The Way Out of the Dark

I remember waking up in a dimly lit room, lying on a musty, dirty mattress that I swear was still damp with someone else’s blood.

When I tried to move, I felt my wrists bound together by a cable tie. I rolled to my side and noticed that I was alone in the room, at least as far as I could see.

Shadows waved at the far corners of the room.

I sat up and scanned the room, trying to get a handle on where I was.

There were no windows, and only one wooden door with an old lock on it. The only furniture in the room was the mattress I was on and an old wooden chair.

A naked light bulb hung from the center of the room.

I remember how it would sway when the cool central air came on, that light bulb. I’d count the seconds it took for the cool air to turn on to fill the time. I don’t remember that number now.

The thing I had focused on a lot when I tried to fill the time was the light that peeked from underneath the door.

I remember how it taunted me with its glowing prospect of survival and safety. The idea that I may have been able to return home.

It would also frighten me, with the fear that someone, at any moment, would walk in. I would stare at the door at night and see shadows around it, shifting and warping to further taunt me.

As I stared, the door suddenly opened and I flinched, shutting my eyes at the bright light.

The man who took me walked in and let the door close behind him as he walked away from it. He stood behind the wooden chair, leaning with his hands on the back of it.

I wanted to shout at him. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be afraid. I knew I couldn’t though; it would be nearly impossible for me, in that position, to make him feel afraid.

But he scared me; he had so much power over me. The sight of him made my stomach twist. I tried to not look at him to the best of my ability.

I averted my eyes, but I felt like he was watching me. I let my eyes wander towards him. He stared at me through his brow, and I diverted my gaze. When I turned my head, I saw him still staring.

“Why are you staring at me?” I asked. I remember sounding less threatening when I said it in my head. As soon as I said that, I wish I could’ve not said it at all.

He stood up straight and very abruptly, so much so that the chair wobbled. The man cracked his neck and walked towards me. He grabbed my chin, and his fingers clasped the lower half of my face.

“Where am I?” I begged, and he paused. He scowled and threw my face out of his hand like he was disposing of a candy wrapper.

“Your own personal nightmare, Kitten,” he said, and I made a look of disgust. I furrowed my brow and jerked my head to the side.

“Where am I really?” I asked. I felt regret in my chest. I didn’t want those to be my last words. I thought, was my attitude really worth dying over?

My antagonist leaned against the door, my only way out, and crossed his arms. He crossed his right leg over his left and rested the toe of his boot towards the ground.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, feeling a little dramatic. He rolled his eyes and leaned forward.

“Because I like it,” he said, shifting his stance so he wasn’t leaning anymore.

He fidgeted. He cracked his knuckles individually, but only two of them made a noise. He also cracked his neck, but nothing came from that either.

They were very vague exchanges. Overdramatic Hannibal Lecter-type responses. Always followed with him cracking his knuckles, neck, or wrists.

“Someone will come for me. My parents, they’ll know I’m missing, my neighbor, he saw you,” I said, trying to put fear into him. Trying, somehow, to gain control.

A smug grin appeared on his face, then a laugh fell out with it. He laughed so hard, he had to hold his belly. I took an unexpected breath, pushing against the dread that began to suffocate me.

“No one is coming for you,” he said, chuckling. It echoed in the frigid room. At that moment, I could feel my body shaking. Whether it had just started or I had been, I was not sure.

“T-they’ll come,” I choked out. I wanted to cry. He scoffed again, walking towards the door.

“Well, whenever ‘they’ come, I’ll be sure to let you know,” he said, smugly.

He closed the door behind him, and when he was gone, I took a deep breath and let it out. But the more I tried to breathe, the faster my breaths became.

In the dark room, I just couldn’t catch my breath. I felt like I was trying to blow up a balloon with a hole in it, never being able to fill it.

Tears involuntarily fell from my eyes as I curled up, as much as I could at least, until my breathing slowed down.

As I calmed my breathing, I thought I could have one moment of peace. I was going to linger in the silence because I thought it could only get worse and more hectic from there.

It turned out that I was given much longer than a moment.

