A Light in the Dark

Chapter 2 - Torture

A Light in the Dark - Chapter 2: Torture

I don't know how long I sat there. . .I don't even know much about time--how long a minute is, how long an hour is. . .

I just sat there, contemplating on my life. Why does it have to be me? Why do I have to be treated this way? I'm never happy. I've never even experienced it. I don't even know how it feels or what it's like. . .

I wonder if I'm supposed to think someone's going to come help me. It is very unlikely. No one even knows I exist. Sure, the nurses at that nursery seventeen years ago probably knew one baby was missing, but if they were ever to search for me, there is no way they'll ever find me. Not if I'm with my father.

How sad is my life? I don't even know what I look like. This is my life though. It's because of this that I don't believe in happy endings. There is no such thing. Happy endings are when people don't get tortured everyday. Happy endings are when people aren't sad and depressed all the time. Happy endings are when people actually look and get to see the outside world. Even experience it.

Me? None of those have happened. And they probably never will. I mentally sigh.

Suddenly the door to the basement bangs open, making me jump slightly and wince at the strong sunlight that came into the room.

I saw the bad man come in with a new weapon--it was. . . a gray ball connected to chains. The ball had spikes on them. That is definitely a new tool--one he's going to use on me.

Where does he get all these tools? Why would people have such horrible weapons made? If the outside world is even worse than here, then I do not want to go see.

The bad man comes closer, holding the ball up by the chains. "Oh darling," he says in a honey-sweet voice which I know is fake, "I bought a new toy. Would you like to try it out for me?"

My eyes widen and I rapidly shake my head back and forth. He raises an eyebrow. "No?" he asks. "Are you sure?"

I continue to shake my head.

"Well," he says in a voice that suggests that he's sad he won't get to have some 'time' with his daughter, "That's too bad. But then, daughter, you had forgotten to clean the house while I was gone. Because of that, you deserve to be punished."

He comes even closer. No, no, no, I chant in my head. Tears start falling down my face. Please . . . don't . . .

He grabs me by my arm, and pulls me up. He then drags me to the far corner in the huge basement, away from where I had been crouched by. The corner he drags me to has two chains connected to the ceiling, which hangs down connected to shackles.

Oh no. Not this, please, I beg mentally in my head.

He raises my arm, and since the chains are made to keep the victim off the ground, he has to pull my arm up higher, stretching it and making me wince because of all the other bruises, burns, and scars he put on me. He chains me to them, and in the end, I was about 3 feet off the ground.

He then goes back upstairs, leaving the door open--probably to go get something. In just a few moments, he comes back with a huge stick and a lighter. Tears fall down my face more rapidly now that I know what he has planned in mind.

He comes closer to me, his face now raised in a full-out smirk. "Oh daughter, this is your punishment. I hope you will learn to obey me so you wouldn't be punished so much. I really do care about you--that's why you have to be punished. It's to help you learn."

Oh that is a load of BS. I'm not stupid. I just can't talk. Everything he says I can understand but I know they're all lies.

With that, he then raises the ball with spikes and slaps it down on my face with all his might, causing my face to bleed quickly. I don't know how many lines there are but I just hope this ends quickly.

He brings it down on the front of my scarr-filled body, causing my raggedy, already torn-up clothing to rip even more. The 'clothes' are now just little scraps of fabric hanging off my body. Is this madness going to ever stop? I ask myself.

No, girl. It never would. This is your fate, deal with it. Tears flow down freely, making my father grin maniacally.

He slashes me a few more times with the spikey ball, causing me to feel numb and pain all over, and he picks up the stick and lighter. He somehow presses something on the lighter, and fire comes out. I close my eyes, waiting for the pain, and no sooner than I had that thought, I can feel fire burning my upper right arm--no doubt from the burning stick.

He burns me in a few more places, causing me to cry out and gasp.

Smoke rises everywhere in the huge basement, and soon father realizes that it's time to put out the fire. He doesn't want the whole place burning up and bringing police here. From what I heard, police seem nice since they can take father away for a long time--but no one can ever be trusted. They'll always hurt you in the end.

People say your family is the only people you can trust? Well, that's a lie. Just look at my father.

The bad man finally puts out the fire and leaves me there to bleed and cry, still hanging from the ceiling.

Why? I ask no one in particular. Why me? Why this? Why?

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I have no idea how long I was hanging there, floating in and out of existance. I can slightly perceive the bad man coming in and wrapping parts of my body up in gauze to help it heal--the bastard.

My whole body is numb, and I can't feel a thing. I'm growing immune to those tools. It's a good thing--my body is very smart. It grows immune so quickly to weapons it makes me have a slight hope of me actually being put on this world for a purpose.

But then again, look at where I am now. There is no purpose.

Fate probably put me here to let me be tortured, giving them a show to watch everyday, I think darkly.

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I keep floating in and out of existance, the whole world seeming to blur in my vision. I can see my father come in with a half a bowl of rice, and start feeding me. I'm not sure how I look there, hanging from the building, but I am sure I look defeated. Like a tiny ant that finally realizes that he has no chance in life--he'll only be sqquished by humans and every other living being out there.

"Daughter," I hear the bad man say, "I'm sorry. You know it was for your own good."

I don't make any movement, not showing him that I heard him. That makes him angry.

SLAP!

My face whips to the right, my left cheek burning with the impact of his hand hitting all the bruises and freshly made cut there. My eyes start to water.

"If you don't want to be grateful, then fine."

Without another word he leaves. Finally. Can't he just stay away for a whole day? Just a whole day--not much. I'd be so grateful for just ONE day. . .

But no matter how much I beg anything, nothing will change. I'm stuck in this horrible world with this evil spawn of the devil. Fates chose this for me, and this is my life. Nothing will change.

Nothing will ever change . . .