Blog Posts · Prose · Stories

A Tale of Lost Hope | Part 1

The silence echoed around my limp figure. I could feel the darkness pressing in on me. It was afternoon, though it felt like the dead of night. In my dark room of solitude I lay curled up, holding my legs to my chest.

I could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing. But I could feel. I could feel the pain coursing through my body, piercing through my weak skin and tearing at my insides. Where it came from I could not tell, but it was consuming me. It had taken away my senses, stolen my ability to think about anything else. The pain had devoured who I once was, leaving this sickly wretch of a body laying motionless in a damp cellar.

I had lain there for what must have been months. Knowing the time of day only by the tray the was pushing into my cell at midday. When the door cracked open, I would scuttle the corner of the room, shaking in terror. The light would creep in, bright and harsh, blinding me. Sometimes I was lucky, just the tray of bread and water would slide in. Other times, it was accompanied by a great figure that would loom over me and beat me, laughing.

Occasionally, two of them came. Black masses framed by the light that stole through the open door. Cowering in my corner they would grab me, pulling my towards them roughly. They would hold me down and touch me, molest me in my dingy cell. I had long stopped putting up a fight.

At frist I would scratch at their faces, biting them when they got too close. Kicking and screaming, I squirmed and would not hold still. Every time I protested, they would beat me until I could no longer put up and fight, and do it anyway. For weeks it went on, me fighting back, them winning. Eventually it seemed pointless and I just tried to shut myself down and not think about it.

I used to dream of home too, of my family and friends. Of food and warmth, and the life I used to take for granted. I would think about how wonderful it would be when I was reunited with it all. The hugs and the tears of joy. I would play out scenes in my head, pictured every last detail. Those dreams, too, are long gone.

Now, I just lie here, breathing and eating what they give me. I wonder what would happen if I stopped doing either. If one day I just gave up, stopped trying to survive. It won’t be long now.



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