It felt like I was in that room for days on end—How long had I been there?—and yet, it could’ve been a few hours.

The dark would make me see things, stupid things that I wouldn’t remember in the passing of time.

I’d see the shadow of the tall standing lamp that stood in the corner of my room. It would make me think that I was really home and I was having some kind of fever dream.

But then I’d blink in the darkness and see that it wasn’t anything at all.

I would also see things like the shape of a sleeping dog at the foot of the bed or on the floor. I’d reach out in vain to touch it, but all there was was darkness and musty air.

In the event that I would succumb to the shadows, I would close my eyes so I didn’t see them. I thought that insanity couldn’t get me if I didn’t let it hallucinate me.

I remember closing my eyes and trying to think of soothing memories. Maybe I would fall asleep, drifting in and out of my nightmare.

My captor would come into my room and throw food at my feet. A sandwich or a bar of some kind and water, too.

I suppose I’m grateful for that, that they didn’t starve me out, but I was sure they wanted to keep me alive. I was not looking forward to the reason.

I’d only ever see my captor when he fed me, but not for more than a couple seconds. Door opened, food dropped, door shut. I crawled over and devoured.

Sometimes, though, the door would stay open, and he would hold it out to me.

He entered like a wounded animal, starving for forgiveness. Then, when I scooted over and took it from him, he would recede into the light.

At times, I felt like I was in a zoo. Each of those men (and I was sure at the time there were more than just one), they reminded me of an animal: a tiger, a monkey, a wolf.

They would fight amongst themselves, always thinking one was higher up on the food chain than the others.

Then, the lion, their leader, would stroll in and they would all bow (at least they did in my head).

I felt like a little girl trapped in a house with those animals. Which one would come into my room next? Which one would eat me for dinner?

Sometimes, someone who wasn’t my captor would enter the room and close the door behind them. They would touch me, caress my skin with the back of their hand.

But it was never anything more than that. Kissing my cheek, smelling my hair, or holding my hand.

I tried to sleep during those times, feeling a kind of immunity. I liked to imagine that they had direct orders not to go any further, that there was control in the chaos.

Most of the time that they were rowdy, there was someone with me. I’d twitch or flinch at the sound of gunshots, and the person would hold me tightly, cooing at me that I was alright.

The idea that there was a gun in the house sent me into fits of shaking.

I was afraid—who wouldn’t be?—but what scared me more was that I was in a place where gunshots could be fired, and the police weren’t called.

I thought the strangers who cradled me were a way to keep me sane. It had a purpose, I knew that much. Isolation makes a girl go mad, and someone was smart enough to know that.

The door slammed open and light leaked into the room.

“Get out,” a voice said. The body behind me that was feeling the cotton hem of my shirt quickly stood and left. “Sit up.” I did as he said. It sounded like my kidnapper’s voice.

My eyes stayed low to the ground.

“What’s wrong? Did we break you?” he huffed.

“Was I supposed to be broken?” I asked, making eye contact. He shook his head.

“You spoiled bitches, you’re all just the same,” he said, and I furrowed my brow.

“Spoiled?” I asked. In no way was I spoiled.

Maybe by the poor man’s standard, I was. That’s why my father worked day and night at the casino. That’s why my mother drank cheap hard booze.

I had to get a job the summer of my sophomore year of high school to help pay off the mortgage.

“Yes, spoiled. Mommy and Daddy have money to blow, I’m sure you do, too. Serves you right being here, losing all that money,” he said, and I shook my head in disbelief.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t got a cent to my name, everything I earn goes straight to the bank,” I said.

My captor had a look on his face I hadn’t seen before. He looked confused, he looked wrong. His face softened slightly, and he crossed his arms.

“You mean you don’t know why you’re here?” he said. He stumbled, hesitated on his words. He seemed like a real person, like he was showing himself.

“Of course not, that’s why I keep asking,” I said, more solemn than aggressive. This seemed like my chance. He had a look of surprise still on his face, but he soon returned to his front.

“Well, you should,” he said, stepping back.

“Please, this has to be some kind of mistake. What if I’m not the person you want, what if it’s a mistake?” I asked, pleading.

