~Part Two~
When the darkness fades this time, there are no voices, no screams, no pathetic rose perfume, no smell of death reheated. Instead, the musty smell of rot lingers strongly enough to rouse me wholly. With pain ricocheting down my arm, I force my body out of its foetal position, wincing at the tiny stings of rocks and blood flow.
Tentatively, I open my eyes, crying at the white hot stabbing feeling from the beam of light from a window. Once I'm mostly back in control of my own body, my surroundings finally come into focus. Brick wall. One box. A single barred window, the size of a postcard, at roof level.
A bunker. Oh god, I'm underground. The bandage from my shoulder is gone and I'm in a threadbare, dirty shift. I regain enough control to crawl across the jagged floor, leaving behind a crimson trail from my hands and knees, to the box.
Enough food for a week, if I stretch it. One week. A steady countdown to a prolonged and excruciating death. Tears force their way out of my dehydrated body. My knees give out as I scream in fear and pain and rage, burning and unending.
I scream.
And scream.
And scream.
"Down here! There's a window!" Heavy boots stomp until the earthy sound of a wooden door sounds. The dense timber square falls inwards followed by an earthy shower of rocks and dirt.
The weak beam of a flashlight penetrates the floating dust clouds as the group of searchers tentatively ease themselves down into the ground, swallowed whole by Mother Nature herself.
Written where the light from the window spills onto the floor in the shape of a perfectly symmetrical square is a flaking, bloody rhyme;
Sweet little Rosemary,
Nothing but Thyme.
Thoughts so very scary,
But oh so sublime.
The soft curses and the harsh sound of retching from the corner covers the sounds that they may have heard, had they
been quiet.
They may have felt the pain and fear and hate that permeates throughout that small brick prison. But had they been silent, the most supreme form of sound, well, they would have heard the eerie, echoing sound of screams.
Bloodcurdling, spine tingling screams from the woman who was locked here, all those months ago.
The woman who's soul still roams that jagged, bloodstained floor, but whose body is nowhere to be found.
YOU ARE READING
Short stories👌👌
Short StoryJust a bunch of poorly written shorts stories that I have laying around... have fun I guess haha
