Alamort

4 Years Ago

Change (In the House of Flies) - Deftones

W hen I was younger, I was afraid of the dark. Of the monsters in the closet, under the bed, the things that go bump in the darkest part of the night. Afraid of the unknown. Everything changed when I realized it was people like me, is who I should’ve been hiding from.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Something wet hits my temple before trailing lazily down my face. I draw in a deep breath to do an automatic physical body check for any damage. Breathing hurts my ribs, bruised but not broken. Nothing feels like it needs immediate tending to. An ache lingers in my fingers when I open and close them, as if I had strained them by clenching too hard, too long. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s left me a mess. The effort of rolling onto my back causes my arm and leg muscles to scream in protest.

Plink. Plink. Plink. That leaky pipe needs to be fixed. If he ever found out, the consequences would be far worse than a beating. My insides shrivel at the thought of being locked down here and losing my only water source.

I give my eyes a minute or two to adjust to the darkness, picking up the familiar sound of tiny claws scurrying on the floor, hinting there’s a small rodent nearby before ultimately leaving me in the suffocating silence.

There’s nothing I hate more than being stuck inside my mind. That this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life. I sniff back the tears that sting the corner of my eyes, a whiff of the distinct familiar odor of the basement, mildew and earthy. I pause, my muscles tensing… The undertone of sweet, rancid decaying smell of death causes my stomach to roll. Gradually sitting, flakes of mud fall off my jeans, excluding the damp patches on my knees.

I rotate my head left, damn near jumping out of my skin at a dark mass less than an arm’s reach away, hovering next to me. My mouth waters, that feeling when on the verge of vomiting, the glands salivate, and everything spins. I swallow it, my palms slick with sweat, the stickiness clinging to my skin.

“Hey,” I whisper to the shadow. Expecting a response that doesn’t come, “I promise I won’t hurt you.” After a second, I add “I used to get scared when he put me down here too.”

Hoping to establish a sort of camaraderie. We don’t have to suffer alone if we’re down here together. My first mistake was thinking another person was here for a punishment. It’s highly unusual he’d place me down here with someone. It would disrupt my alone time for ‘self-reflection’.

I’m met with dead air. Sticking my hand out to brush against the mass, I touch cloth, something crusty flakes off at each brush against the fabric. Gritting my teeth through the pain, I push myself up from the unforgiving half-finished concrete ground, wincing as the sharp edges of small rocks pierce my palms. I dust myself off and inch my way towards it as if it were a cornered animal. In a way, it is. We both are.

“Hey,” I speak softly, my hand tentatively reaches out to shake them. The chains rattle with the force, the body it’s holding vibrates from my shake, unable to move an inch from being held taut. Not to hold the person back... but holding them in a Vitruvian man position I’ve come to know well. I run my quivering hands along their spread arms, shivering at the coldness beneath my fingertips. It’s a person.

Was a person.

“No.” My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. “No. No!” gradually getting louder. “Please.” I whimper, warm tears gather on my lashes. I should be used to it after of years of being molded into his “protégé”. But his victim taints my only safe space. The thought makes me as sick as it did the first time.

This is my space. He’s supposed to leave me alone here.

“You fucking monster! Come out and own up to what you did!” I yell, spit flying from my mouth. My body heats. I respond by puffing out my chest, a subconscious attempt to protect myself from displaying vulnerability. He feeds off of fear. It’s what he wants. From the furthest corner, laughter echoes through the hollow room.

“I’ve been watching and waiting.” He pauses dramatically. “Look at this masterpiece! At what you created!” His eagerness and excitement are palpable in the air.

Shaking my head at the shadows, “No. You sick fuck. You did this.” I would remember harming someone. My stomach sinks and my palms sweat. I think I would remember.

“I brought you this gift. But this? You did this. She screamed so beautifully for you. Begged so prettily… like you used to. Do you remember?” His reverence for our history brings a full-body shudder as he flips on his lantern. The sudden harsh light causes me to flinch and my eyes to water.

I want to shut them again because nothing in this basement will take away this feeling of deep pitted dread. With hesitation, my eyes open to look at the hanging girl. She’s disorganized chaos. Her head lays limply against her chest. Blood mats her dark long hair. Every single fingernail and toenail, missing. Hundreds of cuts, all different depths and lengths, cover her body. Someone deliberately flayed her skin on one side of her cheek for maximum damage, so she’d remain conscious despite the excruciating pain inflicted upon her. A centuries old torture method he’s been obsessed with for as long as I can remember.

Burn marks left by something small litter her exposed body. The worst part was the lack of clothing, in her bra, her panties around her ankles. Her shirt is cut down the middle and gathered at the sides of her exposed, bloodied torso.

I’ve watched him do this countless times, too many to count. One after another, I’ve had to clean up his messes, girl after girl.

Slowly backing until I hit the stone wall, looking down at my hands. Blood covers my skin. There isn’t a clean patch to be seen.

“You should be proud. This? This is your best work yet. If I would have known that you had a soft spot for a certain incentive, I would have done it a lot sooner,” he says thoughtfully. As if I’m the answer to all of his problems.

Bile crawls up my throat. When was the last time I ate?

I’m going to be sick.

My hands rip at the strands in my hair, the sting of it being pulled at the roots, some false semblance of punishment as he delves into the details of the gruesome scene around me.

“You should have seen the way she cried when you pulled down her …” his voice trails off as my knees buckle under my weight and I retch violently. The horrors of what happened to the young girl are muffled through the blood roaring in my ears. It sounds like a drum being banged over and over.

Panic grips my chest as my breaths come out in short, choppy gasps in my attempt to get oxygen into my lungs that no longer want air.

I’m tired. Pressure pulses in the back of my skull.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

I am so tired that sleep couldn’t take away this feeling. The world fades into the comforting darkness I know well.