell us where the children are taken before they are sold, and we can discuss you getting out to a more comfortable cell."

"If it weren't for men like you, I would never have been able to make as much money as I did selling them. Poor innocent souls," she said with a sadistic chuckle. "You can close down my operation, you can stop my supply, but there are hundreds like me around the world only too willing to ship the children to their male admirers. It will never stop."

At that point, Meg felt the pins go into her back and the electric flow through her blood. She collapsed back onto the cold concrete, the blanket forgotten. The two soldiers picked her up and carried her back to the cell. Throwing her onto the concrete floor.

She would talk, they all did in the end.

The two turned once to look at her, before walking out of the block into the Cuban sunshine.

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By Hyunwon Jang on Unsplash


Sam H Arnold

LGBT writer of fact and fiction writing on the following -

True Crime | History | Parenting | Writing Tips | LGBT Issues

For all my crime articles subscribe to my newsletter - https://crimeblog.substack.com

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