“Then I’d have to fucking kill you,” he said, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Y-you don’t have to do that,” I said, looking like a sad puppy. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Neither of us spoke. I didn’t want to say anything more, in fear I’d make it worse.

“I’ll go get him, see if you’re the right girl,” he said, exiting the room.

Who was ‘him’? I thought to myself.

There was another, I supposed, someone bigger than any of the rest in the house. The hypothetical lion. But why would that man, and only that man, know who I was?

A short time later, the door squeaked open, and I looked up to see my captor following another man.

This man, the lion, was about a head shorter than my captor and twenty years his senior.

He had an evenly tan, textured face with dark eyes and a scar going across his right cheek. He was slightly overweight and stunk of tobacco.

“Well, my, my. You are the prettiest thing I’ve seen in months,” he said, moving closer to me. I felt sick, like I was going to vomit. I took shorter breaths to avoid his smell.

He wasn’t from around here (if here was still Las Crucius). He had a twangy Southern accent.

“So, is she?” my captor asked. He seemed impatient to know.

“Easy, James. Where are your manners?” he said, his Southerner’s accent really peaking. Those two were the first Southerners that I had met in real life, other than passing by tourists.

And James. What a simple, plain name.

‘James’ is the name given to good boys who play baseball with nicotine addictions. The good boys who go into marketing or become a doctor because their dad wanted them to.

Jimmy to James to Jim. I wondered then if anyone actually called him Jimmy when he was little.

“May I introduce myself, young lady? I am the leader of this band of boys. You may call me Highroller. Now, I am terribly sorry if these boys have disturbed you,” he said.

I tuned him out then. It was all a game, some plot he was planning. He couldn’t have thought I was that stupid. I thought, okay Highroller, I’ll play your game.

“I’m Taryn, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, sweet as honey. I fluttered my eyelashes and turned up my lips ever so slightly.

I looked over to James, my captor, and I could tell he saw right through me. My chest tensed up. I thought he would rat me out. ‘She’s not sweet like this’, I heard him saying in my head.

But he didn’t. He stood there and looked at me, glancing at Highroller. I swore I saw him barely nod his head.

Highroller took a small photo out from his pocket and held it in front of him, looking at it.

“Yep, that’s her,” he said, putting the picture away.

I noticed another new emotion in James. He clenched his teeth and I watched his furrowed brow smooth out. He blinked, but for longer than he normally would have.

If his face could say a word, it would be ‘dammit’.

“Wh-what do you mean, Mister?” I asked, gracefully. My heart was in the rapids. I didn’t know what to think; would it have been better to not be who they thought I was?

“Oh, don’t sound so somber,” he said. I didn’t know I sounded somber. Was my facade slipping? “This means you’re mine,” he noted.

The sickening feeling in my chest began to make its way down into my stomach. Then I could feel my daily food in my throat.

I didn’t understand the implications of being his then, but the way he said it made me ill.

My senses began to fail me. I blocked out all sound, leaving only muffled speech. My vision narrowed and the tips of my fingers began to tingle, like pins and needles.

“Has she been good with the others?” Highroller asked James. I listened in.

“Yeah, surprisingly. She didn’t pull anything, and no one had to punish her,” James said.

Punish. I bent over and hacked bile onto the floor.

I wasn’t trying to be good. I thought they were conditioning me. I was wrong, and I walked right into their trap.

Punish. Am I going to be punished for throwing up everywhere?

“Aww, you made a mess,” he mocked. I felt like a dog, the way their owners talk when they make an accident in the house.

“James, go take her to get cleaned up. Then she’ll meet the others,” Highroller said. I felt like I was going to faint. James grabbed me by my hands and pulled me out of the room.

That was the first time I left my room in a week. My room.

The rest of the house looked something like a log cabin. It was a warm, feeling environment, only it was stripped of anything that made it welcoming.

There were bullet holes in the walls and knives pitched in the banisters. There were center stairs that led up to the second floor.

I leaned my head to the side to try to see down a hall when I was abruptly pushed into a fully furnished bathroom. I was alone with him again.